February 24, 2013

   I've written a few poems that haven't posted yet so I thought I'd start playing catch-up. I've been writing quite a bit lately... and it's feeling good, right. Let's see what you think.

Moon Envy

I don't know what it means, but lately the trains passing my

apartment seem more angry than usual. Their monstrous,
loud horns shake the blinds of my window. The rattle of metal
wheels on metal rails sounds more like bombs than the jingle
of change in my pocket as I fish for that last sticky, lint-covered
tab of nicotine gum.

Tonight, the moon paid more attention to the asteroid that

just shot by her head than me. I feel a bit ignored. I’m sure
the trains must feel somewhat the same… a little less important.

I sit here, three in the morning, soldering together

all the misery of my existence with thick clumps of
self-righteous pity. The Heartland Flyer just tripped
the blinking red lights on Boyd Ave., the crossing bell
shouts a brash, tinny warning. Once in a while a freighter

plows over a car or drunken pedestrian that didn’t heed

the speeding threat….  trains seldom feel regret... neither
does the moon… but people do… quite often people do.

rrw o2-18-13

 

February 22,2013

   I've gotten to the point where I'll stay up all night long trying to finish a poem. I was writing this one past night until three in the morning and then all day long until now at 1:37 AM. Guess I'm crazy. But last night there was this wonderful rain that I just had to write about (in a way) and get a few pics of. Here's my latest. I still have several others I haven't yet posted. I'll get to those.

How It Is

You know how it is... late at night...
when it rains...  Yes, you know. How
your hands flutter about looking for
something to do to occupy themselves:
dancing around on your lap,  touching each
other, tapping out restless rhythms on your
jeans… now and then a sturdy tug at your
beard… you do know, don’t you?

I can’t help myself sometimes.
I try to keep my mind away
rom memories, I write poetry
(or whatever this is called), drink
coffee, stare out the window,
watch the rain slither down the dirty
panes, study the pot holes in
the street as they fill up with rain…

Rain, Rain, Rain,
the world has turned to rain.
The streetlamps shiver, the trees
too… will it ever end?

You know how it is… wait long
enough, you get used to it, to that
constant, sodden feel, that cold
sensation you get when your shoes,
your thoughts are sopping wet. Yeah,
you get used to it… and once you do… 
it suddenly stops.
rrw o2-21-13

February 19, 2013

   Been getting into this "late night" writing jag. Usually, putting down something right before I go to bed and then working on it a bit the next day. It  feels good, but I don't know if it IS good writing. But I'm enjoying it AND I am writing. I'm behind in posting. There's two or more that should come before this one. Yet, I feel like posting this one first. Not sure why. If the pic is too small to read, you can click on it to make it bigger.

My Own Darkness

There are those uncomfortable nights
when honest thought just can’t be found.
Dark nights when even the moon
refuses to glow, the stars too lose
their sight, nights when gloominess
suffocates even the greatest desire
to sleep and dream. A death it seems
would be suitable for this time of day.

But I choose to see the poetry within

the dim expectations of a lonely night,
find something that might cast a bit of light,
something that might warm the grave like
void the world  appears to be, and take a moment,
a second to smile away the blackness that I’m
sure my heart creates. Sad but true. The dark
that is, is one that I myself have conjured  up.

rrw o2-19-13

 

February 18, 2013

   I wrote this next poem late last just trying get myself to go to sleep. I wrote it original just as a comment on Facebook but liked it enough to work on it today. Okay, okay you caught me. I probably worked on it all day today to keep away having to do laundry. I'm appalling. Using my art to cover up my laziness. Not right at all.

Ghost Poet

 

Early in the morning…

my brain has fallen asleep...
consciousness snores lightly...
but my eyes are still counting
a few stray sheep still leaping
across the couch.
I wonder why the ghosts haven't
arrived yet? Often enough they’re
early, sitting patiently… cross-legged
in the corner waiting for me to get
the hint. Haunting's not much fun
for them when I'm busy writing a poem...
And they don't like it much when I include
them in some random nonsense I’m
creating on the computer right before
bedtime... Rather shy my demons are...
They refuse to talk out loud… they know
me far too well... any chain rattling, any
ghostly moans  they might make will probably
find a way onto the page ... For nothing is
sacred to a poet... not even the dead.

rrw o2-17-13

February 16, 2013

   Sometimes you write a poem for the sound of it, for the structure that you create. This is one of those. I uses two structures in one poem. Basically, you could say it's two poems in one dealing with the external world and the internal world. Again, another poem that has set for a while before I did some rewrites. 

 

 

 

 

 

Shadow Land

Here within the shadow land

the withered  soul begins to fade

the blush of life no longer grand

the moments come, the debt is paid…

 

I cannot see beyond that sunken memory

which huddles in the corner… an abused child

bleeding from its broken lip. Its blistered hands

stretched out across the burning flames

to touch that rotting breath which childhood reeks…

 

And here within the shadow land

the heart sees what the eye betrays

the feet shall stand upon the sand

and time can’t keep the grave at bay...

 

Monsters, monsters all… buried deep

beneath a crooked smile, those pretty

white teeth that lick themselves to death,

her panty hose a twist around her chubby thighs,

his uncle drunk, his dead spit smothering her mouth…

 

But here within this shadow land

the mourners dream a heaven’s dream

where tortured thoughts can well demand

a profit from the cold that made them scream…

 

I feel his sharpened knife, it skates across

my naked throat, I feel the blood so

warmly wet, so slowly waterfalling

down my chest… I cannot gasp or

grasp a reason why… I will not cry…

 

And darkness claims the shadow land

and sunlit days forever night

where stars refuse to blink, expand,

where murdered youth turns out… the light…

rrw 8-5-09 (rewrites o2-15-13)

February 14, 2013

   Since it is Valentine's Day, I thought I'd post a "love poem," a sonnet to be exact. I don't write many. I wrote this a while ago and did some rewrites on it today. I won't have a Valentine Love this year, and I haven't had one for a very long time. Guess I got use to the idea of never having a "special person" in m life. However, I do like to write for all the holidays whether they apply to me directly or not.

 

 

My Hopeless Valentine

To thee I write these mournful thoughts of love

These words that bend and break ungracefully

Upon a page of white, for you, my dove,

My feelings I do bear, respectfully.

A clever poet, yes, could move you more;

With words of heavenly inspired rhyme,

Would bleach your holy cheeks in tears galore

with love for he who wrote those words sublime.

But here, alas, no poem sweet I site,

No words can voice the tenderness my heart

Does hold for you my secret friend, my light.

No sounds I make will spark your smile to start.

But try I must within my clumsy way,

Confess my awkward love for you this day.

rrw 2-13-11 (rewrite 02-13-13)



February 12, 2013

  I wanted to work on something simple in wording but with a strong rhythm. I decided to use an "ing" ending for each stanza. It's not really rhyming, I know, but it does give it a bit more shape. each stanza is as long as it need to be... beginning stanzas are shorter, and as the poem progresses they get longer and a bit more complicated, a little confusing, the way I guess life is for most of us.

 



Understanding

 When I hear the sparrow sing,

I cannot tell… does it cry, is it laughing?

 

I can’t begin to understand the reason

why the sky must be so dark at night…

I’ve missed the many dreams I must be dreaming.

 

Yesterday, she knew me well.

She knows my face, the silly way

I walk, and how my mind plays tricks

upon itself, and how my eyes join in,

confuse the situation, how memory

remembers what it wishes to be true… I’m sure it’s lying.

 

Through existential metaphors I realize that

nothing is but what it is, and butter on my

toast means nothing more than I love butter…

on my  toast… and life is what you make of it;

it’s just another random  chance created by a

drunken dance within the dark, familiar parking lot

of mother’s favorite bar… And I am just coincidence,

a happenchance... that didn’t bear be loving.

Yes, I know there are no rhymes to reason,

no way to know how the seasons

might or might not change when

the calendar demands, why time

keeps boots on but takes off her coat

and stays just long enough to leave me weeping.

 

I know there are no answers but

those answers that I’ll never know.

Still, I love to ask and ponder all that

theory, wonder if and why, how come

my life did not amount to more than this…

to more than just this broken flesh left alone and bleeding.

rrw o2-12-13



February 10, 2013

    This poem has two inspirations: 1. My depression. 2. A picture of a girl with arm tattoos. A Facebook friend sent me the picture and asked if I could do some editing on it. I did a LOT of editing, about eight different versions. I asked the Facebook friend if I could use one of the edited pics (tattooed arms only) for a poem I was writing. The girl who posed for the pic said, 'NO!" I couldn't believe it. So, new rule: No working on pics for someone else unless I can use a copy of the edited pic in my poetry!

    I had to improvise... I needed an arm pic (hee) for the poem... and it had to have a tattoo of blood on it. I thought about getting some chocolate syrup to design a "blood tat" on myself. But I couldn't find any chocolate syrup at the convenience store... ah, well, it would have been a sticky mess anyway. So I found a pic of my own arm that I had and added some red to it to give it that 'blood" feeling I was looking for. And I don't think it came out too bad:

 

 

Tattoo

 

There is a darkness, a black and 

 wiry hopelessness, a string of runny

thought that's bored its way beneath

my skin. My fingers cannot scratch it out,

a razor isn’t sharp enough to dig it up.

 

My heart screams… blood

sculpts a crimson tattoo

across my forearm, red

rivers stream their way

toward the knotted wrinkles

that surround my elbow.

 

This evening picks at scabs,

slaps me around a bit

until my cheeks turn pink

and my eyes begin to swell.  

Time is such a hateful bitch;

she doesn’t care for those

who do not use her well.

 

If I could sleep forever, I would.

If I could close my eyes right now,

I would. I’d never open them again.

—rrw o2-1o-13



February, 06, 2013

  This is a little thing I wrote a long time ago. I tend to be a little too animated with my disgust when people start talking about GHOSTS! So, I tried to come up with my own little catch phrase to express my thoughts on the supernatural without alienating all my "mystical" friends. I never thought of this as a poem. But I really like the phrasing of this "poem," and it's rather twisted antithesis.

 

February, 02-06-13

   The only nice thing about not being able to sleep is that I have the time to write a small poem. I DID go to sleep around 2 AM, but my "humane" mousetrap went off. I got up and took the trap to the dumpster behind my apartment, opened one end and... nothing there! No mouse! Hmmm, ghost mice? Anyway, I took a few pics of the fog and sat down and wrote this poem.

 



 

Early Morning Fog

The fog is a bit too thick for my dreams

they huddle in the cobweb corner near the door

too afraid to come out from their hiding place

and watch the white froth that gathers round

the metal legs of the streetlamps just outside my window.

 

I can’t blame them or chastise them for being somewhat timid.

The unknown can be frightening. And this lumbering fog slithers

along the road just like a giant snake, a skinless lizard that makes

the asphalt and the gutters hiss, makes the naked trees shiver.

A night like this creates a hunger in my heart, a desert in my soul.

rrw o2-o6-13



February, 04, 2013

   Boy, I have got to get a proof reader for my material. Yes, I proof it myself but I always miss something. Too many typos and way too many problems with verb tenses... Yuck! I DID find a narrator app. on the computer that helps. Listening to another voice, though mechanical sounding, helps me with punctuation also. So, That's good. Only bummer, I have to post it first because the narrator I have won't read my "non-commercial documents," and I have to shut it off to make corrections. What the hell, Man? Anyway this is one I've been working on a while and I hope it turns out well.

 

 

*The Man Who Couldn't See

There once was a man who couldn’t see.

No blindfold, no! No dark glasses wore he,
he wasn’t blind, he just couldn’t see.

He went to a doctor, who told him flat out,

“There’s nothing wrong with your sight.”
“But I can’t see,” the man said, quite surprised.
“Can you see ME?” the doctor replied.
“No!” said the man.
“But you hear ME?”
“Yes, yes, of course I can.”
“So, what’s the problem?”

Suddenly in marched a preacher man

with enormous, godlike preacher hands
and shouted he to heaven above,
“God, heal this poor soul with your love.”
And he beat, and he beat, and he beat the man
with his holy-roller preacher hands then asked,
“How y’all feel now?”

On the walk home, the man all alone

bumped into many terrible things.
At the corner of 7^th and Woolry Street
he hit  a lamppost. “Oh, pardon me,”
said the man. But the lamppost,
being a lamppost, did not understand.

At home his wife confronted him,

“I’m leaving you, Jim.”
“Why?”
“Why,” she sighed,
“does it matter?”

The man sat in his chair

listening to his wife pack.
He listened as she descended the stairs,
listened as she opened the door,
as her footsteps lightly echoed
down the walk and… disappeared.

The afternoon traffic rushed by, and later that night the

evening crows gathered below the living room window
and cackled out loud ‘bout the darkness of snow.
He even heard the morning coffee pleading
from its porcelain  pot, “Please, please,
won’t someone pour me out?”

The man sat there a while in his comfortable chair,
a very, very long while alone with his fears
until his eyes, on their own, decided to close.
And when they did that! The man who couldn’t
see anything… finally saw... everything.

rrw 8-28-11 (rewrites 1-17-12, 2-5-13)

* It takes a lot of time to get a poem the way that you want it... and even then you don't always get it all. I wish I could be faster in the editing of a poem. perhaps that's the problem, I want to "get it out there" too fast. I need to concentrate more time on craft. Thanks for reading this. More to come later. 

 

 

February, 1, 2013 

  I've worked on this piece on and off for over a year... STILL not sure I got it right! But that's the way it goes, right? Work on it as much as you can then send it out into the world... Hee! It's not like anyone will read it here.

 

Seasonal Change

 

I Autumn

Quietly waits the old elm tree. Her branches black stretching

out so desperately, searching  for a bit of summer breeze .

Yes, she dreams of warmer days when her leaves thrived,

those spring days when her leaves alive muttered rain, and

thunderstorms lit the sky afire. So long ago, that time before.

Now the winter crows arrive and peck the scaly bark from her

thighs, stark naked and alone, she is, to face the gloom to come.

II Fall

What? Across the footbridge? This time a year? Quite hazardous

a walk, you know? It’s become nothing more than a cold grave for

autumn leaves, broken tree branches and patches of treacherous

black ice, which forces heroic fools like you and  me (who pay very

little attention to the weatherman’s predictions) to step cautiously

across its splintered face. When the seasons change, we become

suspicious, superstitious, wary of the very ground beneath our feet;

as the landscape shifts so must we. A heavy coat tugged tight around

me, wool cap, thick gloves… makes difficult my ability to touch, to feel

your face. But no worries. Soon we’ll be at that small café near Bridge St.

it smells of used books, freshly baked bread, the harsh aroma of hickory

chips blazing in a wood burning  stove…and that other smell which neither

one of us has of yet identified. At last we can shed our bulky, outer skins,

leave them toasting on that rickety coat rack and sooth ourselves with

coffee (for me) and tea (for you)and balmy conversations about spring

flowers and summer moons, and that short but happy trip we took last

year To the Gulf of Mexico. We can pretend (if only for a little while)

that Christmas isn’t just around the corner, that soon that old bridge

won’t all together disappear beneath the frozen snow.

III Winter

My old  truck is far more excited about sliding down

the icy road that leads to town than I am. And why not?

Its fossil-fueled engine—yes, yes, I know, you always say,

“An electric car would work better!”— keeps it warm while I

shivered in the cab ‘cause the heater never works... except

for summers. “But,” you always joke, “our love is such a

passionate thing!” Perhaps that’s true… or at least, that cheap

 thrill that’s just obsessive enough to keep the icicles from

forming on my hands as I swerve, and skid, and slide my way

toward the closest grocery store just to buy a fucking quart of milk

for your morning tea. And yes, there’s something romantic about

the thought of you wrapping me up in that huge quilt you made,

serving me sips of hot of cocoa from my favorite clay cup,

allowing me to sneak a few cigarettes and a warm kiss or two

while I wait for my frozen feet to thaw. Yes, that would be nice

If by chance I make home… alive.

rrw o1-28-13