June 28, 2013

   Started this LATE last night and worked on it all day today. I don't like rushing... but sometimes I do. I work until I feel it's done... that doesn't mean I won't look at it a few days from now and think it needs more work. It came out of my working on a picture of myself in BeFunky that has a lot of new apps. I've been working with THIS particular picture as a base for quite a while now... maybe too much.

Life as Art

 

Fashioned by rough hands,

scraped and shaped,
splattered and peeled
then rudely framed,
hung on a naked wall
that chuckles each time
the critics pass by,
lift their noses in disgust
and slowly wander off…

 

A younger couple, blond hair

thick between the eyes.
Jeans, old, ragged,
the smell of weeds
in their breathy sighs.
A red glare studies me,
my curves, the textures,
all those uneven lines
haphazardly reveal… a face?
They can never figure out
just what the hell I’m all about.

 

And there’s the gray folk too.

One propping up the other,
a plague of winter sweaters
woven into fleshy fingers.
They try to touch what they
believe should… MUST be there,
deep beneath acrylic skin.

 

Above the tinted skylight,

my only friend. She smiles,
observes my youthful morning,
my adolescent noon,
the darkling years to come
when she marches West…
each time, I’m sad to see her go.
The stars and moon can be aloof,
the nights too black and lonely.
—rrw o6-28-13

June 25, 2o13

   Sometimes I get weary of posting my work because I don't get enough "hits" and not enough verbal response. Sometimes it feels like I shouldn't have bothered writing anything. The worst is to have someone else's poem (which seems only "so-so" to me) gets all kinds of hits when it doesn't deserve any attention at all. But my ego isn't all that big, and I don't write just to be told how wonderful I am. it would just be nice if more people appreciated what I'm doing. Yeah, I know, "Boo-hoo" for me. Anyway, another poem.

Fancy

 

I very rarely dream of flying
but almost always dream of falling,
bouncing when I hit the ground.
There never is a sound
just a cool breeze
rushing through my hair.
Yes, when I dream,
I have a full head of hair,
and younger too, and always

happier than when I wake.
—rrw o6-25-13

June 24, 2013

  This is a poem of mine that is so OLD I didn't record the date of the original first draft. A Facebook friend asked me to create a visual for it, I guess because she liked the poem. I did a little bit of rewriting on it and changed the title from  Sitting On the Ledge to On the Edge.

On the Edge

 

… And there we were sitting on the edge,
oblivion blossoming above our heads
in periwinkle blues and reds.
Time was thinning out, running out.

A subtle scream could be heard

drifting through the lilacs,
where Mustang Ford and Cadillac
licked each other’s manifold covers
like filicide lovers longing for
this final storm to come and end it all.

My friends began to scatter
seeking shelter in the cluttered churches
where the always faithful worship
for the second coming of the dawn.

I’d been wondering, myself,

what the heck went wrong?
God’s garden once a virgin paradise,
a forest filled with green-boughed oaks,
suburban malls and manicured lawns,
soon to be churned to muddy spit

and dropped into the fiery pit.

 

There upon a urine sky
a bronzed groundskeeper coughed up
the last dead leaves from winter’s freeze,
and the four mower men of the apocalypse
prepared their iron hogs for one final, jolly jaunt.

… And blood, lots of blood, dark black blood,
settled on a dying moon. She, the moon,

had seen it all before, and much too soon
the butchering, the cries, the beggar’s spoon
held high: Please, kind sir,

might I have a little more?”

But I dally here with all this second guessing
when I should be tallying my sins
which have, no doubt, ran up a debt
much larger than my earnings.
But I’ll not seek redemption
for my chronic ills, the overdue bills,
my spiritual indigestion.

For I have loved this life far more
than I could ever fear its death to come.
Yes, I’ve loved this life far—

—rrw o6-24-13

June 23, 2o13

   Last night was the first night of the "Super Moon." Took some pics of it and, of course, wrote a fast poem. It's suppose to be at it's largest about 5 this morning. I'm pulling another all nighter to see if I can get some major pictures of it.

Paparazzi Moon

(Super Moon, June 21, 2013)

A big, fat moon tonight.
Not a pleasant sight
she (or he)
hanging in the limbs
of the only fern tree
on the block
stuck there for all the universe to see.
The evening birds,
those drunken late night squirrels… no help.
Perhaps the highly nervous
summer crickets can be of service?
No, they can only laugh
at her majesty’s distress
her royal white dress a mess
her cloud colored crown
hooked on the uneven barbs
of the prickliest branches in town.
They’re sure to leave a scar.
And we
the human things who spent our younger days
staring up into her pale, angelic face
who normally wrote songs about her cosmic grace
and often made love beneath her ample breasts of light?
We take pictures and snicker with appalling delight
at her misfortune. But it’s only human. We like
to see those we worshipped all our lives
punished for the most unnatural of crimes
thinking they are better than all mankind.
—rrw o6-21-13

June 21, 2o13

  Wrote this poem on the fly, but went back and worked on it a bit. May work on developing the animation a bit more or replace it totally. 

 

Shadow-Gänger
 

A shadow has no life.
It’s just a puppet,
the absence of light.
Yes, once in a while
he may appear to grab at’a 
piece of drywall or brick façade,
seem to walk down an asphalt street,
or through a parking garage. He’ll pretend
to dance upon a door as if alive,
but we know he’s not… he lies.

Wondering homeafter a late night stroll,

he staggers, stumbles,
blunders about, bumping
into everything: tree roots and limbs,
lampposts— a rather nasty run-in
with a protruding-slab of sidewalk.
My silly, witless Shadow-Gänger,
he could never hold his liquor.
—rrw o6-21-13

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 





June 20, 2013

  Yesterday,  the actor James Gandolfini died. I wrote this poem back when the TV show, The Sopranos, ended in an very abrupt way. People were really upset by the ending to such a popular show: Did Tony die, or didn't he? sadly, JG's death was as abrupt and shocking as the last episode of The Sopranos. I did some rewrites on this poem... a tribute to a great actor in a TV show that changed everything.

Life Goes On

 

Life goes on...

and I bleed it a little too much.
Yes, it’s true, too much I feel.
Tiny pricks of consciousness
hack my spirit’s will to carry on.
But carry on I do.

 

I’ve watched your shadow

fade each day. You grow shallow,
slowly dripping to a stop,
your eyes once laughed at
the threatening clouds.
But now, what do they see?
All that rain brooding,
the summer sun lying ,
you and me, withered winter leaves.
Like the seasons, the both of us
more than outlived our usefulness. 

 

But life goes on...

I watch it on the TV every night
slumped into a shrunken chair
gasping for air to breathe,
a minor minnow out of water.

 

I no longer understand,

no longer wish to comprehend.
Do I care who wins American Idol,
the war in Iraq?
Will Tony ever get his shit together?

 

Remember when the written word was king?

They wrote of demons then, angels were irrelevant.
We dreamed in prophecies and memorized
the language of gods; from their tarnished lips
to the end of a screenwriter’s spastic pen,
you brought to life the poetry we could
never learn to say the way you said it.

 

And now… you pick at your fries

lying dormant on the plate.
I hesitate to ask what’s wrong.
You turn your head, afraid the past
is catching up to you.

 

Life still, still goes on

if we want it to or not.
Whether IT wants to or not.
I feel like Anthony Soprano
sitting in a 50’s style burger joint.
And suddenly…                 
blackout…                                        
roll credits.
—rrw o6-2o-13
 

June 19, 2o13

  I use a lot of weather metaphors... but never solely talking about the weather... there's something underneath the obvious.

Secret Rain

 

I was curious about the rain,

how it snuck-up on me right before
I went to bed. Lightning flashes
thunder right behind it… a big storm,
very near. Did I close the kitchen window
when I finished  my last cigarette?
Up to check it just in case…
Nope, pulled down tight. I must be
smarter than it thinks I am.
And here it comes,
pounding the rooftop, attacking
the fragile window glass;
the poor trees lining the streets
stripped of their new born leaves.
The neighbor’s car rocks in alarm
“You’re standing too close to the vehicle.”
And suddenly… it stops. And all seems right
as if the storm had never been at all.
But the trees, the battered car, the leaves
left dying in the gutters… a reminder.
Though the worst has past, it was
without a doubt a costly mess, and most
assuredly, the rain will drift our way again.
—rrw o6-18-13


 

June 18, 2o13

  Today is my good friend Kimm's birthday. So, today's poetry page is dedicated to her.

The Kimmology

(three poems inspired by Kimm)

Kimm Dancing

She leaves the Earth if only for a moment

and we the pebbles, dirt and dust beneath

her tiny dancer’s feet mistake her  legs for sky.

The swirling currents that her whirling generates,

A cyclone softly smiling down on us,

a gentle grin of soft-soled shoes adoring us.

Jealous, are we? No.

We who sweat away our lives

doing this and that to just survive,

the shadows which she casts

as she leaps and pirouettes

become the welcomed shade

for all who are afraid,

for all still tethered

to the graveyard grip of gravity.

 

I watch Kimm dance and hope and dream

that I can learn to live, to fly, to be free,

if only half as well as she.

—rrw o4-o8-13

Poop and Circumstance

 

Morning rain has turned to afternoon.

A muddy sky complains, more drops
dropping bombs on concrete walks,
against the windowpane. Fat chunks of ice
drip to death on angry trees,
another frigid, bitter day for them and me.

 

A sudden chill, a throb of pain reminds me

I should turn the heater on and patiently
wait out this freakish storm. It’ll pass
as all things pass, much later than too soon.

 

I think about the smile you wore the whole

weekend long, and that makes me smile
as I stop writing long enough to blow
warm breath at my numbing fingers.

 

Yes, nice to remember you and me
smoking cigarettes (which neither of us

should be doing) outside, closed in patio,
watching your dog poop! I suppose
some images don’t belong in a poem,
but it’s hard to forget how we laughed
at her and at ourselves for observing.

 

The spring was short lived, my weekend

away from it all, the same. Back to my
one room apartment above the grad
student who always wears a heavy
coat no matter what the weather,
no matter what the time of day,
no matter what warm memories
try to coax her out of her cage.
People are funny that way.
—rrw o4-1o-13

Plastic Moby

 

I was thinking about you today,

you and that secluded duck pond
we visited on a warm but not overly
hot Saturday— My God! I sound like
Goldilocks! See? That’s what happens
when I hangout the whole weekend
with you and T-Town. I become more
boy and less old man with far more
smiles than my usual frowns.

 

And ducks. There were plenty of ducks

and other duck like looking birds, a few geese,
and one very suspicious white swan
who didn’t like me taking its picture, bastard.

 

And water, lots of water spewing from

a plastic blowhole— look, it’s Moby Dick!
The wind shifted and we both got wet
and cursed the Oklahoma breeze
for being such an “asshole, asshole.”

 

Our friend finally found us sitting on

the flagstone steps of some rich
guy’s house. You’d have to be rich
to live on this fairytale like block,
rich or magical…  or a duck.
—rrw o6-14-13

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

June 17, 2o13

  Actually started this on this one last night and didn't finish until six this morning! I know, "All that time spent on writing a poem... and THIS is the best you could do?" Always a critic somewhere.

Cloudy Day

 

Take the sun out of it,

shadows lose their appeal.
Trees laugh at them, sidewalks too
can’t help but snicker a bit from
beneath their cracks, and mud,
a smug smile he wears all day
when the sun don’t shine.

 

I think sparrows choose

to ignore the sun at times
when hungry enough. And
squirrels, crows, small dogs,
all three don’t mind ol’ Sol.
He ain’t nothing, don’t mean nothing.
Man, can they take the constant heat?

 

But without the sun’s warm, strong hands

to hold things together, shadows
cease to exist, and never can resist
the temptation to feel sorry for themselves.

 

Yes, they’re temperamental. Belittled

easily by working class grasses,
the demeaning whistles of manly elms
checking out their skinny asses when they
float by on a pimped-out summer breeze.

 

Please, don’t ask trains about the weather,

trains just don’t give a damn, whatever.

Rain or shine snow and hail

the postman of the rails
just keep hauling crap
back and forth, dawn to dusk—
The sun? Who gives a fuck?
There’s too much work to do.

 

When I can and where I may,

I search the sky for shade.
The sun may be man’s best friend,
but I won’t pretend, and say
straight out, I prefer a cloudy day.
—rrw o6-17-13



 

June 16, 2o13

   I'm sure this one was posted earlier on my blog, but I wanted to play around with new graphic ideas.

Some Thing at the Door

 

A sip of cold coffee… glancing up,

a shadow standing in the doorway.
My heart beats somewhat slower
than a drum, somewhat faster than
the march of mourners to the grave.

 

In his hands bloom two large fists,

scarred knuckles, wrinkled flesh
marred by liver spots, dark brown…
the lifeless color of dried blood.

 

His hair a memory to the top of his creased

skull, but on the sides and back still alive in long,
gray strains of what was once unruly red hair.

 

I recognize his eyes too.

They stare at me… blue rocks,
hard unnerving glare,
a look that carves itself,
bores itself into my brain.

 

He wants to talk, his lips move

but there’s not a sound… no,
there is a sound… the one
that leaves make on a windy,
autumn day, the one the dead make…
a rattling, breathy sound.

 

I blink… he’s gone… just like that,

like a spirit or a dream. No, a thing
it was… standing at the door.
—rrw o2-19-13

 

June 14, 2013

   This is a poem I wrote earlier this year and never posted. That happens a lot. Poems sometimes get lost and you're surprised when you find them. I did a lot of rewrites on this one and will probably do more... later. I do have a favorite line that made me laugh when it appeared on the page. Can you find it?

Lack of Light

 

Shadows, none tonight, except

that one the corner streetlamp
conjures up as it peeks between
the pleats in the window screen.

 

I'm not intimidated or alarmed

by darkness anymore. Don’t need
a nightlight, I don’t leave the TV on
to fall asleep. When I was younger
though, the thought of napping without
a bit of bright to guide me through the night,
it was a tad… unnerving. Oh, the dreams that
I might dream! The silent ones hanging from
the ceiling fan above my bed, just waiting there
for me to dare and close my eyes, they were…
disturbing.  What would I do, what could I do
if I didn’t wake? Stuck in there forever,
ever lost inside some lifeless dreamscape.

 

But nowadays, with so much time behind me,

so little left before me, all this lack of light
feels more akin to a friendly stranger I can
cuddle with for as long as-- well, as long as
lungs breathe, for as long as this heart cares
to beat, for as long as… long is.

 

I don’t know why both day and night exist;

it’s utterly redundant and confusing.
We’re forced to endure the one while suffering  
the other. And you know how I hate choosing.
—rrw o2-23-13 (rewrites o6-11-13)

 

June o8, 2o13

   As I said before, a little bit behind on posting poems here. This one was written about 3 months ago. The pic is of Patricia Crespin. I took it several years ago and have used it on other poems.

Water

 

The weight of stone

compared to dream
is lighter than a feather.

 

The moon’s bright laugh

a nothing but a misty blue
adrift within your eyes.

 

This lifetime of dark barrooms,

drunken insults, angry words
with angry patrons,

 

could never pound away,

drive away, dry up that river,
that ocean you’ve become.

My feet could never overcome

the need for travel, their grand desire
to kick at the cat, the crumbs of bread

 

that lead the way back home. Now,

blind they are and mute and dead
they are to everything… but you.
rrw o3-14-13 (rewrites o6-o8-13)

 

June o6, 2o13

   Okay, I promise that this is the last of this silliness for a while. I'll get back to the longer poems soon.

Mo Better Random (W) Rites

There's a rogue sparrow
dancing on the lawn!
I don't know what he's

happy about...
he's a damn sparrow.
 
Simply put, everything is simple.
No more complicated than
Einstein's theory of relativity:
"If it ain't relative to me,
I don't want to hear it."

 

Morning has arrived... again.
And tomorrow (if we're lucky)
it will do exactly the same thing.
But wouldn't it be nice next time

if it arrived just a little bit late,

rising from a different direction,
riding a mountain bike?

I never loved you
I hope you know that
I only pretended to
to give you a good reason
for leaving me

 

I tried counting peanuts
to fall asleep
but the elephant
in the room
eat ‘em all
now I'm wide awake

The problem with Human Rights,
every damn human being thinks

he deserves them.

 

I was afraid of this

when I should have been
afraid of that

 

I was thinkin’ ‘bout you

but then again
it could’ve been
you were thinkin’ ‘bout me
                   —Quantum Philosophy
—rrw o6-o6-13