April 16, 2013

   Friends of mine online wanted to see something more "old school" poetry from me. I think they like my "new school" writing okay, but a lot just feel poetry has to rhyme and be in classical for. So, I broke out this sonnet to show them. "I don't always write sonnets, but when I do, it's always Shakespearean."

Hidden Beauty

My love for you will never shout its name,

Be heard above the frantic crows that rave.
That beauty which they see puts all to shame
And makes those anxious lovers love’s dear slave.
Your eyes alone could warm the coldest heart,
Your smile a sun to light the darkest day
And grace like yours is nothing less than art,
Yes, true! Such beauty rare has means to sway.
Your modest way is what I cherish best,
The kindness that you lay before our feet,
The care you give to those who needs be blessed,
Compassion unto all, to all you meet.
Though beauty of the flesh we choose to toast,
It’s beauty of the soul which pleases most.
—rrw 10-18-09 (rewrite o4-16-13)

April 15, 2013

   I need time to go out and just observe the world around me. Get out of my head for awhile and just breath, listen, see and physically feel things. That's where this poem came from. Just sitting outside and observing nature and myself in nature. One thing I need to correct in my writing, I gotta proof read better. I got to look closer at the words I'm choosing for a poem. And, of course, spelling. if it wasn't for Word Check, these poems would be even more grammatically incorrect. One line IS phrased funny: and for the most of us our ears will not condone... but I like the way it sounds and it keeps the natural rhythm of human speech. However, another line: we’ll not communicate with the insane,/ disruptive, ramblings of pebbles.... DOES keep the natural rhythm of speech, but when I say it out loud, it doesn't quite work. It may well be my Okie accent that's in the way. Another thing I should point out, the drawing for this poem is an original I created on Windows Paint App. I know, it's not very good but it seems to work well for the poem.

Natural Voice

Some birds sing, I don’t know why,

while they sail across the sky.

Moons too seem to speak
in sharp uneven beams of light.

Water whistles in the seas and dolphin’s squeak.

The winds, the mighty winter winds, so bleak

and sadly chilling are their words.

But rain, spring rain, is peaceful calm, I’ve heard.

I don’t speak the tongue of rock and stone

and for the most of us our ears will not condone

the beastly shout of shattered bone,

the fractured sight of windowpane,

we’ll not communicate with the insane,
disruptive, ramblings of pebbles.

Trees, I must agree, are burdened by the troubles

of all those grieving lovers hanging from their branches.

I do not stop to chat with trees about my failed romances.

When it comes to love, advice from them? I’ll take my chances.
—rrw  o4-14-13

April 13, 2013

   Amazing. One of my poems has evoked a pretty large storm of opinion and conversation. I love it when a poem does that. It's not often that it does, but it sure feels good when it happens.

Stone Butter

We were stone once,

or at least, we pretended to be.
For butter is far too soft, you see,
we’d never survive the heat
the raw looks, the pinches and punches
that mean old summer permits.

Yes, stone it is. Much better than butter, unless,    

of course, you chose to be toast.
You can butter toast, but cruel stone
refuses to change its shape
no matter the kind of bread you bake.
 
We were monsters too, once.  Monsters who
ate gravel and grit and sand the color of fine wine.
With time, though, we lost the will to growl
and screech and gobble up the world,
we lost our selves and became that
which once we skipped across ponds,
or used to beat each other down with.
We did not choose to be stone
but we were, quite sadly, destined to be so.
—rrw o4-12-13


 

April 11, 2013

  Amazing that I'm up so early! Since I "retired" I got into a late night late getting out of bed mode. Trying to change that. I've been away a while, but I'm back to writing new poems. here's one I haven't posted on this site yet:

 

 

Sing

 

Let them sing of other things

of withered leaves in wooden troughs,

ducks who mock the butterflies

that steal the honey from the honey pot.

 

The awkward shirt and ties,

they botch the moves

they worked so hard to memorize.                 

Steel-toed working boys, they bang it dead

to rights… poodle dresses thick in lacy,

jacked up high above the head. And all

them long, black cigarettes aglow deep down

below within the hidden crannies of the alleyways.

 

Butter knives and table spoons,

rubber tubes a tombstone white

bind the bruising limbs, the riverbeds

running red… death devours death.

 

Her shadow cuts lean and clean,

slices through the eyes that follow her;

slurred whispers chase her down

the parking lot. “Don’t leave,” they say,

“come play your dog and cat with me.”

 

 And she does.

She hangs her coat upon the air,

the burly  bouncer rubs her there

between the legs… She doesn’t care,

he doesn’t stop until he’s done in her,

until her asphalt skin begins to sing

the blood-soaked song he came to hear.

—rrw o3-3o-13

 

April 10, 2013

     The trip to Tulsa last weekend seems to have got my creative thought flowing, that and the fact that we had a weird-ass winter storm here in Oklahomaland! What the hell?

 

 

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

April 8, 2013

   So, here's a new poem I promised. I worked on it all day... feel it's just right... but as it always go... I may look at tomorrow and find all kinds of mistakes:

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

April 7, 2013

 

   Yes, I know. I'm an aging slacker. I haven't posted a poem here in quite awhile. Sorry about that... but this last weekend rejuvenated me. I want to write again due mostly to my friend Kimm who has reminded me that I'm still alive. I  want to write a poem about her and I will. But for now let me introduce you to Kimm doing what Kimm  has always done since the first day I met her back in the early 70s: