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

 

June o5, 2o13

   I do a lot of Facebooking... write a lot of "little things" that aren't always poetry... just random thoughts. And that's what I named them, Random (W)Rites. Here's a sampling.

Random (W)Rites

 

One

I appear to have the Bubonic Plague Blues today.
My negative thoughts are running a temperature
of a hundred and seventy-five. The sweats of regret
are taking over... I've developed a chill in my future,
a runny nose reality. I've been under the influence,
emotional storm front, my whole, sick life. No cure.

 

Two

There are lies you tell your friends
the ones you quote your enemies
the fibs you speak to yourself
when truth is just too painful
and boring to bother with

 

Three

Something’s burning. I know it’s not love.

 

Four

Damn, morning already. Thunder

and lightning. A very wet rain
my alarm clock. There's no snooze
button on the weather. My plan to ride
the bike to the grocery store… put on hold.
My writing continues, though. Lately, I've
been practicing my typos and punctuation
errors. Getting good at it. Almost up to par
with my spelling and grammar mistakes.
Believe me, it's difficult to maintain
the purity of an illiterate mind.

 

Four (Bicycle Built for One)

I am painfully aware of your absence. So’s

my bicycle. It sits in the corner bleeding air
from its tires, and weeping sprocket-grease
tears on the carpet. If its spokes could speak,
they'd ask me about you. I’d refuse to comment,
pleading a fifth of Jack Daniels to incriminate myself.

 

Tomorrow, I’ll take my bike on a long trip.

Maybe he'll forget (for a while) that you
use to ride on the handlebars and laugh
as I peddled the three of us up that long,
deep grade near the Duck Pond.

 

I remember a summer’s day, warm but

not unpleasant. A Devil’s Head thorn
carved its way into the front tire,
the tube gasped then went flat. You
always blamed yourself… “I shouldn’t
ride on the handlebars, I’m too fat.” But
you weren’t. No heavier than a leaf, 
a rebellious, spring leaf that always found
a path to the pond water, or landing on
the back of some transient duck that just
stopped by for a cooling splash.

 

I won’t go by way of the pond  tomorrow.

Too many memories for my Mountain Trek.
You know how he gets when his wheels
start turning in the wrong direction. We’d
be out there all day… looking for you.
—rrw o6-o4-13

June o4, 2o13

   I get busy during the day and forget to post here. Well, that may not be totally true. I suppose I get busy writing a poem or smoking or watching TV as an excuse for NOT writing on my blog. I need to stop that. This next poem I thought about yesterday... and didn't get around to writing it today. Another thing I shouldn't do. I should write as soon as the idea comes to mind. The picture/poetry is always too small on the blog. However, if you click on it, you can see a larger version of it.

How to Live Forever

 

There are structures much stronger than mine

made of brick and mortar, concrete and steel,
able to resist the temperamental fits of nature
and man. They stand firm for what seems to be
forever. I wouldn’t mind that, a body created in fire
and not molded from mud. But a plastic bag?
Now, we’re talking longevity, and he’ll probably  
outlive us all. Quite sturdy, pliable, reliable he is,
adrift through life at the whim of the spring and
summer winds, no cares, no woes, he just does
what he’s told. Oh, but then again, wind! A powerful
beast that uproots trees, reduces tall buildings
to piles of debris. And don’t forget time, patient,
persistent time. She kills, destroys, annoys without
consideration for the years upon years it takes to whittle
us down, or for the human sadness she causes. No, I’d
rather not be wind or time. Both are too unkind. I’ll settle
for flesh and blood and bone and spirit, which, as I hear it
from my knowledgeable friends,  just doesn’t exist. But that’s it!
The spirit! No one sees it, smells it, hears it… can harm it. If
living ever after is your goal, a kind, gentle spirit is the way to go.
—rrw o6-o3-13

June o2, 2o13

   I started this one late last night and finished it (?) this morning and afternoon. I spent a lot of time on the graphic for this one too. Here's the thing I've learned about writing:
1. Things must change
2. Never think a poem is finished
3. Never be afraid to junk the whole mess and move on
4. ALWAYS look for new ways to say what you want to express

Full of Moon

 

I’m full of moon tonight

filled with rain and sparrow smoke

 

Full of shadows clinging tightly

holding on to what is left of me

 

On a shelf below the leaky sink

I think I hear the kitchen knives 

 

the coffee cups and herbal teas

mourn the crumpled tinfoil day

 

We are afraid they softly whisper

too afraid to greet the night

 

Without our coat and scarf and hat

and leopard-spotted gloves to match

 

At midnight phantom joggers

thump the Earth to death

 

Bobbing lights and pale

white runner’s breath

 

Sometimes the moon is not enough

for them or me

 

The stars so very far away

from me and them

 

Once in a while I ache for emptiness

for hooded nameless crows

 

To come along and gently kindly

peck the world blind
—rrw o6-o2-13

June o1, 2o13

   I follow American politics pretty close. Often enough I get angry at our public officials always arguing and never getting things done. This poem is about those feelings.

 

 

Magdala

 

We looked for stones to throw

but didn’t find none
so, we settled-up for slinging mud
the morning rain had brung
when the summer comes
we’ll make due with dust
if there’s nothing else to toss

 

gotta punish the weak

beat down the strong

do yaself a favor

crucify the saviors

Psychology Philosophy

Biology Religion

Science Tradition

Welfare Warfare

greedy Corporations

 

just burn it all

burn it up good

no matter what the cost

Ya gotta FIGHT against

the tyranny of rational thought

—rrw o6-o1-13