. . . Like Death August 23, 2o13

Friday,

   So here it is Friday morning 5 am and I haven't been to bed yet. Damn. So I thought I should probably get a new poem posted. maybe then I can sleep.

. . . Lie Death

 

I'm afraid to go to sleep.
These last three nights

your dream-self came to me
jabbering about something I did
along time ‘go— I can’t remember
what it was. I didn’t understand it then
when we were together, when I was
somewhat more . . . conscious.
Why would I remember now?
I truly believe asleep should be a sleep
like death with no surprising 
midnight visits from the ex.
—rrw o8-23-13 (Pic & Poem)

More Than Dark, August 15, 2o13

Thursday,
Another poem that got lost somewhere in the wilderness of my flash-drive.

More Than Dark

 

More dark than pale this night

which the windowpane seems
to like more than bright,
more than dawning seams

 

that a stitching morning sun sews

to the bottom of his shoes.
A waddle-walk across the sky bows
him before the garden crow who woos

 

the grass and tends to evening trees.

No, let a kind, black darkness come along
and make her glass devoid of knees
creak and scrape and beg upon

 

her fragile shadow-sills. Refracted light

burning yellow in her one good eye.
Let her cry, may she weep for sight,
grieve for all those window dreams gone by.
—rrw o7-24-13

Ghost Poetry, August 14, 2o13

Wednesday,
Trying to catch up on my posts. All poets write at least two (or more) poems about writing poems. here's one that I revised. Original was written about six months ago. It's always good to go back, I think, and rework poems... even if you believed the original draft was "just right." Why? Well, because things change, your skills get sharper and maybe you see things clearer than you did when you wrote the first draft.

Ghost Poetry

 

Early, early morning. It’s early morning.

The brain’s already sleeping.
Consciousness snores lightly, tight behind
those blurry eyes that still try to count
the sheep leaping about like wooly ballet dancers
inside my skull. Where are all my ghosts tonight?
Often enough they’re premature, sitting cross-legged
in the cobweb corner next to my bike, tapping gray toes
against the carpeted floor. You see, haunting's not
much fun for them as I bee-busily scratch out another poem.
And they don't like it when I include them in some random
non-rhyme I’ve created right before my beddy-bye.
Rather shy my demons past. They refuse to talk.
They know too well, any mad ramblings or ghostly
gossip they choose to spill will wind-up on the page.
For there’s nothing’s sacred to a true poet, not the dead,
living or the dying. All that forgotten youth, childhood
distortions, all those tiny minded monsters old men adore;
they’ll show themselves when the coffee’s stale enough,
when there’s little else worth writing about.
—rrw o2-17-13 (rewrites o8-o7-13)

When the Darkness Comes, August 13, 2o13

Tuesday,
Sorry. It's been a while since I last posted a poem here. I have been writing. I just forgot about posting here. Manly because I've been working on the blog a lot. So, here's a new poem.

When the Darkness Comes

 

You know how it is, don't you, when the darkness arrives                                        

stands just outside the door waiting for you to notice that it’s there.
The brown paper bag in his left hand, the backpack slung over
the other shoulder, the sharp fast intake of breath; the crawl up
the carpeted stairs a bit too much for his age. But still he stands there,
and stands there, quietly stands there patiently stands there waiting
for you to say “Come on in, sit it down, take a load off.” And he does.
Plops with an earthquake certainty down in the only comfortable chair
in the room, gingerly folds his leathery, long legs under his ass, guru like,
takes a long, healthy swig from his wrinkled bag… “Ahhh! You want a hit?”
You shouldn’t, you really know you shouldn’t, fourteen years sober
and you shouldn’t… but you do, and you do... and you do once more,
and once again… and suddenly the walls begin to crumble, a skinny,
tight crack at first from floor to ceiling, then thickening, pulsating,
a river appears… an ocean crashing in on you… but you float like you
always do… along with the couch with the broken frame, the dusty
fifty-six inch TV… you float along within the rush of waves, the
sounds of waves slapping lightly against the inside of your head.
You float and wonder, hoping and pray the floating will never stop.
—rrw o8-o4-13

Random Chance of Rain July 29, 2013

Sunday,
   It may be a while before I post another poem. So, my reader(s) you'll have to do with this last one. Again, this a few short poems that were written first as posts on Facebook. They also revolve around a central theme, rain. It's late July and we here in Oklahoma have had a LOT more rain than we are use to. It was a pleasant surprise.

Random Chance of Rain

1

… AND it's still raining
a steady, light rain
like sparrows cry
not like crows do
who thunder
far too loud
who linger
far too long
on their own
sorrows

 

2

Shall I sing of shadows
pounding out the dents
the summer worked
so hard to print
to layout in fire and stone
only to be
washed away
by a sandpaper storm

that smooth the edges

of a rainy thought

from a deluge

to a soft shower

that spring could wear

leisurely around

her shoulders

 

3

I wish the rain would stay
not wander off

from place to place
like it always does
like you always do
when your sun
comes up

 

4

Thick, wondrous clouds

black and white

afloat upon a greying sky.

I've hoped all day that they

won't go away until they drain

us, repeat that gentle rap

of wet, cool rain that beat

against the windowsill last night

 

5

Clouds hang like paintings
in God's gallery... I wonder
will He serve hors d'oeuvres,
will the artist make an appearance?
And if He does what do I say?
"Yes, very nice, although you might
add a tiny bit of rain."

6       

I seldom think of you, but if I must

I think of you as rain stomping on

the roof inside my head like tiny

hooves of reindeer would, or like

butterflies that have lost their way

and smashed themselves to death

upon the windowpane of the only

window in the house that  isn’t blind.

Yes, I think of you as rain, the kind

that whistles while it jerks my mind

around, splatters its memories against

my memory until I fear remembering

at all. How you came into my life

wet with life and left muddy prints

upon the carpet when you finally

said goodbye and evaporated

into sun… yeah, if I must, I think

of you as rain that comes and goes

when it pleases, when you  need

to be thought  about, when you

need someone to remember your

ever changing weather patterns.

—rrw o7-28-13

 



SWEAT July 27, 2o13

Saturday,
   Been working on this for about three or four days. Still not totally satisfied with the beginning but in good enough shape to post, I think.

SWEAT

 

Not sure the sky is blue today,

it seems to me a muddy Chevrolet
slow dragging on a cloudy day.
And I myself am feeling jazzy-lazy, ragtime crazy
as the summer broils my brain, heats up my veins,
forces me to growl a melancholy song
that Billie might have sung  way back in ’41 while high on heroin.
Her ivory horse adrift from dirty bathroom to the kitchen sink,
down the corridor where the pasty coroner gets you ready
for the grave, then crawling low into that deep, dark hole and
through the swinging doors of the local jook where thick cigar
and cigarette smoke and those shady men in overcoats
claw at that sweet, tight ass as she struts past the wobbly chairs
and splintered tabletops. She slides across the barroom floor
that’s stained with beer and blood, where coat-tail waiters shrug
and shuffle ‘bout in wingtip shoes and holey dungarees still damp
from slaving in the fields. They mutter to themselves, “It’s hot as hell!”
And God, He laughs out loud, “You think it’s hot, huh?!  
Boys, come live up here inside the sun!”
‘Cause even He-On-Top sometimes must stop
to grumble to Himself  while changing into linen robes,
“Because them silky ones will lick you up like jellyroll!” 
And me and He and Billie all agree,
this mean ol’ life, no matter where you be,
or who you be just makes you wanna die,
makes you sweat, makes you scream.
—rrw o7-27-13

 

 

Mother, July 24, 2o13

Wednesday,
   This has been on my mind awhile. You know there are those "events" that go on in the world that really have little to do with you personally... and yet they touch you in some way... you need to write something... you don't know what exactly... you just need to get it out onto the page... hope it says something worthwhile.

Mother

 

What strength it takes to stand like wind.

Early morning rain has forced your head
to slightly bow. A sudden thunder
rumbling behind your eyes. You voice soft,
but strong like iron leaves burning
in an open fire place. Not a hint of smile.

Your lips have lost the memory of happier thoughts.

But I don't mind, I barely notice.
Nor does the crowd that's gathered here
to watch and hear you speak.
And when you finally do, the words... the words…
we can't imagine those words
spoken by anyone else but you.
—rrw o7-21-13