Posts tagged ‘poetry’
They run like colts
in river beds of solid wines
flicking whatever berries
at each other
They both understand the language
wondering with each other.
when they hurt each other.
Suffering for each others pain
because they dance
within each others rain.
You have always been a movie to me
knowing I could never touch you.
Now you sit and stare at me
through the other side of this bottle
setting on the table here between us.
I feel as if a magic is missing
you are not the star I dreamed of.
Once you were the shining light
of my heavens dreaming
in a momentary wish.
Now I can see what I am left with
is not what I had hoped for.
I see what I am watching
is not what I had once enjoyed.
You have always been a movie to me
now my life plays in reverse.
I never could quite touch you
now I know
I’ve touched too much.
A thick blanket of fog covers the Earth
I look out to see the new day
a bright ray of sun breaks through the darkness
and only those who see the light
The machine killed creativity
I saw it for myself.
It bludgeoned all artistic strides
and massacred the rest.
Musicians were first bound to atoms
and then cast down to synthesize.
Pouncing notes on keyboards
for light waves to analyze.
Painters great were also slaughtered
by brushes of true bits.
Destined for the graphic tabs
and bland electric tits.
Sculptors once again were chained
by circuit boards and digits
building funky little trites
of solder, wire and widgets.
Writers were then gathered up
and tortured by their software
making acronym of literature
and cleansing hard drives bare.
Movie folks were also brandished
and scattered without vision
destined for the rerun click
on the mouse of indecision.
Poets, whom of course were last
bore out the worst derision
for they were left with just a hint
of electric mysticism.
The machine killed creativity
I’ll show no remorse
I’ll keep my wafers powered up
for the next new resurgent force.
My sails have weathered and aged
through the years.
They are not as crisp as when they were new.
Yet they take good form to a hearty wind.
My strong treated hardwood masts
even now, stand tall and looming,
proudly visible from a distance.
My polished bow still gleams
in a splash of favorable sun.
And though my deck has keenly felt
the belting torment
of a thousand salty ocean storms
it remains immaculate and polished.
My rudder does not fail
to hold my bearing,
my journey and direction true.
All my instruments are accurate.
And all my lines and ropes, secured, not frayed.
My cabin is a hearth, both warm and soft
of carved and shiny patterned wood
with fathomed depth and heart without bottom.
I am still the captain and the first hand
and the sailor
and the laboring crew.
I still float brisk along bobbing waters
and long to feel the edging wind upon my back.
I still follow guiding stars in pitch black darkness.
And fear the trembling storm
seeking the promised light of a bright new day.
For I was born a great and mighty vessel
and I shall push forward
until my creator
to the great ocean
does call me home.
A pagan killed a Jew
A pagan killed a Christian
A Jew killed a Christian
A Christian killed a Jew
A Muslim killed a Christian
A Jew killed a Muslim
A Muslim killed a Jew
A Christian killed a Muslim
They all bowed to pray
to the same ignorant God
with deaf ears
and a passion for killing.
Dear God forgive them.
They are tearing up that old road again.
The road we built.
with sweat and blood
and paved in dreams of love.
Old man Grady died there.
Fell off the steepest of the ridge cliffs
into a mad white torrent of river
clutching his pick axe firmly.
For three dark days
we stopped work.
His wife still visits every year.
Throwing fresh colored flowers
grown in her lonely summer garden.
Back then we all worked the mules.
And at the end of every day
the men would all gather
with full whiskey bottles and rye.
Women would bring the cheese and bread.
We laughed and proudly praised the road.
God would smile upon us.
Before the labors
we never could cross
when the hard rains of spring came.
And when the heavy snows of winter fell
we became an isolated island.
No one would ever dare the mountain.
But every six months
when the summer sun cleared the pass
we would haul our goods to town.
Selling animal skins and crops
we kept the children happy.
I hear the roar of the bulldozers coming now.
Our love will soon be paved and covered over.
The women and children are crying.
They’ve hit a silver vein.
And the mining company
brought their bankers and lawyers.
Our love has been bought and sold.
They are tearing up the road again.
The road we paved
with our dreams of love.
December 13, 2001
I followed her nightly into the forest
her pain was azure blue
stems of her legs
trunks of stone
between the leaves
and the autumn moon
she would whisper her secrets
unfolding in the darkest brush.
One night of the new spring
our eyes met
we had no one road to travel
only empty pastures
of drunken light.
It’s an empty hole now
where the religious wise once preached hate
the mosque they teach peace in
It’s flowering back to heaven
from where it came
and rose again
this holy land that does not lose
it’s holy history.
Deep below the buried mounds
of bones and dunes and battles
where in the hallowed mosque
tales are told
of peace and love and sorrow.
Is it not the will of men
to teach the will of peace
to love tomorrow?
So the wisdom of the mosque
is not in men
but in the hollow.
I heard your poem on the radio today.
Little children were crying and bleeding
bowing to your mighty power.
I pulled my glass eye out
and rolled it down a bubble-gum sidewalk.
Three flies were mystically immersed in conversation.
They were talking about you, of course.
How you fought off all the angry slaves
so we could all drink milk and hug when
the cheerios were no longer crunchy.
I stepped on a pile of you today.
But my new no-stick nuclear shoes
kept me balanced and poised
for your next question.
I had to answer honestly
as all the satellites were
and the quiet drone
of your newly found synthetic existence
filtered the last ounce of sincerity
in the world.
Now everything is happy blue
and darkness hides inside a solar flare.
My chain keeps rattling loudly
inside this cold locked chamber.
And all of our hammers and shovels
were worn down to splintered oak.
But I forgot what trees looked like.
And when I pulled your plastic vagina
from underneath the dusty glass dome
it wouldn’t talk to me anymore.
It dried out and shriveled away.
Now all I have left is a rusty nail
and two holes in my blood soaked hands.
With his brittle bones and his sun cracked face he rode near ‘bout every mile of the round-up trail. He licks the wind and stares out at nothing tobacco dripping lip, spits. Hell, I fought the sun, and I won fought a sneakin’ coyote once, he lost. Broke rattlesnakes in half between bare hands. Got caught in the drought of the Tulsa ride, too. Thought I’d die in that damn burning desert never have I thirst, so much for one wet drop. They found me about four miles from Breakers Pass. Eighteen-ninety-seven, that was my last long ride. Too many damn city boys tryin’ to run the drive. And now my grandson drives off in that noisy pick-up. He’ll never know the dry taste of sand and grainy dust between your teeth. Wind kicking in your face like a thousand angry hoofs punched in your mouth. And my friend, cold black night. Damn all this fancy fiddle. ___________________________
– a day on the playground –
It was a sunny day in the park
and all the world was roses.
The playground toys around the gym
were spread about with vision.
In the garden of the park, the poets
played with poesies. They danced and sang like
foolish ones and praised the words
that brought them.
The poesy poets on words with wings
within the sun, without the suns
all about were scattered.
Playground fun allowed to run
what else then should much matter.
-Dark Clouds In A Rainbow Sky-
Suddenly in the happy playground
all the birds were silent.
Everything began to change
even knights and mystery.
Round the bend was heard
the sins, of all of mans misgivings.
In the playground, smells of men
whom smelled as no man ought to.
Two torn t-shirts, big boy, thin
stank the park. Stopped all the barks
and all the poets scattered.
But poets pass where powers lost
and no one is the wiser.
– The Sinister Sisters of Words Un-gathered –
Then the menace unto the park
descend a death, feline faced fat.
From steroid soaks and moldy books
his toy sword poking
maybe nothing matters.
Into the spin, swatting thin
bull dog face fly swatter.
Came to beat the big boy thin
came to beat the batter.
But no one came to watch him swath
the same. That was the matter.
Panjo pirate, one eyed brit
between the feathers, tickled him the parrot.
What sweet scheme, if rhythm matters
save the world. One mad librarian
a perfect world I gather!