Blog by Hannah Frank
Pacified for now, the heart of my jewels shines
Opened for now, the treasure trunk dusty genie lamps heave wishes
Closed for now, the door to my soul is always creaking in the wind
Pampered for now, the movie star's silk robes are dropping
Puckered for now, her lips are like a wild rose
Pumping for now, the oil fields are on fire
Burning for now, the hearts of men are charred to black
Black for now, the night is calling you
whispering for now, humming her favorite tunes.
It's weird, I've had this blog for years
and I've never tried to write a poem at night
Is it because after sunset, the demons come out?
Or perhaps a Jewish violinist can't stay awake.
Not sure. I throw rocks into the Lake at night
or run a stick through the mud
count the stars and heave smooth glass at the tree trunks
I cup the cold sand in my hand
and peacefully become a remission of my own self.
That's what I usually do at night,
not write poems.
These deceits that have no receipts
The correction on the player's book
The pool game that got thrown
The river rocks that got smooth
The grains of sand collected into a hourglass
turning it
back and forth.
The champion of the day
The child who, held close at night
The pillows cut and unfeathered--
I am no longer afraid of freeloading SOBs.
The obstacle of passion
governed by feelings
is pavement
underneath the bus
of sacred commitments.
These are small battles
affirmations of proof
evidence of words and deeds
concrete with time and progress.
Feelings are not your friends.
They plan for comfort.
You need a sherpa
leading you down the hard path
between who are are
and who you want to be.
He said that God will provide it
this feeling of abundance
of peace
He said that God will demand it
this commitment to
society's release
He said that the bandits will hand it
over, this treasure that they stole
when you became convinced
salvation was in rock and roll
He said that God will revise it
this edited Bible of verse
when spoken from the pulpits
of voices tense and terse
He said that God will reverse it
this pain and this woe
and like a child and a lamb
together you will go
but I know
he just wants guitars
hanging on the walls
raining from the skies
painted on the trees
tiger palms beckoning
Package of letters
sent from Mississippi
came by rail
and stage coach too.
Don't know what I am about to do,
I've got the Blues so deep
I need a shovel and a tool.
I don't know what I am a gonna do.
Time will tell
or will it shout
loudly at night
in the rain
when I am locked out of the car
screaming,
"you're not innocent!"
There's a story there,
but you will tell you in time.
If I wrote of diamonds or oil, would it be valuable?
If I wrote of money, trinkets, and feathers, would it be novel?
If I wrote of big skies, roaring clouds, and fierce horses, would it be of value?
Would it stir something in your heart,
more valuable than gold?
In the rustic attitudes of my history books
There is a party of fun flowers and light
masterfully played against the linen and the shack
The Impressionists and the dirt of the American South
are totally disconnected except
on my bookshelf.
The Bible sits next to Deepak Chopra
and titles like "Human Destiny"
are next to a book from the 1990s about Feng Shui.
Let's not forget all the photography books from my uncle
and one book in plastic called "Lyrics for Song Hits"
which is from the 40s approximately
and is hard backed
and the ideas of those songs being hits
is what makes it a gem.
Perhaps I will open it, and write one.
Mark this day on your calendar with a red pen
full of love and solace
It wasn't exactly smoke from the peace pipe
But we stood here on horses together
Watching the prairie
and there was no rain
Pacified for now, the heart of my jewels shines Opened for now, the treasure trunk dusty genie lamps heave wishes Closed for now, the door t...
