Poems After Sunset

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. 

No Longer Afraid

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.

Rohn's Battles

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.

Tiger Palms

 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

The Old Days

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. 

Played

Let my hands touch your drum 

Let me play you let me sway you 

let me run for cover take away you 

Let me run

Let me become 

your solace your leafy glade 

Let me be your finally made 

Your damnation saved

Your piano jammed and John Caged 

played.

Time Will Tell

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. 

Valuable?

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?

On My Bookshelf

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.

Calendar Day of No Rain

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

Bastions to the Future

The Earth began to spin as if it had stopped then started 

and engine in the rare earth minerals the field rocks after frost

Caterpillars crunched themselves forward

the stems of leaves bastions

to the future