Pangs of duty
rivers of sadness
streaming down her face
the dark shadows hung around
like a sweater in a closet
Harboring criminals in her heart
Basking in the tender refuge
she provides
The slow drawn
horseless carriage
the fountain pen
the fountain
The vampire and the cobra
The drummer and the damned
The dancer
spinning
kissing danger
just to flirt
with
hope.
There was something genius that I thought,
it was heavy I am sure,
full of pondering and humor plus wit for good measure.
But somehow, it has slipped my mind
and now I can't locate
that thought which I was quite convinced
was going to be great.
Poems are not architecture
they do not require blueprints
Poems are a structure nonetheless
like a teepee on the prairie
with the wind blowing through
part of nature part of the self
with all of its bones and sinews
buffalo hide over sticks
drawn tightly
before looking at the sky
for the weather.
Dance is not sport
there are no competitions
nor prizes
Dance is athletic and the body moves
but it moves for the gods
the muses
and the choreographer
guiding the movement
like a conductor guides an orchestra
each piece moving
in tandem.
Love is not coffee
Although it can be dark and bitter
it's not something that you have every day
it's not something to kick you into gear
or awaken the senses artificially
although when you close your eyes
it can have the same dreamlike
effect.
Books are not boots
although you can wear them
and go places
Grab the stiff leather and
shove a foot
and drudge up some weary trail
only to discover it is a mountaintop.
Pride is not a drug
although you can laugh
and boast with the best of them
you're just a speck of dust
on an eight ball
rolling on a pool table
somewhere in another universe
where all of your earthly gains
mean nothing
unless they change the angle
as you go
into
the pocket.
Laughter is not medicine
although it can make you burst
and cause your heart to sing
to soar just for an instant
and you forget all your troubles.
Method is not madness
although I write each day
I am no closer
to the poem I want to write
than when I started.
Put me in the straight jacket then
and let me draw crooked lines
with the pen
held
in my teeth.
I woke up on a distant planet surrounded by the rain and snow
cleansed by nature's madness I started to row
my boat ashore
because I was in the ocean
surrounded by dolphins
flipping their fins
in rhythms splashing
I slept in a faraway cave
wrapped up in blankets
cooing
speaking to Plato in hushed tones
by firelight
as we watched it dance upon the walls
The bison and the handprints
from ancient days
A new writing experiment is writing to music--for this poem I used this video. It's kind of funny that "this is is the sound of inner peace"--is it? I'm clicking.
Mesmerizing resonance framed in simplicity
Hurry get the crumbling parts of your mind
and hold the sand in your hand
fling them to the wind
I took a hand drum
went down to the beach
slammed my palms on the skins
and talked to God.
I sure as F don't need a priest,
I live outloud.