Daily Poetry & Prose

It is painful to think of the relativity of the girls and the boys and the farm the rider in the night with the red cloak heading into the belly of the wolf It is painful to think of the mystery wrapped up in the veil It is painful to think of the teepee folded in the rain It is painful to know that it's over caught in the wind like a holler

I enjoyed walking by the lake and eating the sand. I drank water from my hand, and it tasted like the blood of restitution and slow regrowth.

My fingers have bones  they are there, underneath the skin My wrist has a rubber band around it It's a black elastic thing, and it's worn out  so that part of it is thin, and part of it is thick I have it wrapped three times around my hair which is long and greasy today I had it dyed over six months ago by a lady who whispered, "You're gonna jam" in my ear as she was looming over me and she left the color in too long  and my hair and bathtub was purple for days and I sat under the dryer my locks getting singed off and when she blew dry it I didn't have my glasses on  and I couldn't tell how bad it was until days later It's growing out now and I keep it tied up tiny tweaks of grey are all on my forehead like tin soldiers standing guard about to storm my forehead to remind me of age I don't care much really and I rather like my hands with their slightly weathered look. Notes: written after reading "A Small Place"

The angel played the zither way up high caught up in the plaster  stuck there for all time The nuns walked slowly by in big brown shoes with soles as heavy as their babyless hearts draped in the blond sunshine of almond-shaped eyes the angels continued to play their songs Far away in the fields a small boy with rough hair and hands picked up the flute made of bone and with his shawl of animal hide began to blow The zephyrs swarmed in like a herd of rushing bulls crashing through the parlor of the forest Artemis winked and advised that no one challenge anyone to a contest Yet in the wings there slaved an artist intent on his oils and bathed in rabbit skin glue in the bathtub of alchemy rubbing gold into a pan and smattering the light Notes: Written after reading Vasari

The daily act of writing a poem, how dare I think I have outgrown myself  when I am just a wandering child in the wilderness bare feet in the snow fox tracks  picked up and sifted as the whiteout blows tiny arms of sinewy stems pierce the air with their  ambition

All the war in the world has it always been there never leaving always burning like a fire in the core of man Wise old women and wise old men say this too shall pass where there is shadow the sky looms black with smoke  When will the sun shine on the wheat fields women weeping faces buried in their shawls they had to bury their sister and her husband like dogs The pain in the heart is insurmountable like an ocean wave tidal and tsunami How can we live with ourselves humans how can we turn away Those of us that raise questions Those of us that raise fists Those of us that raise flags what is it all for the devil of War is deaf to reason

The summertime of indecision is upon us. We must cast our fate to the wind, and put our oar into the water.

I started thinking back on the many years gone by and flocks of seagulls swooping and screeching I thought of sitting in the bleachers way up high and standing on the dock thinking of leaping The water is cold this time of year, it's never a good idea to swim in the deep waters where you've been

How can it be hard to write a poem? Perhaps I am afraid of what I'll say.

Instead of writing a poem today, I'm going to read some Keats. Instead of worrying I am going to smile. Instead of going out into the snow I will stay where it's warm, drink Red Raspberry tea and talk to my sister about the ways of things. Music is a mystery. The sound of a small violin permeates the void. The pipes haven't frozen because I left the faucets dripping: the snare drum of my sink trading fours with  my bathtub percussionist. Instead of misery I will handle mercy, dance it through my fingers like change in my pocket before the washing machine eats it all.

The mystery of mastery past through me time will tell The golden seashells line the inside of my wishing well The yearning for the years that drifted across the summer sky The raspberries in the jar  The curtains draping  The mirror bending The flowers bloom.

I'll take you to another dimension through a dark alley and a hole in the wall a ray of light which a rat chewed a grain of sand would fall through to a supernova of gushing radiation tipped back at an angle a hypotenuse to the sun flailing arms and toppled bodies we run summertime solstice toward the moon suddenly we are in a pool of dark water reflection of the moon upon its surface where we brush our hands across it and bring them to our mouths to drink but it tastes like champagne instead and suddenly we are at a jazz club on New Year's Eve and the woman is wearing sequins and we are deaf

Water is a gift of the earth dripping from the rocks and the cliffs in the jungle the animal bends down and cups his hands liquid quenches his thirst  like hunger he throws it into his fists

I often start a poem or song with the word plastic. It's not that I like plastic. It's that it's everywhere. And it rolls off the tongue with an open ended mouth: plaaaaaahstic Then, it ends with a resounding tic it's kind of a percussive word, plastic.