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.
Small pieces of pride and shame scattered all around
how about you pick them up
and put them in a hat?
There's a guy in the subway playing a million notes a second
totally oblivious to everyone
somewhere there's a concert hall
where they're hanging on every word
Not really sure who is talking to who.
I have a few dimes to spare.
The cabinets are not so bare.
Yet here I am busking
because meditating with the muses
is far too rare.
Well the rivers were running downstream and the hill was bending toward the sunset
then the night was coming and crickets were chirping
the earth was going around the sun like a slingshot
and then the morning arrived
its eerie stillness hung like the edge of a feather.
Then the fog was lifting and the heat of the day was settling in
I was leaning on a leaf gleaming in the sun,
being a water drop not quite set yet,
about to fall, for, due to gravity, suspended I could not remain
I was ready to tip topple over like a drop of rain
Due to the drought
the cracks in the dirt were wide open, like the mouths of those who blame.
Water I am, and fall I may. I am not rain.
Yet I know
although I'm made of dew-- to the scorched earth I am all the same.
close my eyes and stare out at the Atlantic Ocean
once again.
I have watched the British
and the cavalry,
the slavery,
huh
and the parades.
This year, I sighed.
Gun shots rang out
but it wasn't minutemen.
A bird flew by
its right wing straight
its left wing bent
and it went back into
its cage, after flying free for fifty years.
I tug at my dress, this old thing—
a French robe
made when the world smiled
and Romantic ideals of democracy
were the rage.
Now, I just sigh and hope
for better days
for everyone.
Irony is in my backbone
yet in my stern face
I still try.
Him and I were in a practice space. There were no windows, just guitar amps, bass amps, drums and cables covering the floor (and about five people crammed in). Meeting the band that I was going to sing with, I was looking at each member of the group, then I saw him. He had on a blue suit coat and smiled. I felt at ease immediately. He introduced himself and joked about not being able to turn around. We laughed a little and I said, "I feel like I've seen you before somewhere."
It could have been at a music club, because I was a sound engineer at a venue in town and worked with many bands each weekend. It was possible he was one of the dozens of musicians I had seen performing...among all the blaring music and clinking beer mugs. It was reasonable to presume I had seen him, and now just recalled his face.
He paused. He stood straighter. "You know, I get that a lot." He leaned in closer as he picked up his guitar, and shook his head with aplomb. "People say they think they know me, like all the time."
I laughed again, this time like a nervous piccolo.
"How odd," I said, "maybe you have one of those faces, like a mutt," thinking his features could be a collage, copied, pasted and rearranged with the rubric's cube of genetics until his nose looks like a friend's nose, his eyebrows like an uncle's eyebrows, his cheek bones like a teacher's cheekbones. Perhaps his face was a mix of all faces.
Plus, he was bald, which made his face stand out even more. A unique face, I could insist I'd seen before, yet could not say exactly where or when. He noticed my pause.
"Well, I don't know if my mind is deceiving me, or just failing me," I said.
"Those are two different things," he laughed.
The rehearsal continued and I stole a sideways glance.
It got me thinking, thinking about him. What about a man who everywhere he goes, people think they know him? They say, 'who are you? I've seen your face before.' Wouldn't it seem strange, even if he traveled to a place he'd never been, people would recognize him, and he could essentially never be anonymous? Everyone would think they already know him, yet know nothing about him. He would be known yet unknown, recognized but never confirmed. He would never have a clean slate, yet the chalk marks would be impossible to read, he would be an identity in orbit, hanging on a thread of a memory. His face was never new, just forgotten. Yet he could always take heart in causing a burst of familiarity, bringing forth a smile, then a question. What bubbled up was the difference between recognition and knowledge, curiosity and familiarity, what would it be like to walk those lines?
Music filled the room, and we rehearsed the song I had come to sing, each lyric took my full attention. The electric guitars were ringing in my ears on the way out.
As we parted ways, I waved goodbye. "I'll see you around," I said.
I racked my brain but could not remember where I had seen him before.
Or, I suppose, if I had seen him before at all.