“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Saturday, December 12, 2015
You take the Wagon, I'll Walk
Call it a compulsion, some do.
A dependence, that's a little strong
for a need that's called a want.
Can't help it, I'm not in control,
something takes over me,
its always right there-I could...
and all these have me consumed.
Obsessed, I don't see it that way,
but others do, see signs, like theirs-
the jaw gives it away.
The blame game is fun too,
it must be that the jeans are too tight.
Sometimes breathing is the hardest thing to do.
If you try to quit, I know desperation, infatuation,
give you a raise you can't refuse.
Stimuli, it is called physiological.
Personality, is embedded, biological, maybe...
and might there be other habituals and rituals
toxic but not intoxicating-tolerance is discouraged.
I don't deny my own flesh and blood
has been sacrificed for my own cause.
It's my body, self-satisfaction and
distractions from your dutiful employment
as a clean-coming human whose sobriety
is always a right when given a choice of
life with poetry, its pain and withdrawal
or an existence without the possibility of significance.
Since its all in my head,
any-which-way,
and there's no shortage of excuses-
I will wrestle with these wily words,
wanting more, needing a fix, hating myself,
hiding and using, manipulating and placating
going broke, being ostracized and advised
until there is no more poetry left anywhere-
or I'll likely overdose on what I've said.
Image of painting by Arthur Nikutowski, The broken wagon, 1852 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Friday, December 11, 2015
Vestigial Flexing
With these tiny words
trickling over my skin,
these pithy lines I draw and scratch,
in my head from tucked deep in bed,
in broad strokes that spasm and spark-
streaking in wisps that leave light trails,
I am comforted and swaddled
by my brittle skin that knows these
are the strands that connect my spirit
to its terminal boundaries.
This is how I speak to me.
I say to hear, I think to find
the same self, tucked in amid
its ways of saying untranslatable
and delectable daunting poetry.
The heavy blanket protects me from
exposure- you cannot see more
than the shape of naked, the outline
is enough for some, sameness...
There is That, This is I, There, There.
I've found just
in another beating heart
that echoes
Thou art That-
Art Thou That?
I wonder, I think
it is warm around you too...
I must be closer to your world in words
or I am sleeping tight inside definitions
sweet dreams, where these words want me
passionately and privately
for their own subversive desires...
I listen intensely and densely rapt-
catching any waves of sound
that may keep me afloat, on the
shiny surface of sonorous daylight
hours, too conscious to care
any more to day.
Image of painting by Alexey Gavrilovich Venetsianov, Sleeping Girl, 1840 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
A lone danger
The more I am
alone
the more time
I am alone,
alone, a-lone
a lone
one
I am
late, so late, elated, and finally full,
joyful, full of over-brimming bliss
an energy to explore, a desire to dive down
deeper and intimately drown in my senses,
swallowing all self whole.
I smile at leaving a gaping hole
where the eye
is spotted, leaving it beheaded and indebted
for the fruitful loss of self, rare in its abundance
we never say we like me this way today...
We re-cognitize, recognize our righteousness
doesn't come without cue
We have been wrong
pre-occupied
so long, a good bye, even now
I tremble,
still
a lone
euphoric
one,
only, once-ly
lately
lonely
wanting more
of less.
Image of painting by Paolo Veronese, Muse with a Lyre (c.1561), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Re-gifting: Oh, that old thing (I think I've had that)
When we do things
absent, mindlessly,
absent, mindlessly,
sometimes our former selves
sneak out, like this one,
in this way;
when yesterday, I was wrapping presents
folding and creasing, pressing
Scotch™ tape on the folds, I noticed
my own grandmother's hands
my own grandmother's hands
there-doing all the work,
while I just watched.
Bewildered. Behind.
This happens at the strangest
times...you may find yourself
triggered by a word
or the way we say-
that thing, that way, that
fires memory cannonballs...
And at certain times its a-scent,
an agreement of essence,
we remember thick as a waft.
Namely, a single note that carries a key
and pulls levers of attention coupled with
spinning axles, smooth and in place.
Our brain goes on, rolling with the ripples,
uninterrupted-until going nowhere in places
seeing both others past-you-go-and comes-and
brings you back here
not knowing how
it got there...
it got there...
It is a gift of now, knowing.
Lost was the life
that went unnoticed by motion memory.
The set was changed, moved around
by your own history. Draped in black,
this mourning-
this mourning-
which is why we cannot deny we trip
over moved memories
that enclose the past
in my presents
while I am not looking,
sometimes I see
my forgotten family.
The order of things
Firsts and Lasts don't make
good companions, They don't know
Who goes, First or Last?
Image By The U.S. Army (Waiting to board, 11/2008) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Thursday, December 10, 2015
Was Wishing & Wondering
Knowing you could lie
whenever
wherever you are
what would you say
which way
would you go
if I asked if you think
of me
ever
when away
which is always
when you know
I'm elsewhere too
I think of you
wondering, pondering,
thinking and sinking
stones in a well
sigh, oh well
I cannot tell
what it means on purpose
if I could taste
a stone from your land
would it taste like your cheek
on a warm-blooded day
since we share the sun
wherever
would you lie
with me?
Image By Agriculture And Stock Department, Publicity Branch [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Saturday, December 5, 2015
To use when the bunny nose doesn't work
For once!
For me-
For a moment,
For sanity!
For inspiration,
For productivity,
For peace sake!
For a chance-
To have
two
minutes (are minute)...
For crying inside-
(not) To sound cute,
but (no) more interruptions
distractions, diversions,
meaning(less)ful conversations
are (not) welcome when(ever) the whim may
blow your way. You can(not) just pick up my scent.
and pull me out of your hat when(ever) you
are feeling magical,
For five seconds
of fatuous fame.
I place no blame, but if it's all the same
To You, I have very important stuff
To Do!
Image by By Scott Rheam, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service of Black tailed jackrabbit (lepus californicus) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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