“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Thursday, February 25, 2016
Phantastic Piano Performance
It was during the intermission
we watched the best performance.
It was out in open the courtyard
during a Metromaniacs matinee,
on a sunny winter Saturday.
The public streamed through
the park with iphones out
snapping selfies and photo-
bombing against the facade of
replicated architecture, others lines,
inspired fed and resaid by other centuries
countries and similies reproduced.
When just then at the break-
a balding, middle-aged, frumpy man
with a black backpack, thick rectangle
glasses, wearing immaculate white tennis shoes
took a seat on the bench at a public piano
painted like our nearest galaxy
covered ephemeral stars.
And he began to play
and play feverishly,
and he plays himself away.
His head hung limp and
gently swayed, his shoulders
carried the notes.
Heavy wafts of ivory notes,
smoke and perfume danced.
And while he played
people paused
For it
was
Intermission-when
over, he knew, winding up
keying down, the piano man
stood quietly as he came,
and wordlessly shuffled himself away
taking his notes
with hymn.
Image of painting by Thomas Dewing, The Spinet c. 1929 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Composed 2/25/16.
Anchors I weigh
When I showed up
I learned from living on top of time
I was not welcome anywhere,
but hospitality persists
itself like religion
everywhere
there’s room.
My timing not convenient.
A detour is never the fastest path,
unless the destinations are the same.
It is safer submerged, underwater
where whims wont push you around
I found
After holding my breath so long.
She could have killed me.
I know she tried, more than once,
placing her baby bundle on the bow
rock-a-bye, like they do,
rolling for the wake to take me back
Her bare hands would be too brutal
and accidents are blameless
What doesn't kill you
lets you live exhausted
torch smothered.
Insisting on myself
I remain
S.O.S.
tethered to the life raft
that was never attached
to Her.
Composed 10/24/15.
Image by By Ministry of Information Photo Division Photographer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Be careful what you ask for
“A beautiful tribute, nonetheless.”
“All the more reason to question why, or if I should.”
“Always question what you should.”
“Why can’t you give me a straight answer.”
“Perhaps there are none of those.”
“What I mean is, I mean, what I need to find out is...should I continue?”
“Yes, we all need discovery. That is why we journey.”
“That leads me nowhere.”
“Already?”
Image of painting by Nikolai Ge [Public domain, c. 1890 What is Truth? GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.
Image of painting by Nikolai Ge [Public domain, c. 1890 What is Truth? GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.
Sundays with Mommy (Dearest)
Every Sunday at 1 o'clock my mother calls me
on my landline, she leaves the same message
if I don't pick-up, she doesn't call my cell
ever.
She calls to chat about her week
on speakerphone while my stepfather listens
occasionally making comments
frequently making faces
I'm sure.
It has been 10 years since they visited
my home, although we live in the same state
we are far enough apart
to blame inconvenience on transportation
and time
She speaks at me about the small town
I grew up in, the weather, the roads and wildlife;
Breaking News from Monday she shares and
sometimes she even sends me links, in the mail box
(newspaper clippings) that smell of cigarettes
She'll rave about the wine I can never drink,
she melts over the meal Mike made for her,
decadent and deathly to me,
insisting I am missing out
by being this way
She'll brag about her co-workers adult children,
everyone else's kids with a 9-5, who are
making a good living, while I am wasting my little life
My mother had only one child
and I was too much, she let her parents
do the parenting. She did this for me-
apparently this was better
for my future, sighting the hind
As my mothers' only child, the lineage is certain-
there is a 100% chance of never being good enough.
When my mother and stepfather became grandparents (twice)
I thought (once) they would become Grand Parents, instead
they adopted their neighbors' son, they go to his birthday
parties and soccer games, but couldn't make it for my sons
high school graduation.
When my grandparents died, I thought she'd be there for me,
but I knew, I was already too far away.
When my grandparents passed away, I knew she'd need me
and I went home right away.
After 520 Sundays, you'd think I'd find something better to do.
Every Sunday at 1 o'clock my mother calls me
a disappointment
Someday I should stop making
these appointments
and live a little (life)...
Although I know when I get home
her message will be waiting
past 1 o'clock
Next Sunday
for someone else
whose number she now has.
Image of painting by By Vladimir Makovsky, Mother and daughter c. 1886[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Wednesday, February 24, 2016
The Theory of Speculative Direction
If you were lost in the woods,
a compass would work
better than a philosopher
even if you didn't know
how it all worked
At least you would get
Somewhere.
If you wanted to map
the Universe one
should listen to a shaman's mantra
not plot it out with an astrophysicist
it would be easier to project
realms by means of real numbers
shooting from the lip, a departure from
the same astral plane
bound by reasonable gravity
Altering the scenery doesn't change the view
from the eye of the bespoken
Plato's cave was not a practice of spelunking
to new depths
or sending our souls soaring to the stars
upon plummeting death and worms.
If I remember correctly
the act of recalling can feel like falling, sleeping or slipping
into the abyss of mind matter
a memory palace, a sin chateau,
a cabana for one's mana
and other obtrusive structures
machinations are machines
Like the disgruntled grandson
who built a Reverse Infinity Instrument
(a.k.a. a Time Machine)
whose Free Will Manual Transmission led him to kill
the wise man he so despised
an obviously inane and obtuse conundrum
based on probablies and anti-definitives
that work every
ninety-nine percent of the Time
but that too was just speculative theory
Composed 6/18/15.
Image By A. Ernyes at en.wikipedia (Own work Transferred from en.wikipedia) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons of Kootenay Lake BC.
White noise words
I have sat and watched the ocean
for hours
and years
and while I don't quite know why
I still feel
justified
compelled
in waiting for a reply
for words I already know
will never wash ashore
for me to find
like unbroken sand dollars
glistening gold in the sand
reminds that chasing
never gets
wise by watching-
taking it all in by
each pebble upturned, every
gull and erne, the rhythmic
flap beat and crash, cymbalist
water splashing up word
dancing in wavy mockery
a song whose lyrics
are all pitch and roll
foaming at the lip
while I
still
sit quietly listening
to hear it again
and a-gain
in a grain
in all ways
voluminous, numerous
voluminous, numerous
white words
that tidally summit
and blend back in
singing to sea
and blend back in
singing to sea
and here,
the choir.
Composed 1/23/16.
Image by RicardoUrbinaM assumed (based on copyright claims). [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons (edited).
Bell jar
I have never seen a firefly
in Real life,
but I know
I would want to trap it
in a Ball glass jar
shrink its Universe
clutched in the palms of my Hands
convinced I was all there Was.
And I,
watching it like (a)
God
trapped in there,
until it dies
and the mystery is over,
the spark has gone out inside
so I let it Go.
What else could be done?
I lick my finger
circle it around the lip
and mimicking the sound made
of the world spinning around me
while blowing glass.
Composed 5/17/15.
Image By Kobayashi Kiyochika (Japan, 1847-1915) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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