“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Wednesday, January 10, 2018
Pain poems
Perhaps, like Plath
and Sexton, along with
nameless Others,
Ars Moriendi,
the shared obsession
was rebellion
(against the self)
We do this our own way
Alone, like childhood
and candied P's & Q's
they all thought they were
getting and making a way
from direction(s).
All I know
is that life-
the stuff that makes us up
(in the middle)
guts, chakra, vim, what not,
is not the same stuff
we put out, project,
hold title(s) to,
but the real stuff must be
Here somewhere...
When the pain ultimately wins,
perhaps the prize is popularity
in passing
as if believing in the benefits
of retirement (afterlife),
such as a tomb and sarcophagus
with a cat and some gold
we would reap the forever fields
we would have our Faith
and it would be good
enough
or worth more than Now.
Well, my well must be empty.
I hear echoes in chambers,
growls in caves,
screams behind closet doors,
and pitch so thick all is
hollow, except these
twisted guts, gnawing and gnashing
kicking and screaming
frozen and struck dumb-
and still
I breathe
through it.
And even when it becomes difficult-
if not
Impossible to stand up-
right-w/ spine straight
and those familiar serrated red daggers
twist while
blue dots with white halos pulsate
behind closed i-lids-
(shhh...)
I know
All will pass.
Painting by Gabriƫl Metsu [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Sunday, January 7, 2018
lying in the grass
It was just a dream, but I woke up wondering
if I will ever again meet the dapper demon...
who offers a choice to become blind forever or deaf to only my own voice-
much like the migrating fish in the Lethe...
up or downstream doesn’t change the course.
I remembered saying that I’d rather never
see brand new green or the sad sky again-
I would just try to feel them touching me
from now on, without sight
I might believe in conductivity
through contact,
life, this body...
And assuredly, others will certainly appear
more clearly to me.
But the handsome hellion in the dream
misheard the choice,
or chose otherwise on my behalf,
and my kaleidoscope eyes kept confusing up and down,
feeling my feet in the bluegrass,
facing the limelight.
Painting by Albert Joseph Moore [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Rapid eye movement
It was important to him that he remembered his dream
so he could tell me-
He remembered his ‘idols’ there, men he looked up to
from down in the trenches of the real world,
They were all there, welcoming,
they treated him as one of the ‘boys’.
And one of the boys
gave him a box, a puzzle box which he shook
And some pieces fell out, he felt terrible about it,
He may have been apologizing to me.
He told me
how frantically he scoured the floor
So he could solve the puzzle completely
and please them greatly.
And he did but the pieces came out again and again and I was
Certain the picture was starting to develop-
he was dreaming of us.
His father and step-mother while visiting us once, told me about his childhood propensity to steal two jigsaw puzzle peices so at the end of the day, he could be the One who finishes. In the next scene, he was sitting in a room with a low table, on a shaggy rug, the puzzle in the box sat atop, but he was certain there were still pieces missing so he was hesitant to try to put it together knowing it couldn't be completed. I asked him if he wasn’t curious to know what the puzzle pictured, He said it was just a silly dream, And the missing pieces weren’t the thing about the dream, it was the idols, he said. I found it puzzling and pinched myself.
Image credit By Mennonite Church USA Archives [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.
Civic Duties
-Sit in a courtroom and observe a trial for two hours (ask an official which one is most interesting
you’ll find that everyone knows the schedule) Dress nicely and smile.
-Sit in the ER and read, only listen, do not make eye contact, do not touch the arms of the chair.
Dress poorly. Do not smile.
-Wait in any lobby for someone-as if they were coming for you.
-Eat alone.
-Go to a cinema alone and take in a film alone.
-Travel alone. Pack lightly. Smile small when you feel stupid and sorry and don’t know what to say.
-Drive to the DMV. Don’t get out of your car, just put it in Park (if available), idle and make some notes, reasons, identities, and etceteras.
(Patience is guaranteed to be in no place. Like an ounce of gold in a ton of dirt. Don’t give any away to strangers handling hot pans.)
Wait with Will. Watch with wariness. Write with wonder.
Make the present interesting.
Active Membership dues are paid in Participation points,
The verbiage puts us in our places-
Your lines are next to appear, to laugh or to frown
We are all just nouns waiting to be called adjectively.
Artwork by George Romney [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, c. 1734-1802,
Yale Center for British Art.
Friday, January 5, 2018
Passages
Time
takes the toll,
giving change for our large bills
and admits passage
but offers no return policy.
Make Time to Meditate.
Who makes time? I have an order.
Empty. Thoughts.
Does one miss arguing with oneself
until none win?
The walls are over-crowded with imagery.
It was me-I put the elephant in the room
who is
holding a candle on a cloud,
his shadow is only flat.
Tell me again-
What is mine is ours-
With these words-
Let no thing
remain behind but a poem
After thought
and plane shadows on clock faces.
Tuesday, January 2, 2018
Evidently
Reporting without empathy makes architectural field guides for photo collectors
As album and lyricality that reflects memories in places via accidental captures,
Not limited to focus head on or red eye, not what was hiding under green-eyed
History, flash or glare,
Was the background, dropped, crooked, tiny, partial.
And parts where the edges sever our attention in sharp lines,
Bordering on continental jagged tears.
Only here-footsteps-show-Not ahead of our time,
Not dated, or inscribed
In any hand of another traveler.
Repeatedly, things recur, we call facts,
Likelihoods, charts, and possibilities as solid as paper rocks and
Finger scissors.
Image taken 1938, 'Fedorov at the North Pole' in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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