Been A While…


I haven’t posted since… February or so?  Didn’t check the date on my last post, but it’s been a while.

I’m thinking I’d like to start posting semi-regularly again.  I don’t know how often people stumble across this site, but I like knowing my poetry is out there for people to read, regardless of whether or not it gets commented on.  I like to imagine the occasional web surfer stumbles across something I’ve written, and they can relate to it in some way.  Maybe it brightens their day.  Maybe it doesn’t.

But in those moments when you feel something, deeply, you are alive.

I haven’t been writing as regularly as I used to.  I still have plenty of time to do so, but there are a lot of distractions in the modern world, and I find what little I am writing hasn’t been of a quality I’m willing to share.  Not that my judgment of such things is unbiased…

Still, perhaps the simple acting of writing, every day, regardless of what comes out, will help me tap back into that inner wellspring of inspiration which has been running dry these past few months.

This is a call to my muse!

Sing to me!

Published in: on July 23, 2010 at 4:34 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Fever Dream.

This morning as I broke brown eggs to break my fast
White flecks of shell cut into the palm of my hand.
My red blood sizzled black as it hit the pan,
Reminding me of you:
Incubating death;
Taking poison to save your life.
I looked out the window –
A rabid dog was grooming itself on the front lawn,
Gnawing at its private parts
Even as it was foaming at the mouth;
The bizarre vanity of the doomed.
I blink and the image is gone.
Only a nightmare.
Just another nightmare
Under the bright yellow sun.

Published in: on November 27, 2009 at 12:43 am  Leave a Comment  
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I found a blank page
Abandoned in the lab
At first I didn’t know
Exactly what I had
But I sat down to write
The words began to flow
And I was writing a poem
Before you even know
Now I’m nine lines into it, baby
And pretty soon, nine lines will turn to ten
Eleven turns to twelve, honey
And then to a dozen again
Yeah, before you know it
Twelve is twenty-four
All because I found
This blank page on the floor
Now I’m back on my feet
And I’m walking the beat
I got the urge to take it, baby
Yeah, out on the street
But it’s freezing out there
And the wind snaps your hair
And that’s why I’m wearing, mm
My looooong underwear
Cuz I’m twenty-five lines into it, baby
And pretty soon it’ll be twenty-five below
Said I’m twenty-seven lines into it, sugar
And I’d rather be in here with you than out in the snow

Haunting Me

In the darkness
A razor whip
Flays whisps of truth
From memory’s bones
Like slithering silk
Circling a wrist
An out-flung arm
A black
Where the patter
Of drainpipe voices
in the distance
An echoed tongue
My skin prickles
I lay in tangled sheets
Buried alive
In nightmare fear

a stream of consciousness poem inspired by and

A Butterfly, Flapping Its Wings…

There’s a thought in my head that won’t be articulated.  It runs and hides from my attempts to encompass it with words.  It is shy.  It has something to do with butterflies, flapping their wings and creating storms.  It has something to do with layered simplicity becoming complexity.  It has something to do with potential, with the dynamic forces of change, with a thing never quite being what it is, but what it could be, based on what it was, based on what it wasn’t.  It has something to do with opposites, with apparent contradictions being complimentary.  It has something to do with cause and effect.  It has something to do with fate, serendipity, destiny, synchronicity, karma, dumb luck, blind chance.

It has something to do with me.

It has something to do with the man I was.

It has something to do with the man I will be.

It has nothing to do with anything.

It has everything to do with nothing.

It escapes me.

The Moment Before Impact

The violent velocity of lust eclipses our languishing love.

on the boardwalk

on the boardwalk she strikes
flinty eyes to stony face and
sparks a feeble smile quickly
snuffed out in the chilly wind
nearby gulls like the rustling
crowd are circling as the sea
swallows one rose petal after
another until the only thing i
have left to discard is the soft
memory of her body pressed
against mine one final time in
this unexpected last goodbye

inspired by

Published in: on September 25, 2009 at 7:37 pm  Comments (3)  
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Oh, Autumn, Must You Leave?

I watch as she rakes up the red-golden leaves
Creating small heaps of sunset from the fallen debris
All the colors blur together, they leak and they bleed
I don’t know why, but the sight makes me weep
There’s something so sad about these skeletal trees
Losing their clothing before winter’s first freeze
Bare naked and shaking in the slightest breeze
They shiver and watch thermometers shrink by degrees
Winter is coming closer with inexorable steps
To stir dead brown leaves with his icy white breath
Beside me bark creaking makes a sound so forlorn
As winter’s chill kisses elicit frost robes by morn’

Inspired by the Meme Express (bare, bark, beside) and Simply Snickers (shake, step, stir) and the weather we’ve been having in the North.

Published in: on September 7, 2009 at 3:19 am  Leave a Comment  
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Some random things I wrote today while sitting in the coffee shop, in no particular order, with little in the way of editing.  Hope you enjoy!

Pillar of fire
Connects land to sky
Spreads to become a curtain
Astral wind
Billows through the gap
Truth becomes uncertain
The fold in reality parts
A prow of new earth
Birth of a continent starts
Blue vault of sunlight
Sand on a psychic wind
Scrape across the mind
Pain of renewal begins

Whales from outer space
Assault my senses with sound –
Sonic bombardment

Butterflies tumble
Like flower petals, or snow
On the traffic breeze

In fountaining streams
The children splash and give chase –
Mist beads on red bricks

Sometimes the sun shines so brightly
Sitting by these great bay windows
Looking outside
Makes everything in here

Matted dreds
Tangle in his beard.
His hands shake as
He counts my change.
Slowly, yes, but also

The heat radiating from the pavement warms me so pleasantly I forget my sadness over the slow expansion of this hungry city.

Cities are man-made amoebas.

her hips swing like
a pendulum
time for her
hourglass figure

Counting seconds on her skin
I fail to notice the hours
Sliding by as I slide within
This hungry love devours
And we melt into potential
Unbound feeling without form
Intense as it is torrential
Endless as it is calm
Woman, put your hands on me
And help me shape our love
I will put my hands on you
And help you shape our love

Counting Grains Of Sand

  I am counting the hours as they slide like silk over my skin.  I am feeling every single second, goosebumps prickling to the creepy-crawl of Time’s skittering insect pace.  Stop.  Start.  Start.  Stop.  Zig-zag and hurly-burly.  Dash pell-mell and spin in circles.  Go nowhere fast.  Hurry up and stand still.  Climb that anthill to the very tippy-top and roll each individual grain of sand down by hand.  I am pulling down the pyramids and repiling them in another location, in another time.  Tomorrow.  When will it be tomorrow?  I have asked this question an infinite number of times in an infinite number of ways in an infinite variety of moods.  I have not received an answer.  It was rhetorical, anyway.  It will be here soon.  It is already here.  It passed me by.  It is yesterday.  Here, now, is all I can take in, interact with, manipulate.  Here, now, is all that exists.  Time, if it is a river, flows through us, and we bend it, shape its path.  Our society is a slave to time, but time is our dog, on our leash.  We are its creator, and therefore its master.  We can speed it up or slow it down with an act of will.  I know this.  I have felt time speed up and slow down around me over these past days like a current in a river where the rocks keep shifting.  The shifting rocks are my attention, my focus.  Where am I looking?  How am I looking there?  This changes the flow.  My attention, my focus, my eyes drop boulders wherever I point them, shed tears of dust and silt and mud, form sandbars that alter the drift and spin of time.  Tides.  Flotsam and jetsam.  Tidal pools of time and space, full of darting moments, skittering crab nebulae, spinning vortices stuck in the slimy algae of backwater time.  I dangle my toes in the water, waiting for the tide.  The moon is nearly empty, but still it tugs.  Massive body, pull!  Push and pull this endless ocean!  Soon enough, the tide will shift.  Time will rise again and cover this empty beach, and I will drift away on the current, carried into tomorrow.  All that will remain here now will be stacked and scattered chronol driftwood, weathered and misshapen remnants of today’s moments.  Most are left to languish and rot.  Some are revisited, whittled and reshaped, kept as priceless treasures, polished brighter every time they are taken out and shared.  But, in the end, all will erode and float away…

Forgotten in the haze of layered yesterdays.

Published in: on August 16, 2009 at 9:34 pm  Leave a Comment  
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