The following poetry comes from many different periods of my life – from my high school years to the present day, and they explore many different thoughts, moods and moments. I hope you enjoy them. Feel free to make a comment about any of them.
Abacus and Rotunda
I tried to picture them together. Abacus and Rotunda. Moving away. Moving farther. Then a wind. They followed the wind. They followed the wind. Together then separate, then together again. Together, then separate, then side-by-side, then attached, then attached-together, then separately-attached, then free-standing, then standing together, then withdrawn. They withdrew into the wind. The road took them passed a windmill, the silent stream and my sleeping self. Voices came. I tried to picture the voices. I tried to picture them together. Separate then together again. This was the first time. Voices became dimmer and unnameable. They moved away, then silence.
Anne Sexton dripping part way
any second now
V OI C E S
they’re coming back again.
are they ghosts?
or angels?
should I fear
LIFE
or D E A T H?
am I just
a wallflower,
a victim
of the
american dream? or are the rain drops
dripping part way?
they’re pushing me farther.
oh M O T H E R oh F A T H E R
death doesn’t seem that hard.
sylvia
it’s alright to play in the mist
I pound through.
am I searching? no I am
ROWING
to jesus’ cries. drowning
in the fears.
the V O I C E S are
screaming now telling me
I must
DIE
In Praise of the Shaman
A subtle brush of blonde draped down a radiant soul. Holding loosely to a clung body are strips of cashmere. A vision of statuesque beauty with eyes delicately shaded and limp limbs that sing along
to their own silent melodies.
He spoke of a vision that
dressed itself in a white fragrance; words so endearing that
the angels could not hide.
As on scarlet he gracefully
glided through his utterances, lying them only the wings
of compassion and concern.
A message is breathed through
the air of art’s endless enchantment; enlightenment wonderfully expressed by an exquisite phrase:
“To take you beyond
and above the given idea.”
A procession of words that releases pieces of light.
They breathe something lyrical: a dreamhouse full of treasures. Amazement is held in a moment where silence cannot surround it; pleasure and joy at the center
of a heart overflown.
A part of the artist has given itself away.
Over the Edge
It’s that time again
and I’m taking a walk to the line, but these are not
casual strides.
No one can follow me here to this free
and endless space,
because only I can pass beyond
here anyway.
Here,
the air is sweet
and cool to the touch; what
pleasant accommodations.
“What’s in my mind today?
Is it a reflection of a new reality? Or is it in an eternal dream? For,
the walls have no background, the ground has no floor,
the sky is never-ending,
and I am,
at last,
over the edge.”
the weight of the wait
tired heavy drain, so tired, body dangling waiting for the day, for the moment, for light in the gray, day will come, yes, I know, this is so heavy, such a strain, waiting, when will it come, will it come, yes, I know, it’s all in the hope, hope while dangling, hope while breathless, hope while senseless, that’s it, hold on, but, the body, it’s so tired, weighted, burdened by monotony, oh lord,
give us motivation, time passes so slow, too slowly, hoping, slowly, why is it so slow, slow to deliver, to free, to liberate, remember your altars, yes, but a man can only take so much, have I lost heart, no, have I given myself away, no have I forgotten the source, but, what of the downs, all in good time, time, there we’re back to waiting, yes, with hope, yes, with faith, double yes, now, yes, now, I must go on, I will go on, don’t resist it, you’re not alone, yes, humbling isn’t it, yes, but powerful, you’re not alone, you can go, yes
Remembrance Through the Looking-glass Pint
“I found bacchus in ireland” bellowed the horrified foreigner (but these were the only words said on the matter)
as the publican passed out more whiskies and pints to many a-waiting hands
several blind-eyed catholics, whispering blessings and blasphemies,
romanticize the scriptures
as they search out who
will buy the next round of stout or who will draw them aside for a smoke or a silent prayer
the believers of image
stand tall indistinguishably shooting cider unconcerned, disconnected with
anyone else’s society
as if trapped or cornered
and a-waiting
the release from the mighty chains of youth
hormonal excesses
drip from the tongues
of western world playboys
(drinking the best of bitters),
whose prey
seem just as willing
(drowning themselves in creative cocktails): This is what they call romance.
robust dart-clowns screech out
belts of laughter between belts of lager
to the shouting sounds of
some slurs of outsiders
whilst the tin whistle is played
by a traveling busker and
tourists make large purchases of irish fare.
in the corners
(existing to support the myth),
joycean philosophers and yeatsian poets
hide their faces within their wine glasses for fear of being shunned
or condemned to death
by their peers
and through the steamy windows, empty sticky pints,
broken rosary beads, and
the gaiety,
the majestic green hills try to
desperately
peek their way in.
I’m Waltzing Again
Old Mozart is yawning
To the darning of the strings
Alone with the pale green and grays
That the Devil has wrapped him in threads and taken him on Gulliver’s travels
There to thrash and toil
For the season is right and ripe
And the noise threatened Aristotle’s balance But healed the scars of a by-gone nights with Joycean flair
All the ribbons were waving
Having no grace or structure
Like Narcissus spliced them in hair-like fashion And fell to his knees in worship
Burning up blades of burgundy and night soil As Quasimodo swung from the bell tower
In remembrance of a broken limb
Of a tree that would never die
Leaving questions in silence
Asked by the child’s of Keat’s shadow
Producing a symphony of beauty
Filled with harmonious murmurs
Spoken by Lewis Carroll’s journey to martyrdom That formed the preface
That only Freud could pronounce
Though it would only be in a whisper
Or in a wail
The festival has begun
So tell Kahlil to light the candles Before the clouds take their horses
Signing the apocalypse
In a rhythm of melodic faces
that stirred up John the Baptist
in the loveliest pallor
And gave rise to music of humor and drums That cause us to dance again
A dance of such passion
That no one dare hide
Or roar
Fear of Letting Darkness into the Night
I am going soon and will never come back Going to a land that is dark and gloomy
A land of darkness, shadows and confusion
Where the light itself is darkness. (Job 11:21-22)
Down in the valley along with the lizards and serpents
I lie dying.
Like a worm
in incomplete metamorphosis, my eyes keep searching, searching for the basis
of truth.
My journey
takes me deep into the night; to a place
swallowed up in shadows, to a place
of chills and deception, to a place of death.
Here
in the dimness,
I am caged,
strapped by own experimentation, lost
in a locket of faithlessness,
shut in
by the fear
of ultimate separation
Look, It’s Me in Wonderland
No,
I’ve seen it all before.
Yes,
it was quite impressive.
Oh,
do you think so?
Well, to each their own I say. She’s seen me,
She’s watched me,
but, as you know,
her light has never shown. Novel idea
to piece it all together.
She followed me once,
She followed me,
but I brushed away the dust.
Never again,
I will never walk away. You’ll never get me to… She is mine.
She was always mine, but, as you’ve seen,
She staged her promises.
Turn the wheel, will you?
I really don’t know
where I’m wandering to.
Could you tell me where She went? What?
Oh, no, I mean why.
Well, occasionally I don’t mind. Wait
there She is!
An illusion as reality in drag She was,
the pure essence of the ocean that created Her, a true cross-section source of existence. Maybe it’s love?
But,
what exactly is love?
Shall I call to her?
Or could I?
Well,
I’ll try.
Alice.
Alice.
It’s me.
I’ve Seen the Stars Cry
You know,
I remember the days
when the wind
blew the sky
and my eyes
were drowsy from the dust.
It seems
quite funny now
and time moves quickly
through my limp fingers,
but
it doesn’t seem to make any difference the lies
that I felt inside
have died.
You
have seen the problem.
Can it prove
the realism of the rhyme,
while singing
a true song true?
With broken wings
I can still try
to fly
and lose
my ever-changing chain of thought.
Thank you all
for the place you’ve brought me to. Though I’m scratching away,
I’m buried
for the last time. Buried
for the last time.
Needle and Thread
if you are the needle
then I am the thread
tracing the hem in the garment of my soul.
this is not a dress of stone, this is a dress of light.
shining on.
shining on.
that is,
if I stop being blurry-eyed, blurry-eyed like a lost sheep during the rites of passage. then
and only then
during these animal sacrifices
will I shine.
but,
I am afraid to eat solid food
for the hookworms are sucking me,
all my life-blood,
dry.
they want me down.
they don’t want no john henries:
this hammer’s gonna be the death of me Lord, Lord,
this hammer’s gonna be the death of me.
I feel
like peter pan at sunset.
I have the shape.
I have the form.
But, most of all, I can fly,
fly like the wild birds of heaven
or like one chained to the skyline
or maybe,
I am j. alfred prufrock,
searching the fog, with strangers in waiting, in the dim light of love,
for a deal at the cardtable.
or probably,
I am with anne sexton
rowing, rowing, rowing
in place
to your fervent call
what a wretched man am I,
who will set me free
from the body
of this death?
please needle
way-shower, master,
sew me well;
thread me through your being
so our breath may become one.
take my eyes off the shelf
and put them back in their sockets. give me fish to eat.
give me wine to drink.
and let us make footprints in the sand,
sand that clings to the toes, sand that breeds life,
sand that creates a thread and I will be made whole. yes,
I will be made whole.
Mother Nature’s Plea
I
I have heard them in the fields of green.
I have heard them in the sylvans.
Their long, sorrowful cries seem ceaseless. And I weep for them,
as Odysseus wept for his return to Ithaca;
yet, Calypso does not confine me here. I am broken deeper in my soul.
Please, great Helios, keep your steads steady. Try to ignore the cold distractions of man;
ride them on into the natural spark of the night.
The locust are coming to claim their harvest and blood is tainting the moon.
Let us come down on the ranks of mortal Orion. Let us not become hindered by such abuse. Remember the beauty of Autumn.
O Precious Ones,
your paradise is drying up like a barren wilderness and is being tread upon by four ominous horses.
II
I have heard the sweet madrigal of the mighty seas.
I have heard the pleasant melodies of garden streams. The patient, lyrical symphony of seasonal change. And I sing along with them
as the Nightingale sang her songs of sorrow;
yet, a lover’s revenge is not my loss.
My pain is much more than jealousy.
O Beloved ones ,
be aware that might Zeus has already sent his swift messenger to call upon Nemesis to her solemn task.
The Beast has come up from the depths speaking authority to the money-changers. His altar had been build long before
when the silent ship crossed the raging sea. The Reaper has emerged from the clouds
to squeeze blood out of the wine press,
leaving the rest to be raped by the Great Harlot.
I pray that dear Eos will lend you her secret and fill you full of her illuminated light before Apollo’s rays are dulled by blackness.
III
You are not lowly,
your uprightness can discourage destiny; the pouring of the seventh bowl.
Claim the wisdom of Pallas Athena
or fear that Pluto will claim your souls.
You have the battlements;
dream your dreams and see your signs.
Don’t let the fires of the underworld quench them.
A great supper awaits those who reap well of the harvest.
IV
I speak for the green;
the beauty of the four corners of the Earth, which lie not only in the eyes of Aphrodite. For salvation dwells in the hearts that desire it and hope waits in the hands of survival.
Mighty Zeus and all other gods, hear my call, ignite the minds of all mortals,
strong and weak,
to be on their guard
girded with full armor.
For the day of my death is quickly approaching and with it all that is
will come to an end.