(December 11, 2008)
Don't rush me:
the symbols are all I have left.
What do you mean
“What does it mean?”
The entire poem
is an epiphany.
Friday, February 6, 2009
A Hymn For The Passover Rabbit
(December 10, 2008)
Searching for Fabergé eggs
in the brightly lit graveyard,
adorned in our finest suits
and frilly bonnets
because the hare
was split on Thursday,
one day before Friday
(explain why it's good)
and the chocolate covered bunny bled
paschal coloured dye.
But they were well concealed
in the plastic shredded grass
of pink and green
until Our Lady of Constant Concept-
uality (her stage name
being Madonna) showed up
for the final act and filled
her bloody basket to the brim
with Jelly Belly® beans.
And now it is Sunday morning
and we feast on fatted pig
as sugar-coated chickies ascend
into cotton candy clouds.
Searching for Fabergé eggs
in the brightly lit graveyard,
adorned in our finest suits
and frilly bonnets
because the hare
was split on Thursday,
one day before Friday
(explain why it's good)
and the chocolate covered bunny bled
paschal coloured dye.
But they were well concealed
in the plastic shredded grass
of pink and green
until Our Lady of Constant Concept-
uality (her stage name
being Madonna) showed up
for the final act and filled
her bloody basket to the brim
with Jelly Belly® beans.
And now it is Sunday morning
and we feast on fatted pig
as sugar-coated chickies ascend
into cotton candy clouds.
Down
(July 14, 2008)
Looking down all he saw
was concrete
merely millimeters
from his glazed eyes.
Cracked and bleeding toenails
scratched the rough surface
trying to regain
lost footing.
Calloused fingertips fumbled
for a hold,
grasping at pebbles,
digging in sand.
And his spittle oozed
over dried
and crusted lips
onto the hot pavement.
No one saw or cared to see
or dared to be
the one who cared
enough to lift.
Looking down all he saw
was concrete
merely millimeters
from his glazed eyes.
Cracked and bleeding toenails
scratched the rough surface
trying to regain
lost footing.
Calloused fingertips fumbled
for a hold,
grasping at pebbles,
digging in sand.
And his spittle oozed
over dried
and crusted lips
onto the hot pavement.
No one saw or cared to see
or dared to be
the one who cared
enough to lift.
Big Sky
(March 3, 2008)
Sky.
Pale blue.
Bright blue.
Deep, so deep blue.
Clouds form.
Spider-web thin.
Thunderous thick.
Fluffy, puffy, bloated masses
of water, dust.
Lightening briefly bright.
Blanketing the background.
Scratching the air.
Thunder cracking.
Rumbling.
Bellowing.
Booming.
Deep dark, so dark.
Dots of light.
Red, yellow, blue.
Shifting. Stationery.
Places in the world
there's scant dark in between.
Worlds discovered, unknown.
Beyond reach.
Hot sun, cool moon.
Rainbows circling.
Arcing.
Moisture bending light,
touching earth.
Contemplate the big picture.
Sky.
Pale blue.
Bright blue.
Deep, so deep blue.
Clouds form.
Spider-web thin.
Thunderous thick.
Fluffy, puffy, bloated masses
of water, dust.
Lightening briefly bright.
Blanketing the background.
Scratching the air.
Thunder cracking.
Rumbling.
Bellowing.
Booming.
Deep dark, so dark.
Dots of light.
Red, yellow, blue.
Shifting. Stationery.
Places in the world
there's scant dark in between.
Worlds discovered, unknown.
Beyond reach.
Hot sun, cool moon.
Rainbows circling.
Arcing.
Moisture bending light,
touching earth.
Contemplate the big picture.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Road Trip
(January 25, 2008)
Staring through the heat haze
rising from the road in the distance
skewing the view and vision,
wondering when this trip will ever end
'cause you've gotta pee
gotta pee
gotta pee.
And you can't pull over—
there's no trees,
no bushes,
no cover.
And the next rest stop is 55 miles away
with no exits in between.
And the gnawing in your gut
informs you that beef jerky
is no substitute for a full meal.
Wish you hadn't passed up
McDonald's an hour,
a lifetime ago.
And what's that noise?
That rattle.
That hum.
That annoying squeak.
Is my roadside service insurance up-to-date?
There's no way I can fix
whatever that is
myself.
Hey! Was that a lion?
Really. A lion. On a farm.
? ? !
A giant Jesus. Carved in butter.
Hmm.
And why would anyone make
a ball of string that big anyway?
So, where was I going anyway?
Should have listened to mom and dad.
Use the bathroom before you leave home.
Pack a lunch.
Know where you're going. Have a plan. Carry a map. Use the map.
Side trips are fun and educational,
however, don't forget your destination.
Destination.
Vacation.
Relaxation.
Forever R & R.
Am I there yet?
Staring through the heat haze
rising from the road in the distance
skewing the view and vision,
wondering when this trip will ever end
'cause you've gotta pee
gotta pee
gotta pee.
And you can't pull over—
there's no trees,
no bushes,
no cover.
And the next rest stop is 55 miles away
with no exits in between.
And the gnawing in your gut
informs you that beef jerky
is no substitute for a full meal.
Wish you hadn't passed up
McDonald's an hour,
a lifetime ago.
And what's that noise?
That rattle.
That hum.
That annoying squeak.
Is my roadside service insurance up-to-date?
There's no way I can fix
whatever that is
myself.
Hey! Was that a lion?
Really. A lion. On a farm.
? ? !
A giant Jesus. Carved in butter.
Hmm.
And why would anyone make
a ball of string that big anyway?
So, where was I going anyway?
Should have listened to mom and dad.
Use the bathroom before you leave home.
Pack a lunch.
Know where you're going. Have a plan. Carry a map. Use the map.
Side trips are fun and educational,
however, don't forget your destination.
Destination.
Vacation.
Relaxation.
Forever R & R.
Am I there yet?
Shooting Star (for Douglas)
(November 13, 2007)
Douglas was my nephew. He was barely in his twenties when he was hit by a car while riding his bicycle.
I saw a shooting star
last night
in a foggy sky,
quickly shot through the dark—
too quick.
A glance away
and you would miss it.
I guess that's what makes them
special.
A speck of light falling
to wherever stars go.
And if you happened to glance
it's descent,
you've connected with the heavens.
But the connection is cut short
and regardless of your ties
or knots untied;
no matter the light years
or miles that separate,
we are all still connected
to the shooting star.
Douglas was my nephew. He was barely in his twenties when he was hit by a car while riding his bicycle.
I saw a shooting star
last night
in a foggy sky,
quickly shot through the dark—
too quick.
A glance away
and you would miss it.
I guess that's what makes them
special.
A speck of light falling
to wherever stars go.
And if you happened to glance
it's descent,
you've connected with the heavens.
But the connection is cut short
and regardless of your ties
or knots untied;
no matter the light years
or miles that separate,
we are all still connected
to the shooting star.
The Darkened Firmament Is A Blank Page
(October 2, 2007)
…and the stars
of a clear Autumn night
blink and shimmer;
pinpricks of light
in a blue black sky;
tiny dots
as close as the back of my eye,
faraway;
forgotten
in the light of day;
lost
in the blur of city lights;
real worlds,
humungous suns,
fantastic galaxies
that glitter in imagination,
because at the end of the day
of a clear Autumn night
it's all we have left.
…and the stars
of a clear Autumn night
blink and shimmer;
pinpricks of light
in a blue black sky;
tiny dots
as close as the back of my eye,
faraway;
forgotten
in the light of day;
lost
in the blur of city lights;
real worlds,
humungous suns,
fantastic galaxies
that glitter in imagination,
because at the end of the day
of a clear Autumn night
it's all we have left.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Life in the Fast Lane
(July 11, 2007)
…and life oozed past:
every passing year;
month after month;
paycheck to paycheck;
day in, day out;
endless hours, stolen minutes, ticking seconds;
every minute infinity
leaking out at breakneck
stop motion speed.
And at every turn of the hand I think—
There's fifteen minutes of my life
I'll never get back.
…and life oozed past:
every passing year;
month after month;
paycheck to paycheck;
day in, day out;
endless hours, stolen minutes, ticking seconds;
every minute infinity
leaking out at breakneck
stop motion speed.
And at every turn of the hand I think—
There's fifteen minutes of my life
I'll never get back.
Love Is Butter Pecan Ice Cream
(May 15, 2007)
OK. So I was talking to this elderly couple at the restaraunt one day, and they were telling me how they met and how she "reeled" him in with butter pecan ice cream. Somehow, we got discussing poetry, when she asked me to write her a poem. I asked her what she wanted me to write and she said, "Write me a poem about...love."
Sitting on the front porch
watching the sun set
behind the Spanish moss covered live oaks;
watching butter pecan ice cream
melt in bowls that have been filled
with chicken noodle soup,
Spaghetti-O's, and oatmeal;
watching the dusk settle in
and snuggle up to the horizon,
like you and me
and butter pecan ice cream
on the front porch.
OK. So I was talking to this elderly couple at the restaraunt one day, and they were telling me how they met and how she "reeled" him in with butter pecan ice cream. Somehow, we got discussing poetry, when she asked me to write her a poem. I asked her what she wanted me to write and she said, "Write me a poem about...love."
Sitting on the front porch
watching the sun set
behind the Spanish moss covered live oaks;
watching butter pecan ice cream
melt in bowls that have been filled
with chicken noodle soup,
Spaghetti-O's, and oatmeal;
watching the dusk settle in
and snuggle up to the horizon,
like you and me
and butter pecan ice cream
on the front porch.
A Whisper of Butterfly Wings
(March 6, 2007)
This was another poem I was "requested" to write. One of my "fans" at the restaraunt I was working asked me to write a poem on the "butterfly effect" (look it up).
A rock. A ripple.
A flutter. A flurry.
A touch. A slap.
A first step. A final act.
Lifting a finger.
Moving a mountain.
Random acts of pettiness.
Random acts of kindness.
A lonely man. A family clan.
A woman on the street.
A simple word whispered.
A complex speech shouted from the rooftop.
A mistake. A plan.
Benefiting the good, the bad, the ugly.
World war. World peace.
Heaven. Hell.
Yesterday's gesture.
Tomorrow's conjecture.
This was another poem I was "requested" to write. One of my "fans" at the restaraunt I was working asked me to write a poem on the "butterfly effect" (look it up).
A rock. A ripple.
A flutter. A flurry.
A touch. A slap.
A first step. A final act.
Lifting a finger.
Moving a mountain.
Random acts of pettiness.
Random acts of kindness.
A lonely man. A family clan.
A woman on the street.
A simple word whispered.
A complex speech shouted from the rooftop.
A mistake. A plan.
Benefiting the good, the bad, the ugly.
World war. World peace.
Heaven. Hell.
Yesterday's gesture.
Tomorrow's conjecture.
Musings From a Jukebox
(2006)
Last chance to dance,
lost in the fast lane
going slow:
Stars are faded,
their glitter shaded
by the darkening moon:
No time all the time
standing in a line
of one…
And the music stopped.
Last chance to dance,
lost in the fast lane
going slow:
Stars are faded,
their glitter shaded
by the darkening moon:
No time all the time
standing in a line
of one…
And the music stopped.
Senseless (in memory of Ricardo Bailey who died of a gunshot while just being there for his cousin)
(November 7, 2006)
I had not worked with Ricardo for very long. He was a nice guy; had a good time at work. I closed the restaraunt with him the night he was killed. I think that's why it impacted me so much.
Senseless.
No sense.
Make sense
of the violent,
of violence,
of vile, of bile
scattered on the ground;
shattered on the ground;
splattered on the grounds
that there are no grounds;
it's groundless
on the ground
found
emptied,
unloaded;
lost
life;
left behind
life
found;
fill with sense,
sensation,
cessation of senselessness.
I had not worked with Ricardo for very long. He was a nice guy; had a good time at work. I closed the restaraunt with him the night he was killed. I think that's why it impacted me so much.
Senseless.
No sense.
Make sense
of the violent,
of violence,
of vile, of bile
scattered on the ground;
shattered on the ground;
splattered on the grounds
that there are no grounds;
it's groundless
on the ground
found
emptied,
unloaded;
lost
life;
left behind
life
found;
fill with sense,
sensation,
cessation of senselessness.
Hot Tears of War
(July 25, 2006)
Suddenly,
from months of smoldering,
a day of horrors
flight of flames
smoke-filled skies
blood
thinned, splattered, exploded
veins, arteries, hearts
burst from within;
vomited
from ripped flesh,
burnt flesh,
charred, incinerated
beyond human recognition
human
man
woman
child
gravely
remember childlike
love
fear
cannot destroy.
Suddenly,
from months of smoldering,
a day of horrors
flight of flames
smoke-filled skies
blood
thinned, splattered, exploded
veins, arteries, hearts
burst from within;
vomited
from ripped flesh,
burnt flesh,
charred, incinerated
beyond human recognition
human
man
woman
child
gravely
remember childlike
love
fear
cannot destroy.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Life In A Fishbowl
(July 20, 2006)
This poem was inspired by one of Gary Larson's Far Side cartoons.
Floating endless circles
around pretend castles
and plastic treasures;
past a helmeted figurine
of a man
bubbling air that doesn't pass
through lungs;
looking out
at a magnified world
appearing larger than life,
wetter than aerated H2O;
masticating
in personal defecation
and crud covered pebbles
thinking…
Should the castle burn
and I escape the flame
to flop a slimy stain
upon the tablecloth—
Am I not now more screwed?
This poem was inspired by one of Gary Larson's Far Side cartoons.
Floating endless circles
around pretend castles
and plastic treasures;
past a helmeted figurine
of a man
bubbling air that doesn't pass
through lungs;
looking out
at a magnified world
appearing larger than life,
wetter than aerated H2O;
masticating
in personal defecation
and crud covered pebbles
thinking…
Should the castle burn
and I escape the flame
to flop a slimy stain
upon the tablecloth—
Am I not now more screwed?
The Faith of Science
(May 2006)
Were you there?
Did you witness the Bang?
or the Boom?
(If no one was there, did it make a sound?)
Was there a bystander
to the splitting of Dark and Light?
Day and Night?
Did you see
the whorling, swirling, mixing
of rocks and gases,
compacted compounds
(ta da! the energy pill)
(We still have to
figure out where
that little sucker
came from.
What?
It's always been!
Behold!
The Omnipresent Rock!)
become planets and suns.
Was it you that started the clock ticking
to decree the cosmos birthday
to be in the billions and billions?
Start the clock!
Atomic or planetary?
But wait!
Planets unformed,
atoms unstable.
Time unmarked, irrelevant.
Rewind.
(The speed of light is slowing
and the rowers keep on rowing.)
And it's all unconnected—
connect the dots,
see the signs,
imagination unwinds—
your “evidence” doesn't scare me.
I oversimplify?
God!
Maybe it is.
Were you there?
Did you witness the Bang?
or the Boom?
(If no one was there, did it make a sound?)
Was there a bystander
to the splitting of Dark and Light?
Day and Night?
Did you see
the whorling, swirling, mixing
of rocks and gases,
compacted compounds
(ta da! the energy pill)
(We still have to
figure out where
that little sucker
came from.
What?
It's always been!
Behold!
The Omnipresent Rock!)
become planets and suns.
Was it you that started the clock ticking
to decree the cosmos birthday
to be in the billions and billions?
Start the clock!
Atomic or planetary?
But wait!
Planets unformed,
atoms unstable.
Time unmarked, irrelevant.
Rewind.
(The speed of light is slowing
and the rowers keep on rowing.)
And it's all unconnected—
connect the dots,
see the signs,
imagination unwinds—
your “evidence” doesn't scare me.
I oversimplify?
God!
Maybe it is.
Death of a Prophet (dedicated to Ron Gatrelle; pastor, brother, friend)
(May 2006)
And the man of God was laid to rest today.
The speaker used the word prophet
with an uncapitalized “p”
(I don't think he dared).
He didn't personally know the man—
the man of God—
the vessel that
though cracked and chipped and scratched
poured out
what was poured in.
(How could that hold water?)
Well, they said,
He's dead…
guess we were
wrong/right
about him.
But Prophets die,
(they're not immortal you know)
and occasionally another one
comes along behind him.
(Faster. Stronger. Better than before.)
Besides,
does the Truth die?
Do prophesies fade?
The grass still grows
after the tree is but a stump.
Anyway,
the man of God moved on,
shedding the cocoon of this life
for the wings of the next.
And whether we liked
the coarse, imperfect human being,
(how many true prophets are really well-liked?)
the facts of the words
that were not his
remain.
And the man of God was laid to rest today.
The speaker used the word prophet
with an uncapitalized “p”
(I don't think he dared).
He didn't personally know the man—
the man of God—
the vessel that
though cracked and chipped and scratched
poured out
what was poured in.
(How could that hold water?)
Well, they said,
He's dead…
guess we were
wrong/right
about him.
But Prophets die,
(they're not immortal you know)
and occasionally another one
comes along behind him.
(Faster. Stronger. Better than before.)
Besides,
does the Truth die?
Do prophesies fade?
The grass still grows
after the tree is but a stump.
Anyway,
the man of God moved on,
shedding the cocoon of this life
for the wings of the next.
And whether we liked
the coarse, imperfect human being,
(how many true prophets are really well-liked?)
the facts of the words
that were not his
remain.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Field of Balloons
(December 16, 2005)
And so, he grabbed all the comic book dialogue balloons that appeared above his head and colored them with the worn and broken crayons from the box of 64 (he couldn't afford 120) and filled them with helium to the breaking point and tied them to the antennas of pre-owned vehicles in the used car lot with shoe laces, fishing line, strands of hair in hope…
And the people bought the cars and for the most part just popped the balloons, while others let them dangle and blow in the wind of 55 miles per; though a few—just a few—cut them loose to rise to the clouds and fall wherever dead balloons fall…
* * *
Today's Farm Report has been brought to you by
White Cloud Motors—
“Seeking to Satisfy with Quality”
since 1962.
And so, he grabbed all the comic book dialogue balloons that appeared above his head and colored them with the worn and broken crayons from the box of 64 (he couldn't afford 120) and filled them with helium to the breaking point and tied them to the antennas of pre-owned vehicles in the used car lot with shoe laces, fishing line, strands of hair in hope…
And the people bought the cars and for the most part just popped the balloons, while others let them dangle and blow in the wind of 55 miles per; though a few—just a few—cut them loose to rise to the clouds and fall wherever dead balloons fall…
* * *
Today's Farm Report has been brought to you by
White Cloud Motors—
“Seeking to Satisfy with Quality”
since 1962.
Shadow of My Shadow
(December 2, 2005)
Sitting on the stoop
sipping black morning coffee,
groggily contemplating
the backward movement
of my shadow's shadow.
The not so early pre-noon sun
peered over the treetops,
reflecting my shadow
off the sliding glass door
onto the dew spotted grass.
So when my right hand holding
the steaming java moved right,
the shadow's shadow's left
moved left;
casting a shadow on my thought process.
Looking back at the glass,
attempting to comprehend
how the duplicate shadow
(through whatever laws of light)
could still be me.
Sitting on the stoop
sipping black morning coffee,
groggily contemplating
the backward movement
of my shadow's shadow.
The not so early pre-noon sun
peered over the treetops,
reflecting my shadow
off the sliding glass door
onto the dew spotted grass.
So when my right hand holding
the steaming java moved right,
the shadow's shadow's left
moved left;
casting a shadow on my thought process.
Looking back at the glass,
attempting to comprehend
how the duplicate shadow
(through whatever laws of light)
could still be me.
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