Hearts on Paper

October 27, 2010
She's got mine!

Serenity sat with me this morning,
reached for my clipboard of notes and blank paper.
Awkwardly holding the mechanical pencil
     in her left hand,
made stabs and swipes at the college rule:
     the scribbles are getting bolder.
Fingering the letters of my name
printed and taped to the metal clip,
I explain she is of a select few
who call me Grandpa.

Gazing at the work of her hand
she wraps her arms around the stiff board
and hugs the page to her tiny chest.

Drool

October 21, 2010
Sometimes I feel like this is what my writing looks like.

Serenity held the paper and pen
like one who had waited a lifetime
for just such instruments;
rubbing them together like two dry sticks,
anticipating a spark
to set her little world on fire.
Turning the pen over and over,
her thumb unacquainted with opposing,
the button did not click, and yet
a long string of drool issued forth
leaving its mark upon the paper.

Pool of Serenity

October 20, 2010
You can look at this 3 ways.

I have an old water fountain
now filled with pebbles and rocks
that Serenity likes to play in.
She'll take the stones,
one or two in each hand,
and walk about turning them,
then tossing them,
then returning for more.
You can see the holes where she's been.

Dancing On the Grave

October 6, 2010
My dear sister, Annette, asked me to pen a poem to be read at her funeral. It's not that she's dying--far from it as far as I know--she just wants to be prepared. This is actually two poems in one--she's special.


Dancing On the Grave
(A Song of Rejoicing
for the Funeral of my Sister, Annette Smith
written well before she moved on)

So you think this is a victory
because my vocal chords are silenced
and laughter no longer bounces off
my tongue through the gap in my teeth
that will fall to the floor of this box.

You think this is loss
because my hands are folded flat
and not clapping to the heartbeat
no longer beating
the song beat of a different heart.

Do you believe this is the end
because my lifeless limbs
don't sway in the Wind in the dust;
and the dust will devour my flesh,
and the Wind will blow it where it will?

This is just the beginning.
My arms now move
to a whole new groove.
I am one with the Wind
and the dust don't keep me down.

This is gain.
My hands are lifted high applauding
the one beat,
the only beat,
the eternal beat.

Ha! This is a victory.
Hear my song.


Annette's Song

The Lord has brought me through.
My God has made a way.
Jesus carried me.

Your Word lead me.
Your Spirit moved me.
Your Presence guided me.

And I lived my life in You.
And You lived Your life through me.
And we lived our life as one.

Before Your throne I kneel.
Before Your power I bow.
Before Your majesty I lay myself down.

In the company of all the saints, I lift my voice to You.
In the sight of all the angels, I sing Your praise.
In Your presence, I worship.

I worship Your name.
I adore Your name.
I love Your name.

And I have a new name.
And though I have always known Your name,
it is new.

YES!
YES!
YES!

Bless You Lord.
Bless You God.
Bless You Jesus.

Jesus.
Jesus.
Jesus.

Wet: morning of September 30, 2010

September 30, 2010
Serenity is a fount of inspiration!

It rained last night and the earth is all wet;
too wet for little feet,
too wet to be absorbed by a single disposable diaper.

So you return the favor and press
drool soaked lips against the window pane,
giving the world outside a sloppy wet kiss,

your diaper drooping below sea level.

Poets' Dilemma Delight or Just Another Tuesday Night

September 24, 2010
Inspired by the poetry of Billy Collins.

Can't we just mean what we say?
Does each line need to hide meaning?

Why can't we just sit down to dinner
our plates spilling peas and carrots into each other, or
on rare occasions, asparagus lying parallel or perpendicular;
mashed potatoes, mine overflowing, yours barely covered, with gravy;
these beside various pork chops, or as generally is in this economy,
quick frozen chicken breast, fulfilling its duty as the main course;
all without the fork and the spoon doubling entendre?

Is it possible for us to sit on the couch
and watch TV for just an hour or two, commercial breaks included,
just you and I and perhaps a comforter on top and a pillow between
in the glow of thirty-six inch diagonal, non-HD wonder
without it having to mean something before we go to bed,
read a book, snuggle, and sleep?

Is it all meant to mean something
other than what happens in that moment
on the page?

The Living Word

September 23, 2010

Lord, I live
by your word.
My life is in the spoken sentences
and paragraphs from Your mouth,
not the black and red ink on
rice paper that can be burned to ashes,
added to the pile;
but by Your voice that etches
the tablets of my heart,
by Your breath that permanently
marks my mind,
the breeze that brands my soul
as Yours
I live.

poesimania

September 22, 2010


poesimania
The first one's free.

They said it was an acquired taste;
fine wines painting impressionist portraits
upon nurtured taste buds.
Large barrel-like bottles of table whites and reds
lead to Chardonnays and Merlots
          soft, supple and complex...
          brimming with plush cherry...
          and jammy blackberries followed by
          hints of vanilla and spice;
samplings of Pinot Grigio
          opening with seductive floral
          and lemon aromas, followed by notes
          of mineral and tropical flavors;
glasses of Reisling
          made in an off-dry style
          accentuating delicate notes of...
          stone-fruit flavors...white peach and apricot...
          deliciously mingled with hints of Anjou pear
          and bursts of jasmine;
a bottle of Trivento 2008 Malbec,
          a bright carmine red
          whose plum and raspberry jam aromas
          mingle elegantly with vanilla notes
          from the 6 months aged in French oak barrels;
to a case of 2001 Nebbiolo,
          garnet-red...with ruby reflections...
          scents of roses, vanilla, roasted hazelnuts,
          licorice and spices...
          pleasant touch of tar and
          oaky notes in perfect equilibrium.
All served with aged cheeses, wafer thin crackers,
and fresh fruits upon a tray of silver or Malaysian bamboo.

What they didn't say
was that once acquired
required constant feeding
like heroin or crack
crawling up your spine
chasing monkeys without wings
things that go bump in the day
days without end
nights with no sleep
creepy, crawly flesh
less like a man than a worm
squirming through your veins
raining on your parade
a charade of death walking
in a daze of confused words
and guttural phrases spewed out
through black and broken teeth
spittal running down the jawbone
of a diseased mind
I'll find it this time
I swear I'll pay you back
just one more
please, God, let it make sense.

I buy chapbooks like dime bags
          and hide them from my wife.

The Heart of God

September 20, 2010

There is not a soul alive
that has glimpsed the complete beauty
within a conch shell.
Broken by the crush of waves
and washed smooth by sand
gives a partial and wholly different vision.
The only way to truly comprehend
the smooth darkness of its bright curves:
          crawl inside.

Can a man know the tenderness
of a mother nursing?
Neither can remember
the comfort of the infant
suckling mama's breast.
It must be lived in the moment of innocence.

To my knowledge,
no one alive has survived
the internal winds and pressure of a tornado
whipping about seemingly out of control;
dust and debris flung about on the outside,
while molecules of nothingness fill the eye.
But wouldn't that be an experience.

Ghost of Serenity

September 20, 2010

You're not dead.
Just not here.

Where'd she go?
Don't wave bye.

Blown kisses
fill the air.

Echoes of morning jabber
tickle my inner ear.

Toys are scattered across the floor.
No one is playing.

I eat my Cheerios®
alone.

You're not here.
We're not alive.

Reading the Bible by Moonlight

September 15, 2010
I actually attempted to read by moonlight. It was early morning, the moon was full and bright, but not bright enough.

Reading the Bible by moonlight
words are blurred and smeared
on a not so white surface
only thing clear the white space
the margins that surround ink
jot tittle blend indistinguishable
from alpha and omega

Dawn, increasing clarity;
words are ordered in steps.
O's are opened, I's made straight;
more white space is evident
in the pores of the P's and the Q's:
each letter clearly delineated.
Even the punctuation is comprehensible.

Love Poetry

September 14, 2010

1.
She lifted the words of my poem off the paper,
dry-flower pressed them between the pages
          of her heart,
carried the meaning in her bosom
between her breasts
where a line of sweat traced her cleavage,
cleaving the sense of the words to and from our souls
like the drop of sweat rolling between my eyes
down the bridge of my nose to drop
upon the page, blurring any trace of meaning
between the careful symmetry
          of the lines.

2.
Remember how we used to leave each other messages:
the first one out of the shower
would write with their finger
on the steamed mirror
I “heart” U or
U R SEXY;
words that remained after
the condensation evaporated.

When I Was A Child

September 11, 2010
Reminiscent of a simpler time.

Gumby,
Gunsmoke,
no one was voted off
     Gilligan's Island;
Bozo, Batman (in gray tights);
Dragnet;
wrestling greats Bobo Brazil,
Flying Fred Curry,
The Sheik;
I always lost at marbles,
     little league baseball,
     Webeloes and Awanas;
yellow Huffy bicycle, banana seat,
     sissy bar, chopper handle bars,
     no helmet, no pads;
Detroit Tigers on the transistor radio,
Hank Williams on the console stereo;
drive-ins;
station wagon,
bench seats, seat belts not required;
black cherry Kool-Aid™,
fried oatmeal, bread pudding,
     both with raisins,
goulash, Sunday pot roast;
weeping willow in the front yard,
cherry on the side, wild apple across the fence,
rhubarb and clover.
When I was four I was allowed
to walk a quarter mile
down the tree-lined road by myself
to play with my friend Ruth.

Wholly You (A Confession)

August 31, 2010
This poem is deeply personal. It is a metaphor of amazing grace in my life. I dedicate this to my God and Saviour, Jesus Christ; and to my wife Lynn, whose love and forgiveness saved me.

It was completely you
responsible for reconciliation.

The fault is mine for crouching out the door,
walking away from the dwelling
we both built with our bare hands,
down the street and around the corner
for a tawdry, no wait,
          sleazy is a better word,
affair with a strange woman;
make believe quote/unquote love, no wait,
          sex with three x's is a better word,
in the dark fabric of the quilted streets of the city:
certainly castration is a certainty.

Nevertheless you nursed me back
to your milk-laden breasts
with words
of passionate urging, loving guidance, tender comfort.
I stained your back with tears of sludge.
Turning me over
you crossed my heart.
I hoped to die.
I must have been speaking in tongues
when I cried out “Merci! Merci!”
because my lips don't know how to formulate foreign language by themselves.

And now when we make love, no wait,
          the better word is love,
your nails painted blood-rust dig my flesh;
Oh, God! I feel the pain you provide—pain not like yours,
in comparison a tingling, an internal cutis anserina.
The foreign tongue you mastered.

The reason we are becoming one
is wholly you.

Developing Voice

August 27, 2010
from notes on drafts:
[Develop your voice
your singular voice.
Huh?
But I have many voices.]

at last stanza:
When I'm dead will the things that I've said (written) still matter?


Developing Voice
"The voice you hear when you read to yourself
is the clearest voice: you speak it
speaking to you."
          Thomas Lux, "The Voice You Hear When You Read Silently"


The black & white home movies of the early sixties
silenced my infant voice;
until the reel-to-reel recorded it again one
Christmas morning singing Jingle Bells into the taste
of the aluminum microphone.
A decade later, the tape had stretched its vocal chords
and was no longer recognizable.

I once lost my voice
in high school, auditioning for a role in “The Fantastiks.”
I sang one line and then it just stopped...
as if someone had flicked a switch or a fuse had popped
and I didn't have a penny to fix it.

I found it again
proposing pacifism, debating doctrine, singing psalms;
and again on the sidewalks for the unborn, the uninformed;
and again parading prophetic in ecstatic glossolalia utterance.

There's the voice my children have heard.
There's the voice my grandchildren hear.
There's one for the dog.

My wife knows my voice
          when I'm setting up a bad pun,
          when I'm up on my soap box,
          when I'm asking a question
          or broaching a sensitive subject.
          There is one only she knows
                    when our door is closed
                    or when we're not talking.

I have a telephone voice
and a cell phone voice:
they are different.

It actually goes up
          about half an octave
                    when I'm waiting tables.
This phenomenon seems to affect most servers.

When I try to talk to you,
what if
what if I stut...stut...stutter;
          suppose my syllables slip into lisp;
                    perhaps the words no longer exist.
And what if we don't speak the same language?
¿Y si no hablamos el mismo idioma?
Where I come from, we don't have an accent.

And when my lips are peeled back from my teeth,
and my tongue has been eaten by worms,
will my voice still be heard in the heads of my kids
when they speak to kids of their own?

The Mentor and the Page

August 17, 2010
One and the same?

The old poet licked his thumb and turned
his crinkling face to face his page,
catechism burning his lips.

Teacher, when will I be a poet?

When all is beauty and grotesque in the same syllable.
When question marks become statements;
     commas, colons, and periods the movement
     of your chest, your lungs, your diaphragm.
When each breath taken becomes a metaphor
     for each breath you take
     and your lover merely a symbol for love.
When every heartbeat pumps a slant rhyme.
When what you see is what you hear;
     what you smell what you feel.
When every moment becomes a title, each experience a line, all memory a stanza.

The aged wordsmith pricked his thumb and bled,
an inkling of narrative published
on the novice' ear.

But Sir, when shall I become a poet?

When the space between the lines blurs with the ink upon the paper.
When your limbs grow into trees rooted in the heart of the earth
     and toner circulates through your veins and your blood speaks from the ground.
When the secrets of the universe are inadvertently hidden
     between the lines for everyone to see.
When rhyme needs no reason; no, nor reason to rhyme.
When time is not measured in meter or minutes,
     and timeless morphs to cliche.
When your only rush comes from the cutting of words into lines
     on the mirror surface of the page to be snorted through a gutted pen
     directly to you brain.

The wizened bard flicked his thumb and fingered
the bleached page before which
each penman bows his head.

Father, I want to be a poet. When?

When nothing is sacred.
When everything is sacred.
When black and white are just shades of grey with an e.
When gray with an a is merely the merging of black and white.
When the footnote leads the header.
When your pen instructs the paper
     and the poem becomes your teacher.
When your inquiry is no longer when
     but why.

In anguish, the young poet selected all.
And when questioned concerning his intention,
clicked “YES” and cursed all to the Trash Bin.

Natural Selection, Naturally

August 13, 2010
Science doesn't answer all of the questions.

So...
          how did those bugs know
                    those other bugs don't taste too fine?
Then,
          how did they get the word out
                    to the rest of the swarm or hive
                              to change their spots or stripes
                                        to look like those other bugs?
First,
          they must have had one
                    heck of a research team
                              investigating the necessary DNA markers
                                        needed to evolve.
Perhaps,
          they thought real hard,
                    gritting their tiny little mandibles,
                              chanting “I think I can! I think I can!” until
                                        the right shades and hues popped out on their tiny little exoskeletons.
Maybe
          they just used Match.com
                    to hook up with the right
                              mates to propagate
                                        the appropriate gene pool.
However
          they did it,
                    them some smart bugs.

The Lost Art of Walking

August 13, 2010
Nobody walks anywhere anymore. It seems that the younger generation needs some form of transportation just to get around the block. But there's more to walking than putting one foot in front of the other. It's noticing things along the way. And it's a nice metaphor for life. Besides, even God enjoys a good walk (Genesis 3:8).

The Lost Art of Walking
Does not matter where you start or started;
comfortable shoes are wise, a bottle of water necessary;
any and all weather acceptable, sunny with a breeze preferable.

through the school playground littered with jungle gyms, swings, and slides
wads of paper tucked between the grass blades
chewing gum tattooed on the sidewalk
crossing over railroad tracks cutting perspective through trees
tight-rope walking narrow shoulders too close to oncoming traffic
soft shoulders sprinkled with litter like shed tears
full-blast electric hum, buzz of insects in the powerline cut
cigarette butts congregating against the curb
multicolored mulches
close-up, slow-motion landscaping
     every untrimmed branch standing out in hi-def, bold relief
question mark butterfly--what is it's taxonomic label in Latin?
deserted service station
     oily parking lot, empty abandoned cracked pavement fading lines
red clay, rocks, grass (carefully manicured this side, gone to seed that side)
anthills
back roads and small businesses you cannot see from the highway
there's a picnic table behind the firehouse
there's another one in the cemetery--go figure
sidewalks end

arriving home is like walking into your hometown
that you haven't been to since you were a kid
it's old and familiar and surreal and new

Baby Dreams

August 13, 2010
I actually started writing this when Serenity was an infant. I found it amazing that she was experiencing REM so early. Her dreams must have been amazing.

Eyelids closed in infant sleep;
     rapid eye movement
as quick as your heartbeat:
What could you
     be dreaming?

With eyes wide open you can't find,
     can't even focus;
yet visions flash in your mind:
What could you
     be dreaming?

Not old enough to even be young.
     Heart not awakened
to the good or bad; right and wrong.
What could you
     be dreaming?

Is your soul still connected
     by a heavenly cord?
Your innocence unaffected.
What could you
     be dreaming?

Serenity's First Birthday

August 6, 2010

I'll miss you when you're gone:

          pointy finger
          squint your eyes
          purse your lips
          slobber drool
          wobbley dance
          crab walking
          waddle down the hall
          peek-a-boo
          numma numma breakfast
          yay--clap, clap

I'll see you in the morning
for our walk among the trees.

Cacophony of Quiet

August 6, 2010
Just sitting in the backyard.

                    The sun rounds
the bounds of the trees.

crickets
crickets
crickets
crickets
crickets

whistle
          click
                    trill
twitter
          click
                    trill
chirrup
          click click
                    trill
          trill
trill

hidden frog
                    raspy zipper solo
amplified
                    raspy zipper solo
echoed
                    raspy zipper duet
in the next yard

squirrels
          lustily playing leaping
                              in the pine
piquing
          cross branches          cross branches
                              that crackle crackle complaints

                                                  as they pass

cicadas plug in
warming up with the sun
          the arrival of
          galvanic vibrations
          evolves
          lively revivals
          of vibrant vivace
          vocalizing volumes
          of verve

Stained Glass

August 3, 2010

Foiling
visuals of my mind,
moving pictures of my heart,
the virtual reality of my spirit;
solidifying divine revelation
with rust and sand and lead;
expounding liquid dreams
by fusing concrete realities,
hardened adjectives
for pools of light

unable to penetrate,
because the Windex isn't working
on the stained glass
darkened glass
glassy eyed
window of your soul.

What You Want

July 26, 2010
Reading the guidelines for a poetry contest, one thing they were NOT looking for was poetry with "I" in every line. I understand their point, but to me it was a challenge.


I do not
want I
to write about I.

I do not
wish to know I.
I do not
care about I.
If I write about I
I may come to know I.

I require inscriptions
about the motions of I;
the emotions of another I;
verses relative to the vast un-I
universe that I reside in.
I desire lines
devoid the sound of I;
I call for metaphor
of anything but I.

Write what I know.
I know I.
At least I think
     I do.

Which Came First?

July 5, 2010
Just saying...


Why debate eggs?
Sperm is the real issue.

A Psalm of the Morning

July 6, 2010


You, Lord, make the earth turn
     to see the sun again;
You guide the moon in its orbit
     to give light in the darkness.
You, Lord, aged the stars and the galaxies
     to shine at the appropriate time;
You alone, Lord, know the edges
     of the universe in every direction.
It was You, Lord, that exposed Your thought
     and in a micro-nano-millisecond
     set in motion the world to come.
How great are You, Lord.
How far more intelligent
     than the greatest minds of men combined.

Big Bang

July 5, 2010
This started as a quick assignment in Creative Writing 238. We were instructed to quickly write a list of sounds, select one, write a descriptive paragraph. I selected "car crash" and wrote what I could remember of sounds from a car crash that I had experienced. Looking for notes to another story, I found it and noticed poetry within the text. All of the lines are pared down from the original. As I arranged the lines into a more poetic form, I saw new meaning in the words. Creation. Thus, the last stanza.


no picture before
the attenuated screeching of rubber on pavement
no visual prior
to the dull, unmetallic
                                             thud
of grillongrill
absence of images preceded
cr unc hin g of g la ss
whOOOOOOOsh
exploded into
temporarily sightless eyes

a chasm of time
interrupting
the normal flow of traffic
darkness turning around
blindly facing a new direction
dust and gas and twilight
intertwining
in the confining atmosphere

stumble out coughing
have i been in an accident?

Taste and See

June 14, 2010
Straight from the printer to the blog.


Serenity lay in my arm,
left hand supporting
the bottle of formula,
ever moving fingers of her right
wrapped around my pinky;
working the nipple,
she relaxed as I rocked.

Reading the Psalms of David,
trying to hold onto Serenity—
the uncoordinated ballet
of her tiny digits
fingering the pages
as she gnaws the cover.

Looking Through a Glass Eye

May 31, 2010


          Glass eyes are cold.
          Glass eyes are hard.
Stored in velvet lined boxes.
Regular sanitary attention required.

Rainbow beams of prismed light
stop short at the painted pupil.
Corrective lenses only
focus on reflection.

Reflection
is dependant upon the angle
of the head.
Depth perception
comes up short.
Peripheral is one-sided.

For all of its anatomical accuracy
          of size and shape
and artistic quality
          of color and depth
it is still
not attached
to the optic nerve.

The Color of Piss

May 8, 2010
OK. This officially brings me up-to-date.
This poem, believe it or not, is based on a teaching of Christ. It's not what goes in a person's mouth that defiles them, but what comes out. Matthew 15:1-20 and Mark 7:1-16.


I believe
you can tell a lot
about a man
by the color
of his piss.
It's not orthodox.
It's fundamental truth:
a man's piss
don't lie.

Knew a man once
while in the Navy,
been up all night
drinking Bud in a can;
had to piss in a cup
next morning to prove
other substances were
not in
the system.
The cup held a nice
amber shade
with a half inch head.

This other fellow
been around the block--
a few times--
said everytime
he whizzed
burned like hell.
Had ulcers, too,
or something--
gut felt like barbwire
flossing his insides.
Not sure
of the final prognosis,
but his whizz
had a faint
reddish-orange tint.

There was a guy
worked hard,
did his best;
double shifts
got the best.
B complex
seemed to help
(Red Bull wasn't around yet,
but has a similar outcome).
Came out of the men's room
proclaiming
“My God!
My pee
is neon yellow.”

I am
lately drinking
more water.
Clean water.
Spring water.
Filtered and unflavored.
My urine
is getting clearer
and clearer.

Happy Birthday Bush

March 18, 2010
The last of the assignments from Creative Writing 238 (which I passed with a resounding A). Instructed to stroll about campus in teams of four and find objects out of place. I found a birthday streamer under a bush.


Birthday streamers
     damp from dew and rain
     draped about the ground around me,
     clinging to the earth
          like a sheer silk nighty,
     mingling with my roots,
     becoming one with the mulch:

          carelessly planned,
but I do appreciate the thought.

Participation Anticipation

March 16, 2010
Still another Creative Writing assignment. Write a sound poem--inspired by sound, about sound, play with sound. This one is fun to read aloud.


Let the assignment begin.

Hear the pencils
skritch, scratching
patching together words,
words of a kind
two of a kind
words that rhyme.
Hear the clock click
tick tocking
tick mocking
my heartbeat
a new beat
from my seat
in the front
front, frontal lobe,
sighing
trying
to brainstorm,
storm my brain
with new not C
thoughts.
A muffled cough
a snuffle soft
throws me off
track
ing the line of reason
and rhyme,
what was it this time?
Time
time keeps on
waiting for the moment,
the long awaited moment,
the moment that started the moment
I entered the room.

Pencils down.

Instruction in Omelette

March 16, 2010
Another fun little assignment from Creative Writing 238. Write a poem giving instruction for making or doing something. Bon appetit!


The question of which came first
     is irrelevant:
you need to start with eggs.
Open them carefully,
     avoid the jagged pieces of shell
     that may slip through,
into a clean bowl.
Beat vigorously, whip emphatically
     into a frothy foam
     in which albumen and yolk,
     white and yellow
are inseparable.
Peel an onion--
     white, yellow, red--
     the choice is yours.
Slice this onion.
Chop this onion.
     The tears are unavoidable.
Set aside.
Place a teflon coated pan
     upon the burner--
     medium heat.
A little oil to lubricate,
     form a layer of protection
          from the hot surface,
     impart a little flavor.
Gently pour the beaten mixture
     into the heated pan--
     allow it to form--
          slowly.
Layer upon layer of shredded cheese--
     cheddar, mild or sharp,
     maybe mozzarella or monterey jack.
Heap onion,
fold,
slide to plate.
Enjoy.

…a set of Ginsu® steak knives—ABSOLUTELY FREE!

March 15, 2010
This was an "assignment" from Jim Lundy, emcee of Monday Night Poetry and Music (aka Monday Night Blues) held every Monday at 8:00 at the East Bay Meeting House. He challenged us to write a poem from the perspective of an inanimate object. I researched Ginsu® steak knives, they have a website, they are still available.


I am at rest,
     set in my appointed slot
     set in the block of wood
     set upon the kitchen counter
     set for service.

Hold my ergonomically designed handle,
     perfectly balanced,
     in the palm of your hand;

let my stain and rust resistant
     stainless steel blade
     do the work—

     gliding over sinews,
     releasing hot juices.
          Another slice?

My serrated teeth,
     that are never in need of sharpening,
     chew the flesh,
     part it as I pass,
     its tenderness no match
     for my razor sharp          wit
                                            ness,       ness
     my cutting power.

I have served,
     you are satiated.

In time,
     the local law
     find me set,
     set within
     the twenty-fifth fatal wound.
     Film at eleven.

To Everything There is a Season Suite

February 22, 2010
This started as an assignment in Creative Writing 238: take a cliche and give it fresh life. I had picked from the list "freezing to death" and wrote a poem. I liked it. I wanted to do more. So I dug out other seasonal cliches (or not so seasonal) and created a pastoral suite. The suite itself is cliche with my usual twists. From consummation and birth to the hereafter. Oh, how cliche.


Spring Has Sprung

Spring has sprung
          in a bed of love
          to the flow'ry bed
Spring has come.

Springs are sprung
          in an upstream swarm,
          a race to become
Sprung into one.

Spring has sprung
          in a seed that's sown
          to sprout and to grow,
Springing to one.

Spring! Sprung!
          fountains of the deep
          waters have broken—
Springing son.

Springs are sprung
          on the hands of time
          to the infant mind
Spring is one.


Dog Days

of summer moons
          howlings
          barkings
          yippings and yappings
          at silent sights and scents

of sniffing this and that
          and the other
          fresh smell
          stale odor
          butt hole
          connoisseur of pooh
          and all things aromatic
          master of the olfactory

of humping legs
          and pillows
          and oversized teddy bears
          anything with
          fur and four legs
          in heat

of pissing on trees
          and fences and
          grass and tires
          whatever presents
          itself as being worthy
          of being pissed upon
          for the pleasure of pissing
          piss piss piss

of chasing after
          cars
          cats
          tails
          sticks and balls
          tails
          cats
          cars

of laying about
          with nothing but
          to nip at fleas
          snooze and dream

of summer moons


Leaves: Much To Be Desired

The crowns of the deciduous morph from green to brown in varying degrees and stages of gold, pumpkin, and rust, signaling the end of endless days, portending the approach of cold and frost. From a distance, the colors mix and blend: a panoramic landscape destined for desktops and calendars.

Dun branches and twigs clutch each changing leaf, holding it high until, fingers splayed, it lets go to reach for something higher.

Now they're scattered all over the lawn. They need to be raked and bagged. Even with gloves, blisters form before the first pile is crammed and compressed into thick brown paper bags. It's only natural to want to jump in.


Freezing To Death

…his breath
                              hung in the air
                              like a ghost.
The heavens likewise with stone gray expiration
entombed the barren countryside.

His arms
          wrapped about his torso
                    like winding sheets.
Tree limbs creaked
                    like old bones
          in the flurry.

His feet
buried in his boots,
frigid markers in the snow.
The ground experiencing the last stages of rigor
interred the pastoral setting for a seasonal eternity.


Hope Springs, Eternal

Better than Hot Springs, Eternal.

Dr. Preacha Man

February 22, 2010


He done rip
dat bandaid right off
an' he done wash dat spot
wi' de water
an' he scrub an' he scrub
'til I want
dat he scrub no more
'cause de tears
dey come pour out
'til I feel
I 'bout drown.
Den he put de sav
all up on where he scrub
an' de sav
it feel so cool
an' it make dat place
dat he scrub feel right.

An' de tears
dey still be comin' down.

in the bar, after hours, full of promise

February 1, 2010
This was as exercise on setting in Creative Writing 238. From two lists, one of times, places, weather, the other of mood or atmosphere. The exercise was to select from each list and to suggest the mood by the setting. My selections compose my title--"in the bar, after hours" and "full of promise."


Stale smoke in the grand mirror
embraces bottles yet to be opened.

The clink of a coin in the jukebox
signals a change of rhythm.

Balls click click in the rack;
another game begins—

last call lights
constrict pupils,
but your eyes
are wide open.

This woman on the stool
beside you
couldn't be more beautiful.

Write Me a Poem

January 11, 2010
Found this one in a worn pocket notebook of mine.


Write me a poem;
write me a poem.
Write me the words
     that I want to hear.
Put it in words
     that are nice to the ear.

Write me a poem;
please write me a poem.
I don't care what it says,
     it's the thought that counts;
how long doesn't matter
     it's not the amount

of words that you write in a poem.
Write in my poem
because it's my poem
     and nobody else;
because it's my poem
     I don't care if it sells.

So write me a poem—
just write me a poem.
It's a need that I have.
     I don't understand why,
but the poem fills a void
     with a thought, a laugh, or a cry.

So how about it—
you going to write
     me a poem?

The Cleansing Power of Fire

November 2, 2009


I wept until I could weep no more.
          The rainbow did not
          appear in the sky.
          The ground was still rock hard.

I cried out so loud my vocal cords were raw.
          The wind did not
          blow or breeze.
          The trees did not yield their fruit.

I beat my fists bloody against the wall.
          The stars did not
          hold the answers.
          The earth continued to move.

Where else can I go?
Who else can I turn to?
          Let it burn.

Do Not Deal Harshly With My Tender Lambs

(Psalm 18:4-24)
October 14, 2009


What happened to your heart
          when your baby (insert name here)
got sick and cried all night,
unable to tell you what was wrong?

How did you feel
          when your child (__________)
bruised their knee or
scraped their elbow,
and came running to you crying?

Where did your mind go
when that bully,
where-are-his-parents, brat pushed
          your boy (__________)
on the playground?

Why did you think
what you thought
when that no good,
holding-my-tongue, boy broke
          your daughter’s (__________) heart.

Stir up and recall the feelings you get
when you see the faces on the posters
at WalMart, when you hear an Amber alert.
          They all have names.

Arouse and remember the emotions that arise
while watching crime drama or the news on TV
about child abductions and pedophiles and
oh, what you would do if you had five minutes alone with them.

Whose face
do you see
at the mention of
infant mortality,
diseased babies,
beaten and abused children,
child porn,
children used as drug mules,
“adoption” slavery,
my God, how could this be,
this is the twenty-first century?
          God knows their names.

You (__________)
are His children.

Epic grams: A Word Picture Book for Adults

Here are some epigrams.


CAUTION!
These poems contain highly concentrated language!

My Poems
I'm just feeling my way around the elephant.


Commentary on “My Poems”
The elephant is an elephant, regardless.


Jesus
The whole elephant.


Christ
Simply divine.


The Glory of God
I can't see


Listen
sometimes a tune
          hummed
sometimes a word
          spoken
cool of the day
still of the night
connection


Sharp Truth
I've come to the conclusion
that my happy delusions
are more of a fatality
than the pain of reality.


False Humility
i


True Humility
You.


Violence
Silence
VIOLENCE
silence

Cobweb in the Church Rafters

August 11, 2009
The inspiration actually came from a cobweb in church. I kept seeing this cobweb from week to week in the steel beams and ductwork and conduit, all painted black, of our church sanctuary. Our worship service is fairly modern with stage lighting and songs/graphics on two large screens, and the lights would make this cobweb glow. And for several weeks it was as if the Lord kept pointing it out. It made me laugh.


A single thread
of dust clothed cobweb
cluttering a corner of the ceiling
     of the sanctuary;
stretched
from one indeterminate spot to another;
glowing in the spotlight
amidst the twinkling dust motes;
swaying in the breeze
     of air conditioning

in                                   the light             and out of
bending, curving                                   moving in the darkness
like an optic fiber                                 hidden, invisible
carrying the light                                  in the dark

this fine filament
eluding the scientific mind
     from being
     recreated;
its tensile strength and elasticity
unmatched in the material:
yet, the flick of a finger,
the wave of a hand
can cast it down.

Someone needs to dust.

Advice to J. Alfred Prufrock…

July 24, 2009
This was written while I was taking English Composition II. We had read T.S. Eliot's poem "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" and the discussion centered mostly on the sexuality of the poem. I was intrigued by the second half of line 121:
"Do I dare to eat a peach?"

from God:
     Taste and see
     that the fruit is good.
     Just don't eat the fruit
     from that tree.

from the serpent:
     Has God said
     thou shalt not
     eat a peach?

from a Puritan:
     Thou shalt not eat of the peachtree,
     nor the fruit thereof;
     lest thou become as one
     of the fruiteaters
     who bare not fruit.

from a nutritionist:
     0g fat
     cholesterol, 0mg
     0mg sodium
     dietary fiber, 3g
     go ahead

from Hamlet:
     To eat or not to eat: that is the question:
     Whether 'tis favorable for the tongue to satisfy
     With the savory juices of this sweetest of fruit,
     Or to ingest the fibrous flesh and
     To suffer in the end? To eat: to squat;
     More and more; and by squat to say no end.

from Freud:
     You are titillated and fixated
     upon your mother's breasts.

from a poetry critic:
     To Prufrock,
     the peach
     is merely a metaphor
     symbolizing a sweet life
     that is unattainable,
     since you rouse to reality when
     “human voices wake us” (line 131).
     Therefore,
     whether you dare
     or no, you will not.

Listen

July 18, 2009


sometimes a tune
     hummed
sometimes a word
     spoken
cool of the day
still of the night
connection

In the Dark

July 13, 2009
Seems like everyone who came to Jesus in the New Testament did so out in the open, in the streets for all to see.

Every head bowed,
     every eye closed;
confession is made
     to the All-Knowing Lord
who speaks everything
even to himself.

Now if the light is hid
on the hill
and no one's around,
does anyone hear
knees hitting the ground,
or the sound of the silent
prayer? Who cares
if you meant it or mean it,
as long as you come clean;
     it's really a personal thing.

But we're told
to drink of the cup
that's held
and passed around the company
of friends, of strangers, of
God knows who.

Why does anyone else need to know
my business, my religion?
We don't speak of these
at the table.

So I will
bow my head
and close my eyes
because when I do
you can't see me.

Remuneration

July 9, 2009


No one makes money writing poetry.
Well, someone eventually does gain:
a publisher, some critic, an estate—
someone.

But after you're dead
and can't come back
to defend or explain.

No, really. It was just
about a tree.

I was not on drugs
when I wrote that.

I was more perfectly sane
than at any other time in my life.

If you don't get it, don't worry.
I didn't write it for you.

Watching My Husband Dress

(to me from my wife)
July 1, 2009
I wrote this from Lynn's point of view. She said I nailed it.


I like to watch my husband
     dress for work;
everything is always done
     the same.

It starts when he's shaving.
I don't know why
but that just fascinates me.
Pulling the razor
over the curve of
his neck
with self assured movement
to the line of his beard
under his chin
scraping away the day-
old stubble.

When he tucks in his shirt
     zips his fly
               notches his belt
                              I hate him—
the notch has moved in.
I don't want him to lose
his Buddha belly. It's just big enough.

As he looks in the mirror,
adjusts his tie and
arranges himself,
he is so focused.
I feel that if I interfered
at any time
during this entire process
he would push me aside.

Purpose Driven Poetry

July 1, 2009


I want to write poetry that
               praises my God;
               rejoices in right,
               illuminates wrong;
               awakens the soul,
               revives the spirit,
               stirs emotions,
               challenges the mind,
               makes sense;
               breaks fallow ground,
               waters the barren soil,
               and grows;
               feeds the hungry,
               gives drink to the thirsty,
               uplifts the arms that hang;
               makes old men remember,
               young men desire,
               women weep;
               doesn't make sense;
               causes leaders of white-washed tomes
                              want to take me out and stone me,
               pisses off professors
                              of logic, and reason, and apologetics;
               pleases my God.
I want to write
poetry.

My Calling: God Spoke in the Shower

July 1, 2009


God spoke to me today
while I was in the shower
washing my hair.

Tell of my love.

I covered my head and my face
with my arms
and I wept.

David was a prophet.

A Postmodern Psalm

July 1, 2009


I will not dread global warming,
          For my God is the Intelligent Designer.
I will not panic over a world pandemic,
          For my God is the Great Physician.
I will not feel threatened by atomic attack,
          For my God is my Star Wars Defense.
I will not be terrified of nuclear winter,
          For my God is my Fallout Shelter.
I will not be held hostage by terrorists,
          For my God does not negotiate.
I will not be paralyzed by global recession,
          For my God is my Financial Advisor.
I will not be intimidated by any energy crisis,
          For my God is my Everlasting Fuel.

I'm Back

Well, it's been almost a year since my last post. I stopped because I was looking into sending some of this stuff I call writing to other publications. In my research it appeared that publishers were looking for previously unpublished material and that even an unheard of blog was considered publication. So I stopped. I just finished a Creative Writing course at Trident Tech and apparently that applies if you are attempting to be published on the web, cross markets (books, magazines) should not be a problem.

So, let's try this again.