(1999?)
A high school English teacher once told us that stories are told in the first or third person. Never the second. Ah, a challenge.
YOU!
Yeah, you.
You know you’re guilty.
You were there.
Maybe not in flesh, but in spirit.
Because you knew all the details.
Yeah, you had access to all the info.
Maybe not every time,
but when it was all over, you knew.
Yeah, you knew.
At the very least you’re an accessory before, during and after the fact.
In fact,
you’re the reason all these crimes were committed.
Don’t deny it! It’s true. Oh, yeah, it’s true.
All those senseless murders are your fault.
YOUR FAULT!
All right.
You didn’t actually with your own hands commit the atrocious deeds.
But you paid for ‘em.
You bought ‘em.
What’s the legal terminology for hiring an assassin?
Oh! the price of blood. Spilled blood. Cold blood. The life was in the blood.
(Do you like that word “blood”?
A kinda blunt word, blood.)
And for what?
To entertain your passion,
your love of the hunt;
the chase.
And never the same.
No, sir. No one can pin an M.O. on you.
Except for maybe who does the killing.
You might stick with a certain “craftsman” of the trade,
but you demand they vary their methods somewhat —
just to keep it interesting.
A gun.
A knife.
Exotic poison.
In the dark.
In the open.
Nobody knows. Everybody sees.
The more bizarre and fantastic,
the better.
And yet,
you really don’t care how they die,
just
as long
as
someone is dead.
Dead for your pleasure.
And you just couldn’t resist
the temptation for one more.
Just one more.
Seduced by the deception…
the uncertainty…
the romance.
You know you’re guilty as sin.
You know you never could resist a good murder
mystery.
Showing posts with label 90's. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 90's. Show all posts
Thursday, January 15, 2009
From Poet to Poet
(1995?)
For what cause do we construct?
A museum of art?
A retail outlet?
Schools of thought or
a place to rest our heart?
Do not regard poetry solely
from the lofty towers of academia;
examine the depths
of the dungeons of the soul,
the narrowed hallways of life,
the inner courts of conscience.
Truly, perform the art
with proper tools
to exact a structured edifice.
Yet, peer through the outer facades
and between the pilings
to what makes a castle a home.
For what cause do we construct?
A museum of art?
A retail outlet?
Schools of thought or
a place to rest our heart?
Do not regard poetry solely
from the lofty towers of academia;
examine the depths
of the dungeons of the soul,
the narrowed hallways of life,
the inner courts of conscience.
Truly, perform the art
with proper tools
to exact a structured edifice.
Yet, peer through the outer facades
and between the pilings
to what makes a castle a home.
lonely sailor shipwrecked upon an immovable Rock
(November 10, 1993)
Wicked winds and raging waves
stirred beneath the clouds,
beat and batter, no care no matter for
this wretched, broke wayfarer.
Salted sheets of frothing foam
poised above its prey,
pounce and pierce with stinging fierceness
the opened flesh lay bare.
Nerves numbed in the needled dark.
sight dimmed in the cold.
Strength bruised in the cursed din.
(clinging, clawing, slipping, falling—
Lord, just let me die!
fighting, fleeing, cursing, pleading—
Lord, just tell me why!)
Tempestuous days make old.
Balmy breeze and calming seas
stir beneath the clouds.
Wicked winds and raging waves
stirred beneath the clouds,
beat and batter, no care no matter for
this wretched, broke wayfarer.
Salted sheets of frothing foam
poised above its prey,
pounce and pierce with stinging fierceness
the opened flesh lay bare.
Nerves numbed in the needled dark.
sight dimmed in the cold.
Strength bruised in the cursed din.
(clinging, clawing, slipping, falling—
Lord, just let me die!
fighting, fleeing, cursing, pleading—
Lord, just tell me why!)
Tempestuous days make old.
Balmy breeze and calming seas
stir beneath the clouds.
Still Life
(1992-1993)
Act I: Still
An oil portrait
hung in my mind—
Romantic Renaissance—
painted for my pleasure:
But the model
moved and marred the image,
and the mood
that was infused
by its hues
has become pale.
The canvas is scrapped
and a debate ensues—
Is the pain of painting
begun anew;
or do I take up photography?
Act II: Animated
Glistening globs of oil pulled
from a pleasant palette splash
upon the empty flaxen cloth creating
puddles of powerful emotion.
Horsehair bristles tickle
the canvas
with graceful gestures arousing
the imagination—
the vision—
the real.
A moving landscape emerges
more marvelous, more meaningful, more alive
than the fruits and flowers picked
from life and left
on a table to rot;
captured only in a moment of study.
The frame is finally embraced.
(You can’t get that with the click of a button.)
Act III: Death
Painting landscapes in the rain
makes for muddied palettes
‘cause oil and water don’t mix.
The canvas abandoned
(no one said this was paint by number)
to flee the storm
is damaged and torn
by the onslaught of hail and wind.
Fuchsia blends with blue—
black and white it ain’t—
the chroma is now mono.
(Are there more than two hundred, fifty-six shades of gray?)
And as the bloody pigment puddles drip
the frame is stained
and the landscape dyed.
Has anyone seen my camera?
Act I: Still
An oil portrait
hung in my mind—
Romantic Renaissance—
painted for my pleasure:
But the model
moved and marred the image,
and the mood
that was infused
by its hues
has become pale.
The canvas is scrapped
and a debate ensues—
Is the pain of painting
begun anew;
or do I take up photography?
Act II: Animated
Glistening globs of oil pulled
from a pleasant palette splash
upon the empty flaxen cloth creating
puddles of powerful emotion.
Horsehair bristles tickle
the canvas
with graceful gestures arousing
the imagination—
the vision—
the real.
A moving landscape emerges
more marvelous, more meaningful, more alive
than the fruits and flowers picked
from life and left
on a table to rot;
captured only in a moment of study.
The frame is finally embraced.
(You can’t get that with the click of a button.)
Act III: Death
Painting landscapes in the rain
makes for muddied palettes
‘cause oil and water don’t mix.
The canvas abandoned
(no one said this was paint by number)
to flee the storm
is damaged and torn
by the onslaught of hail and wind.
Fuchsia blends with blue—
black and white it ain’t—
the chroma is now mono.
(Are there more than two hundred, fifty-six shades of gray?)
And as the bloody pigment puddles drip
the frame is stained
and the landscape dyed.
Has anyone seen my camera?
A Cry In The Night
(December 27, 1992)
Break me out of this crusty shell
of human existence.
Free me from this self-imposed prison
of putrid self-indulgence.
(For which the correct
theological terminology is sin.)
Let me die and remember no more
the paradox of pleasure and pain
that awakens the death of the soul.
Kill me that I might live
to experience the pleasures of life
and to endure the inevitable pains.
Burst the barnacled bubble
of my wanton flesh;
Replacing this stifling, stagnant vacuum
of indecency
With the sweet breeze of your Spirit.
Break me out of this crusty shell
of human existence.
Free me from this self-imposed prison
of putrid self-indulgence.
(For which the correct
theological terminology is sin.)
Let me die and remember no more
the paradox of pleasure and pain
that awakens the death of the soul.
Kill me that I might live
to experience the pleasures of life
and to endure the inevitable pains.
Burst the barnacled bubble
of my wanton flesh;
Replacing this stifling, stagnant vacuum
of indecency
With the sweet breeze of your Spirit.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Reflections on a Past
(November 1992)
At this time my father did not have a relationship with God (that I knew of). He was going from wife to wife, dream to dream, doing his own thing. He finally remarried my mother (25 years after their divorce), renewed his relationship with Jesus, and is now ministering through music to the elderly. Go God!
Sat down to a meal
of kidney beans and rice—
cornbread on the side.
Handed down from daddy.
Certain he got it from his.
Where’d he get his direction?
God, don’t let me go that way.
Lookin’ at 30 Years of TIME—
photos of history—60’s through 80’s:
a lifetime.
Erection of walls’
torn down again—
still there.
Massive achievements
(token really)
amidst naked foreign children
and half-naked American women.
Erections of men’s lusts—
for greed—
for power—
for a snapshot in the history book.
Powerful men—
some died;
all dead.
Anger in the eyes
of those who don’t
know their cause;
passionate appeals
from voices that dreamed;
desirous glee
from the apathetic.
Fires in souls,
fires in Watts,
souls in fire.
Napalm replaces brimstone.
A glossy, two-dimensional world.
Pick it up; put it down.
Turned back to the fixin’s on the plate—
the beans were cold.
God, don’t let me go that way.
At this time my father did not have a relationship with God (that I knew of). He was going from wife to wife, dream to dream, doing his own thing. He finally remarried my mother (25 years after their divorce), renewed his relationship with Jesus, and is now ministering through music to the elderly. Go God!
Sat down to a meal
of kidney beans and rice—
cornbread on the side.
Handed down from daddy.
Certain he got it from his.
Where’d he get his direction?
God, don’t let me go that way.
Lookin’ at 30 Years of TIME—
photos of history—60’s through 80’s:
a lifetime.
Erection of walls’
torn down again—
still there.
Massive achievements
(token really)
amidst naked foreign children
and half-naked American women.
Erections of men’s lusts—
for greed—
for power—
for a snapshot in the history book.
Powerful men—
some died;
all dead.
Anger in the eyes
of those who don’t
know their cause;
passionate appeals
from voices that dreamed;
desirous glee
from the apathetic.
Fires in souls,
fires in Watts,
souls in fire.
Napalm replaces brimstone.
A glossy, two-dimensional world.
Pick it up; put it down.
Turned back to the fixin’s on the plate—
the beans were cold.
God, don’t let me go that way.
To Burn
(1991)
Pent up passion
pressing to be poured out
from a heart so full
it is empty;
Praying for an outlet
of expression to accept
offerings from within
to without;
Pleading for release
from the ravages
of unrequited desire.
Left in silence.
Hoping for hatred
instead of apathy.
For in this hate
there is hope:
an acknowledgment of existence.
Pent up passion
pressing to be poured out
from a heart so full
it is empty;
Praying for an outlet
of expression to accept
offerings from within
to without;
Pleading for release
from the ravages
of unrequited desire.
Left in silence.
Hoping for hatred
instead of apathy.
For in this hate
there is hope:
an acknowledgment of existence.
The Deceitfulness of Sin (Hope in a Straw)
(August 1991)
My face is bloodied
from tripping over my own feet
while holding my hands behind my back.
I murmur and complain
in the numbing pain,
but refuse to untie the laces.
Can I continue this pace;
this macabre up and down dance
with no movement?
I am on the outside on the inside
and it is my duty
to reach up to pull myself out
as I push myself down.
The blood has been shed.
My testimony stands still.
The blood has been shed.
The Spirit moves on.
The blood has been shed.
Grasp at the straw that is big enough
to break the dragon's back.
Cauterize the putrifying sores of my mind;
Purge out the dregs of the wine
from the fruit of the forbidden tree.
Grasp at the straw.
My face is bloodied
from tripping over my own feet
while holding my hands behind my back.
I murmur and complain
in the numbing pain,
but refuse to untie the laces.
Can I continue this pace;
this macabre up and down dance
with no movement?
I am on the outside on the inside
and it is my duty
to reach up to pull myself out
as I push myself down.
The blood has been shed.
My testimony stands still.
The blood has been shed.
The Spirit moves on.
The blood has been shed.
Grasp at the straw that is big enough
to break the dragon's back.
Cauterize the putrifying sores of my mind;
Purge out the dregs of the wine
from the fruit of the forbidden tree.
Grasp at the straw.
A Prayer in Melancholy Pain
(1990)
I was not in a joyous mood; God did not seem to be listening.
One morning I awoke to look out my bedroom window at a frost covered lawn and flowers blooming on the bush.
Autumn.
Cold and cruel
daubed in dulled hues.
Darkness comes early,
clutching for control.
And the Sky seems strangely
silent and still.
A bitter wind
whips this battered soul,
provoking retreat within.
Death does not judge—
all is stripped bare;
snapped
from warmth to frost.
Help me find
the flowers in the frost.
I was not in a joyous mood; God did not seem to be listening.
One morning I awoke to look out my bedroom window at a frost covered lawn and flowers blooming on the bush.
Autumn.
Cold and cruel
daubed in dulled hues.
Darkness comes early,
clutching for control.
And the Sky seems strangely
silent and still.
A bitter wind
whips this battered soul,
provoking retreat within.
Death does not judge—
all is stripped bare;
snapped
from warmth to frost.
Help me find
the flowers in the frost.
Retro 90's
Looking back (isn't that what a lot of this is all about), a lot of big things happened to me in the 90's: I regained contact with my 10 year old daughter, Beth, in '90, she came to live with me in '92; I married for the first time in '93, I divorced in '94; remarried in '95, gaining not just my wife Lynn, but two more daughters (Carrie 13, Catherine 3); became a grandfather in '97.
And mixed up in all of that was the continuing struggle with sin, loneliness, and other personal pains. Most of the poetry posts from that decade reflect those inner travails.
With my heart on my sleeve,
Jongleur the Cupbearer
And mixed up in all of that was the continuing struggle with sin, loneliness, and other personal pains. Most of the poetry posts from that decade reflect those inner travails.
With my heart on my sleeve,
Jongleur the Cupbearer
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