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.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, July 5, 2010
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?
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?
Monday, June 14, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
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.
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.
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