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Poet, Artist and co-owner of Lasting Images Photography

Sunday, April 18, 2010

2nd draft:its coming along

A sprawling circus tent of stars
one wide expanse to which there is no end
Is there life out  there?
Ask the night that question 
and darkness answers back 
with the the rolling crunch of a railroad car
Unseen crickets screech, 
dogs bark, 
wind shakes the branches,
a barn owl complains 
of fireflies that flee his bite,
sodden grass breathes,
rising fog rains rivers of mist
and ponds come alive 
with the riotous music of frogs

Chronicle poem:1st draft

Sky-Watcher, Night-Listener

The sky is a sprawling circus tent of stars
Ask the night your questions 
and the darkness talks back:
unseen crickets screech,
the rolling crunch of a railroad car resounds, 
dogs bark, 
wind shakes the branches,
a barn owl complains of fireflies fleeing his bite,
the sodden grass breathes,
the rising fog rains rivers of mist
over ponds alive with the riotous music of frogs

April 17: stopped counting :(

Sleep Patterns
One corner folded back
in a neat triangle, I insert
myself snugly into one quarter
of the bed and sleep unmoved
In the morning
the sheets are smooth except
for a ripple roughly my shape
How different from the way
we populate the mattress
Then no amount of space
 is enough to uncoil our nightly traffic,
the sweet sleepwalk of our limbs
ever-expanding like Hawking’s universe
I twist, you sprawl out
prospecting for new territory
The rails groan, call out for mercy
You lock me
in a sweaty embrace and snore 
blissfully into my neck
I’ve been known to kick, 
to disrobe my pillow
I simply fold the triangle back,
turn up the spread
already smooth across the foot of the bed
and my morning chore is done

I sleep unmoved

Saturday, April 10, 2010

April 10: poem 4

I hate trying to be something,
trying to say something.
It’s like breaking the petals off all the roses
to try to rebuild a perfect rose.
Like trying to hold water
in your palms or smoke in your mouth.
I am not exceptional.
I can read a book in about six hours.
I know all the words of Hamlet’s soliloquy.
That’s about it.
What I am
is nothing I will ever be famous for.
History favors the brilliant and a surprising amount of rubbish 
lurks about the hollow spaces of my brain.
I could dramatize-
invent a few weird ancestors perhaps.
But I don’t think it is worth destroying
my blighted roses to create one that isn’t alive.
Most mornings you will find me
with my coffee at the computer
just tapping out the nonsense of my life.

april 10: poem 3

I promised myself
not to read more of your letters
until I wrote--
they had become
such a one-sided conversation.
There were efforts-
short words rubbing against other short words,
scrawled on paper,
piled in boxes,
saved in computer files.
The trouble is
what people write is
almost never what they really feel.
Humor can be deftly coupled
with the bleakest stuff in life
and who would ever know.
Even now I could tell you
twin kittens patter across the keyboard
chasing my fingers
and I must dust off a few keys
before I can continue.
You would laugh
and I would gain time
to backspace and delete.
Where is the  risk
that we accept in face to face
Of course I am making  lame excuses
I know that what you expect
is a simple  shopping list of my day 
and that I could easily deliver.
Only I want to say more,
only I can’t,
only I don’t know how,
only I’ve forgotten the words.
But you already know.
I should just commit and hit SEND.

Friday, April 09, 2010

April 8 : poem 2

I am getting father and farther behind. Oh well, at least I am trying. Here goes.

Petals fall like children
sleepily from the redbud trees-
Spring exhaling.
The next breath will be Summer,
a gasp past sultry,
wet with storms that never cool,
funnels of tears that split the sky.
Rain sizzles sidewalks, puddles on asphalt.
Rainbows in oil stains glisten like gems,
their color trapped in the depth of black,
so fragile it shatters with a footfall.
The bursting-forth is soon over,
the tender one-time blooms,
replaced by raucous zinnias
and dazzling displays of weeds
that lift their defiant heads to feast
on heat and hail alike.

Bend grass into baskets
and bring me bouquets of clover,
whose roots like fisted fingers
hold their ground long after
Spring's breath fails.

Sunday, April 04, 2010

April 4 : poem 1

 It’s rather like this:
You learn to ride a bike with trainer wheels.
It’s just a larger version of a tricycle 
and you aren’t allowed
to take it into the street.
You peddle up and down the driveway
determined to master
the art of balance.
Some kids younger than you
have already learned
and now seek 
to undermine your confidence,
fill your ears with taunts and chants.
You must field their insults
with composure
while trying not to crash.
It is the stuff of childhood.
Someone said 
‘you must walk before you can run’
but more importantly
you must first sweep the drive
with the maddening clatter of trainers.
You must tread water in the shallow end of the pool
wearing water wings,
endure the embarrassment of  a booster chair.
No one jumps on their two-wheeler
and glides smoothly ‘round the block
on the first try. 
You scrape your knee,
you get back on,
you scrape your knee again.
The distress that arises from forgetting
that simple lesson
can steal your equilibrium.
make you fall flat.
It’s rather like this:
Trainers are there for a  reason.
You may not like it but pace yourself. 

Sooner or later
everyone learns to ride a bike.

Poem a day challenge

Well I am already behind since this is the 4th. But I will make an effort. Actually I have 2 titles that I just have to figure out what they mean. Guess that is sort of reverse writing but what the heck.