Tag Archives: Poet

One Day After Many

To aspire to, and breathe with God. To practice kindness without a hint of lust, or an expectation of a reward. To fall. To fail. To exhale. To be reborn. To not have to remember much, if anything. To not worry over what’s been forgotten; then to remember again.

There was a winter or summer with your family. You were at home with them. Each of you the same, as you ever were.

You are a peer in the making; a man among equals holding eagle feathers, and code talking with Navajos. You want to be loved by the land where you were born, to carry a piece of that dirt close to you, maybe in a pocket, or a small bottle strung with pearls.

The mystery of smoke and pitch sparks grace the air. And a peacefulness unasked for, holds you like an explanation about everything or nothing at all.

 

 

 

Because You Could Not Leave, You Stayed

There was that one moment when you could not escape, because too young, there was nowhere to go. Followed by the first dance you had with a girlfriend, your feet unfaithful and inept and at the worst possible time –  you then wanting to melt into the wall, be at one with a sconce, or twirl concisely with a ceiling fan. But because you were not able to be or do any of those things, you instead succumbed to the terror of that too long felt moment. Exposed, like an internet snapshot of a viral fool.

At the trailer park, or the bowling alley, or was it outside in the parking lot of a skating ring – being beat or giving a beating – tongue lashed to the corner of your mouth between perspiring lips, eyes hollow shaped pits, your mind a chaotic jumble of phrases, all lost, all forgotten.  As if that moment represented the entirety of what life had to offer; that your desperation was permanent; a movie unwinding from its reel; the projector still running, the guts of your story spilling to the floor like an intestine of red ribbon.

A dove attends someone else’s disaster, a policeman answers another person’s 911, and a cab driver glides to a curb and removes a pedestrian from a nightmare neighborhood back home to safety, a warm shower and the comfort of couches. You though because of some illogical decision about fate become attached to wine and stand in the rain, wet forever; thinking, even if you could have found love, or had been lucky enough to have had a sense of belonging, that you still wouldn’t believe a time might come to laze with other lifeguards in the sun.

To a Brother Now a Man

Without aid, without help, without supplication, without a hand to touch, an eye to look into, without hope – the human in us tries to convince the spirit to abandon the pursuit or the knowledge of love.

This is how sailors are encouraged to board ships gloried and decorated for war; how hometown boys are thrust with momentum into the maw of some never ending conflict.

My brother, my literal brother. My kin. My childhood confidant. My one time ally. You who played with plastic dime store soldiers, who now thinks of yourself as an intelligent man.

It is you who proposes, without having actually sweated or grimed your way across a battlefield, without having heard the curses of the grieved, that war is a tactical game, a theater of players that are manipulable by cunning.

But the breath, or the heartbeat – the footfalls of those who are in full retreat; are they not also worthy of life – is not your enemy also a creation of your infinitely wise and forbearing God?

Bright Star Play at, Bright Star Play at Bright Star

Bright Star Play at, Bright Star Play at Bright Star

I

Stay up all night, just for me. Send me a million or billion year look at you. Tell me again how it was that one day when you were a younger billow of shimmering smoke and dust.

II

Doubt is so very unattractive. Doubt is so sincere at its distractions. Doubt is in a hurry to prove at least “It” exists. Doubt is a blister. Doubt is a knowledgeable cancer. Doubt is not a plaything, nothing like a doggy eagerly waiting by the door with a leash, walk me, feed me, play with me, I will love you. No, doubt will destroy you.

The intelligent human will wash their hands of doubt. The holy man laughs out loud at doubt. The cripple, if they are ever to walk again, swears out a warrant against doubt.

Doubt does not seem to bring happiness. No Christmas presents are put under the tree for doubt. Santa Claus, does not come, Jesus has never existed, and Buddha may not have been a vegetarian.

Doubt is like a master reviewer, the ultimate critic, a lonely man – disillusioned.

Doubt is different than an iconoclast. An iconoclast believes in something, maybe not in the icon being smashed, but in something. But doubt believes in nothing, the all disappeared, the never might be. Doubt may look like a friend up for a cheery conversation…but do not be fooled, doubt is here to kill your spirit, and will try to, even on the sunniest of days.

III

The only defense against doubt is ignorance. Yes ignorance. You exist in a reality that cannot really be known, will never be understood, where all words are inadequate to describe the ineffable. Your every attempt will fail. Persist at the seeking of an explanation, and you are doomed, so says the poet, seer, or librarian.

Your only possible recourse is to submit to your ignorance.

This is the path of happiness – the path of spiritual competence – the path towards a better, more everlasting home…

Dear God Letter (#2)

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Dear God,

In this freedom of flow moment, right now –
I do not have to be anybody that is somebody
I can just be me…a leaf, not a tree.

One thing or another doesn’t have to be traded
with anyone for anything, all that I want I already
have – in fact I was born with all that I need.

I can’t get so far out, or deep into my thinking that
I forget, that though I have visited with the villains
of despair, I am not despair…

My great great gift is that I survived the onslaught of
so much, and I have come out of that un-fractured,
a bit worse for wear, but unbroken nonetheless.

I am a free man, so my prayer to you today is that you
help me remember that, because sometimes I forget,
yeah, I forget sometimes…but this is a little matter, indeed.

Love,

Poetman

…it is not another grey morning, I promise you…


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To want to taste…is to reach for a sensation, to furtively search, late at night, or maybe in the morning….shadow bugs moving on walls as light comes in announcing all you’ll really be able to have is an expectation that things are changing…

The morning is grey not because of a depression or a lack of moral fiber, but as an admission that any mist must make to the rising of a spectacular sun, that it is and always will be submissive to heat, to evaporation, to particulation, to dispersal…

And though a dispersed mist may become rebellious enough to regather itself into a wind, and rain for forty days and forty nights – the sun knows, as does any idea whose time has come, that passion trumps subjugation, and makes any day new again….

(Another 10 Minute Poem)

a fence is no way to contain a soul

do-fence

They are getting better at building  fences…to box you in. Soon, you’ll have only one place to go…where they directed you. You won’t care though because of the candy they gave you…to eat while pacing their infirmaries.

What you want, is it what you want, or what it has been suggested to you to want? I used to like chocolate, but lately for some reason I’ve a hankering for vanilla, not sure how that happened, or if I ever really liked chocolate…

What the westward ho people liked so much about the west was that they got to build fences there…contain according to their own plans….what was wild and heathen. They thought this was what freemen did…while on vacation.

(A 10 Minute Poem)