Saturday 

May 19, 2012

I'm starting to get more hits on the new website. That's good. But a lot of them are not favorable.. But that's the way it is sometimes. Anyway, I've read a lot of "Faith" based poetry. And a lot of it is just not very interesting. So, I'm trying with this poem to write about Faith. It's hard to write about.

A Matter of Faith

There’s a fire burning somewhere.

I can smell it. I can see crows

frantically winging through the dark,

chased it seems by an orange glow.

Sirens, many sirens. Must be

at least four or five fire trucks

on their way. Maybe a police car,

an ambulance too, perhaps. The noise

louder, desperate. 

And then the yelling starts. Young

voices, old voices, screaming,

calling the sirens toward them.

I hope it’s not my friend’s house.

It’s old and looks like burning

might be the best thing for it but still,

I hope it’s not my friend’s house.

I have faith in the fire department,

faith in the people now visible in

the road wearing pajamas and

housecoats, waving their hands

above their heads so the fire trucks

can see them. I have faith that God

would never hurt my friend and

his family of four.

I’ll go back inside my own house

now, rest assured that God and

the fire department can handle

this better than me.

                                           rrw o5-19-12

Thursday

May 17, 2012

The new poetry site seems to be a washout. Is there not a site on the internet where there are serious, knowledgeable poets who are interested in poetry and discussion? I need to find some real artists, people who get what it is we're doing.  AND here's a new poem.

My Father’s Day

Sometimes I think about my father.

He was a man. A 40s style man. Big hands,

rough and scaly from working. Crippled

hands broken in three or more places,

scarred and battered from pool hall

brawling.

He was a tough man, a drinking man.

Hamm’s Beer in a can never in a bottle

or a glass. Whiskey, sometimes, straight

out of a silver flask that he always carried

in the back pocket of his black overalls.

Just a kid, he was, during WWII. Enlisted

at sixteen, a Gunner’s Mate in the South

Pacific. Just a kid in the middle of a very

big war.

In ’42 The Wasp, my father’s ship, was

blasted by three enemy torpedoes

dumping my dad and all his buddies

into the cold Pacific. They treaded

water three days waiting for a ship

to come by and fish them out.

My father was a mean man, a fighting man.

No weapons other than two fists full of callused

knuckles, a firecracker temper, and a hateful need

to see the world beaten to death.

Gentleness was a trait my father never indulged in.

It was weakness to him. Too many buddies

he’d seen die, too many friends in civilian life

dead because... well, because they were just too

soft to survive this life.

And I don’t remember a single kindness from

my father. Not to me, my brother or my sister.

Never understood why but he seemed to hate us.

Hated us even more than he hated that submarine

that blew the Wasp out of the water back in ‘42

and left him swimming with the dead, the dying

and an ocean full of hungry sharks.

                                                                             rrw o5-16-12

Wednesday 

05-16-12

Sorry it took an extra day to get a poem ready... but I was looking for a new site and I found one that seems to be pretty good. At least it's nice break from the one I was on. Here's a new one.

Alien

Sometimes I feel alien. Not

quite a human being, feeling

more like a dwarfing star

devoured by its own heat.

Sparrows once sat on the

window ledge and sang their

sharp, crisp songs for my ears,

my ears alone. I vaguely hear

them anymore.

Smiles, the few that I have seen

in this life seem vacant, lost and even

on the most sincere faces just space,

empty space devoid of meaning.

Is there any meaning to this,

this endless breathing, this existence

which no one seems to appreciate

beyond their own wooden words?

It would be nice not thinking.

Be, instead, wind strolling mindlessly

through the dark green boughs

of early spring.

Or perhaps not even that.

Perhaps it would be best

to just rest, not move at all

like dirt in an open grave.  rrw o5-14-12

Monday

May 14, 2012

Okay, this is getting a tad silly. Another poem based on an intro to a poem. But it was Mother's Day and I needed to come up with something... and here it is:

Mother’s Day

Sundays were always a lazy day

around our house. Dad would lie

on the couch drinking beer, watching

the Figure Eight races on TV, nodding

off every now and then. A single snore

from his open mouth would wake

him with a start. He’d take another

sip of beer, wipe his eyes and fall

right back to sleep without even

noticing that car 56 had just been

rammed into oblivion by a Plymouth Fury.

Mom busied herself in the kitchen. Doing what?

I don't know.  Motherly things, I suppose.

It seems she was always scurrying about

all day long from the kitchen sink to the

refrigerator. Always looking for something

but never finding whatever it was she kept

looking for.

Me and Brother Dennis would sit on

the back-porch listening to Mother

banging around in the kitchen and

mumbling to herself.

We never talked my brother and me.

We just sat digging into the dirt with

the heels of our tennis shoes quietly

dreading school on Monday. We hated

school almost as much as we hated each other.

And my sister? She moved out long ago

to our Aunt Ella and Uncle Ace's ranch  

in the high desert. I never knew exactly

what she was doing up there so far away

from her family, her real family. I never

understood my sister or her moods.

Come to think of it, I never understood

any of the women in my life. It’s

probably the reason why I live alone.

Anyways, it’s Sunday, Mother’s Day. As I write

this poem I wonder what my mother’s doing.

Probably walking to the refrigerator, finally

remembering what it was she was looking for

all those many years ago.

                                                         rrw o5-13-12

Sunday

May 13, 2012

Sundays were always a lazy day around the house. Dad would lay on the couch drinking beer, watching the stock car races and nodding off to sleep every now and with a single snore from his open mouth he would wake with a start. Mom busied herself in the kitchen. Doing what? I don't know. Just walking back and forth from the kitchen sink to the refrigerator, looking inside and never finding whatever it was she was looking for. Me and my brother would sit on the kitchen porch. Not talking just waiting, I guess, for Monday to roll around. We both dreaded school. And my sister? She moved up to our Aunt Ella and Uncle Ace's ranch in the high desert. I never knew exactly what she was up to. Come to think of it, I never quite understood what any of the women in my life where ever up to.

Still Life

There are those rare moments when time begins to slow down,

the air circulating in the apartment becomes thick, a bit moist,

wet with an anticipation that something uncommonly wonderful

is about to happen.

Much like fruit, I sometimes feel. Just standing around waiting

for the mouth of God to take a healthy bit out of me, hoping that

He won’t take too long. Do it soon before my flesh begins to rot,

before the muscles in my arms and legs turn to juice and my

leaves begin to shrink and curdle to a fine, fine mush.

Disappearing might be nice. Disintegration, POOF! Then blasted

across the empty universe on the natural breath God blew me into

this world with. It should be like that, departing on the same train

that brought you into this strangely wicked, but beautiful mess.

Painters often paint still-lifes of fruit and coffee cups. There’s

something calming about it. Something wonderfully pleasing

about things that standstill long enough for someone to appreciate

them. Bananas are lovely in the right light as are pomegranates,

lemons, limes, but pears... pears I think are best. I’m sure Adam

and Eve would agree, pears are more tempting than apples.
                                                                                                                                         rrw o5-12-12

Saturday

May 12, 2012

I'm bummed. Can't find a decent site to put my poetry on. The one I've been on for years... well, I just don't get enough people reading and commenting on it. The few who DO comment don't have much to say. Anyway, this is an old one I found on a site that I don't think I have a copy of. Did a few rewrites to it and added (of course) a pic of a student taken on the 4th of July, 2011.

She Never Dreams of Moonlight

She never dreams of moonlight

but often thought herself the moon:

a pale white figure coldly bright

her gravity far too grave a thing

to ever gravitate toward another.

She never dreams of lovers lost, no, for

those memories she never cared at all.

Besides, the ones she fancied long ago have

shriveled up and died or tried, at least,

to end their little lives through alcohol.

If truth be told she never dreams at all,

or so it seems to her. To her the point of

sleep is... well, to sleep! Not to creep about

through fantasies, forever searching out a

hope where no self-respecting hope would

ever care to dwell, or seeking out somewhere

else, somewhere other than the place you are

when you’re wide awake. She doesn’t fake

her life, it is exactly what it seems to be:

a weary smile, a bandana covering her head,

a shear black dress with nothing underneath,

and an audacious love for simply being.

                                                                  rrw rewrites o5-12-12

                                                                                        original o7-o6-o9

Friday

May 11, 2012

Aaah, the wonderful world of coincidence. After I wrote the intro to yesterday's poem I noticed that it had poetic possibilities! Aaaand here it is!

Time

Sometimes the day gets away from me running ahead

of me like my big brother who was always in such hurry,

stretching his hideously long legs out in front of his adult

size body, moving at what seemed to me a million miles an

hour. And no amount of pleading, "Come on, man, wait up!"

could stop his momentum, as he picked up even more speed

and disappeared around the corner before I could catch up to him.

It’s not so much that we run out of time, but that time runs

out on us, runs out of patience with us. We need to get on

with it, or time will turn the corner and disappear forever.

                                                                                                                                                                              rrw o5-1o-12

Thursday

May 10, 2012

The days get away from me running ahead of me like that big brother that was always in such hurry, stretching out his enormous legs out in front of his long, muscular body. And no amount of pleading, "Hey, Dennis, wait up!" could stop him from disappearing around the corner before I could reach him.

Direction

 I'm falling...

                  down...

                             or is it up?

Direction matters little.

People...

              things...

                           time...

                                     all passing by...

 a breathless pace.

I grasp at shadows but they

can’t slow me down.

Before me...

                   solid ground...

                                           will it bend me, break me

when I hit?

                          

Tiny bits of flesh...

                               blood...

                                           cartilage...

scattered on the cold concrete below...

                                                                  or is it up?

The past...
               evaporating...
                                      replaced...
by a fine mist of sweat,
of  worry for the future of my skin
                                                        and bones...
                                                                            and yet...
                                                                                           I don’t regret...
A single moment of life.
I shouldn't think so hard

(they say) on what might be.

Instead, enjoy the breeze (they say)
climbing steadily up your legs.

my legs...
                my arms...
                                 my whole body...
screams gravity.                                                      
                                    rrw 7-1o-1o 
                                   (rewrites) o5-1o-12 

Tuesday

May 08, 2012

So, another day and another poem. Got into a discussion with another poet online about peace both inwardly as a well as... WORLDLY. Yes, I strive for that sense of peace like everyone else but I can't help but think that "world peace" is something to strive  for even though it probably can't be accomplished. However, peace in the individual can be.The problem is that even that sort of calm often makes us lethargic. I'm not sure that total peace (spiritually or worldly) can be achieved in life... perhaps true peace of mind and soul only exists in death.

Absolutism

If there were such a thing as absolute silence,

I would chase it down, clutch it to my chest

and wait for it to end the beating of my heart.

If absolute darkness could be harnessed,

I’d break that wild, unruly beast, and

drown the world within its total blackness.

Walls. I need more walls built of steel

and stone, blood and flesh. Walls to curb

the rabid dog of pointless thought

that rages through my broken mind.

I need less dreaming and more emptiness.

I need the world to go away for now.

If there were such a thing as absolute nothingness,

I’d gladly open up my door, invite it in and let it

stay... forever. Let it rest inside of me... forever.
                                                                                                          rrw 05-07-12

Monday

May 07, 2012

Still finding myself rushing the writing process... but getting better at slowing down. I need to take even MORE time, though.

Super Close

050512

The Moon was so close last night,

I swear, I could hear it breathing.

A slow rumbling sound it made like,

like garbage trucks make on trash Friday.

And its breath smelled just as bad too, a stench

similar to old fish wrapped in used toilet paper

mixed with that sickening sweet scent newborn babies

secrete, a stinky concoction of talcum powder, urine

and the pungent blissfulness babies feel from having

absolutely no responsibilities to humankind whatsoever

other than eating, defecating and screaming like Banshees.

But all that nastiness aside,

the Moon’s smile is just as bright

as that night we “did it”

on that worn-out blanket you stole

from your parent’s bedroom.

I wonder, did your mother ever figure

out what we were using it for?

I’m sure the Moon never told.

The Moon never tells anyone anything.

Except last night, I swear, she spoke to me:

“Hey, you should call that girl! You know,

the one you use’ta make love to on that

 ratty old  Afghan... while I watched?” 

                                                                                                                                                     rrw 5-6-12

Saturday

May 05, 2012

Writing doesn't take a collaboration. YOU create the art without interference from other artists. However, creating in a void of other's opinions can hazardous to your creative process. Without that input from others I never can e sure I'm on the right track... that CAN be good... or bad. Feedback is good as long as it doesn't consist only of "That's GOOD" or "That really SUCKS!"

The Gravity of Gravity

Sometimes the universe is short and thin enough

to walk across in less than a dream minute.

Sometimes the universe shrinks

to the size of a handkerchief which

you may quickly fold into an evenly

proportioned square then slide neatly

and quietly into your back pocket,

pulling it out only when the allergies

kick in, or you’re alone watching

a very sad movie.

But sometimes the universe is too vast, too

dark and way too deep for someone like me.

Sometimes it frightens me

how clumsily it's laid out.

All those gases floating about

bumping into each other, exploding

into clouds of radiation. All those planets

rotating, gyrating around each other,

too self-conscious to just say, "Hey,

wanna go out for coffee?" 

                                                       rrw 5-04-12

Wednesday

May 02, 2012

Well, it's May. My birthday in 21 days! 64! Yikes. A lot of the poetry I write is autobiographical in a way. This one was written in 2008. Did massive rewrites on it yesterday and today.

The White Whale

Ahab’s thinking had begun to falter,

inappropriate gestures cleaved

the air when his words failed

to convey his annoyance  with

the entire world. And those who

once sought his company soon

departed, perplexed by his

nastiness towards family and

friends. Some merely shook their

heads and walk away as fast as

they could from that crazy old

man who yelled at himself.

Long draws of a cigarette, deep

meaningful sighs. Regret tossed

his nicotine stained thoughts

across the campus parking lot—

the smaller one—next to the

building where his office

used to be.

Was it too soon to tell his life

story? Give away the ending

both pathetic and gory! A short

piece, no doubt, capped off with

one finale rebellious shout,

“To hell with ya, damn you all.”

Days on days, night unto night.

He had long ago lost his appetite

for breathing, for the romance

associated with young girls

in extremely short dresses,

their hideously long legs and

ample bottoms and the way

they laughed when they realized

he was watching them.

He lived alone, no kids. No wife.

A few potted plants scattered ‘round

the house confirmed that he was

somewhat human after all.

The white whale that he carried on his back

had finally taken its toll. All those years now

sadly gone. Too many ghosts remained wrapped

about his balding head, too many memories

strapped inside his fragile mind. But what a

ride, what a joyous ride it must have been.

For someone else.

Yes, yes, he'll surely die. But not today.

Perhaps tomorrow? The day after?

The winter winds may blow a viral

disease his way, which his hungry

lungs would eagerly ingest, suggesting,

yes, that suicide was always an option

he left open on the small coffee table

next to his bed.

No more of this!

No more green-soul shoes, bowler hats!

Yes, all shall be for nothing someday.

Time does not march at a steadfast pace

but wobbles forth on wooden legs

searching for the setting sun, but finding

only distant stars to complain to.

One flesh made of flesh. High heels

 and guarder belts left welts upon

his muscle memory. A borrowed quote,

“To be or not to be”, formed a

permanent crease on his spittle

caked mouth.

And in the middle of the night he often

cried out, “Great God Almighty, THAR

SHE BLOWS! The end has come, the end

is here at last!”

But it hasn’t come, no, not yet.

And perhaps for him it never will.

                                                           rrw 5-2-12