Monday

April 30, 2012

Last day of the month. Last poem of April. I've learned a lot about writing that will (hopefully) translate into better poems for May. What did I learn? Be more specific. This last one is an old poem really rewritten. I don't know if it's a specific as I want to be... but it is a start.

There May Be Monsters

I can’t sing tomorrow like I use to.

These days my warble has more wobble

to it. My chirp a wooden chip clogging

up the larynx, a tissue always close at

hand incase I vomit up a phlegmy  tune or two.

Perhaps you’d rather talk about the weather

than my decaying health. How the seasons seem

to rapidly dissolve into the next,

how the nights have paled darker and

the days barely bright enough to see the faces

of all the people that you don’t love? No amount

of flattery can curb the ever growing tensions

between the north and southern poles. So, why

bother? Why bother at all? The world will die

in it’s own time with or without our consent,

with or without our pleads to see the sun again.

We could discuss fairy-folk. They’ve grown quite

elderly, you know.  Their once vibrant wings dulling

to a brownish gray, no longer strong enough

to hold their tiny bodies up, up in the dreamy air

above our sleepy heads. I blame reality for killing

childhood... along with TV shows which no longer

care about the art and craft of telling a good story.

But my mood has suddenly changed. Changed, yes,

just as the steady rain that beats against the window

has changed from a perpetual hearty beat to an uneven

murmur, a stuttering breeze, a whimpering wind

that has forgotten how to call our names.

Silence is probably the only sound we should make.

Let’s not utter a word. Let’s just sit here wrapped

around our own images of what the world should be.

One of us may dream hard enough to include

the other, yes, let’s learn to dream the land together.

I wonder, will there be monsters there? 

                                                                 rrw 4-30-12

Saturday

April 28, 2012

Okay, I got into a bit of a grove on a poem yesterday and spent this morning (and afternoon) trying to perfect it. I never know until maybe a week later whether I was successful or not.

TREE GIRL

She thinks she’s a tree

standing in the parking lot,

arms stretched out towards

the moon, dressed in the fragile

bark she was born in.

The birds are confused. They’ve

never known a tree to breathe

and hum old Joni Mitchell songs.

But they accept her for what

she appears to be building

nest in her sixties-hippie

style hair.

The alley and house cats,

however, are not as easily

deceived. Never was there a fern

or oak tree with such pinkish roots

sticking out of sandal boots, and the

squirrels too seem hesitant at first

to climb her trunk and search for nuts.

The neighbors? Well, God

bless the neighbors who

always accepted her,

never questioning anything she

does. They just stare awhile

then waddle on, grocery

bags bouncing off their

hips, chatting pleasantly

about the weather, “Sure

is warm tonight, ain’t it?”

I worry about her skin,

though. Too thin and pale,

and as I said before very

fragile, highly susceptible 

to moon burns. She refuses

to close her eyes when stars

begin to nova or a stray

meteor streaks across the

evening sky. I try to coax

her back inside, but there’s no

reasoning with her when she

shifts into full tree mode.

                                                      rrw 4-28-12 

Friday

April 27, 2012

Getting some good feedback on my poems... Unfortunately, it's only one person. Wish I would get more. I am on a site, but the critique is light. I guess I like more conversation about it with others who also writes poetry... just don't know how to find them.

By Darkness

We who choose to live by darkness

spend our nights hanging shadows on the walls,

creating curtains thick and gray to cover all the windows

so neither light of day or night can force itself upon us.

I’m grasping at thin threads of cobweb hovering above

my head,  they silently swing back and forth. The one bare

bulb that dully lights the narrow hallway also sways

like a hangman’s noose waiting for a neck.

The shag carpet licks at my sandals, my knees click a bit when

I walk. I took a fall last winter on the black-ice in the parking lot.

I don’t think about it much these days. Come to think,

I do not think at all. I’m way too busy doing nothing.

We who choose to live in darkness

sleep without a thought for dreaming.

We seldom fantasize. We merely shut our eyes

and pray the monsters never find us.

                                                                        rrw 4-26-12

Tuesday

April 24, 2012

I always love it when I feel like a poem came out of nowhere. Yeah, you start with an idea, a phrase of some kind... but you don't really know where it's headed until you get there. Sometimes I like to talk about big things by making them smaller than they really are... Not sure if that makes much sense but maybe you'll see what I mean in this poem:

Lighter Than Gravity

I’m sure you understand

how unnerving it is to... change,

to feel your body, your thoughts,

your already oddly shaped

spiritual-being transforming

magically into some... thing!

Some unmentionable... thing!

Something you never, ever

dreamed of becoming, some... thing

you never wished to be.

My friends (those very few I have)

keep telling me not to worry,

“CHANGE is inevitable, we CHANGE

everyday, from the day we were born

we CHANGE, we all CHANGE we must

CHANGE and...”

Blahblah-Blahblah-Blahblah...

If I MUST... convert to some... thing,

 I hope it’s not dirt. I hate dirt.

Pushed around by any tiny breeze

that comes along, or stuck all day

to the bottom of a shoe. What kind

of life is that? And if it rains,

you become... MUD! And I hate

mud even more than dirt!

But if I must

be akin to earth let me be dust.

Yes, stardust, those bits of cosmic

grit which drift mindlessly between

the moon, and planets and... GALAXIES! 

Yes, stardust! That’s what I’ll be.

That some... thing that’s ever so

lighter (and kinder) than gravity.

                                                                     rrw 4-24-12

Monday

April 23, 2012

Okay, so I'm learning it takes a much longer time than I want to write a poem... need to take the time BEFORE posting... So, the posts will probably less than EVERY day! I could have just replaced this poem on the blog instead of posting it as a NEW poem, but it feels new so:

Black and White

My shadow lives, his back against the wall. Secure he is,

at home he feels, the cold and gritty touch of brick

along his spine, a lover’s stroke, strong yet kind.

But in this lively world of ours where color

reigns with harsh and brittle light, this poor shadow

mine can barely find a friendly wall to stand along.

Too three dimensional this noisy world, too many wrongs

to right, and far too many wrongs unfairly justified. A shadow

leads a simpler life, one scoured clean in black and white.

                                                                                                   rrw 4-17-12

Sunday

April 22, 2012

This "little" poem was written a ways back. It didn't get much attention back then. I think it's still a bit relevant, and remains a favorite of mine.

Race Relations

‘bout three-fifteen AM rockets slammed us.
Rawls and me we headed for a bunker.
Didn’t make it. Rawls hit the deck hard,
blood spurtin’ from his right leg.
I ripped my t-shirt off, rapped it tight
‘round the wound, applied some pressure
with my hand like I was taught to do.
I could feel his blood oozin’ through
the bandage. It was sticky and warm.
Forty minutes later Corpsmen came
and hauled old Rawls away.
It didn’t matter at the time
but one of us was black,
the other white.
So what's it matter now?
                                         rrw 4-23-08

Friday

April 20, 2012

Another poem written a few years ago and rewritten here. I do't know if I should bother with doing this anymore. Not sure I'll ever be pleased with the product from the past even though I take the time to rewrite. But is it enough time? The last post I've already seen a lot of mistakes, typos and I thought I was taking my time... I got to work more on my skill as a writer. Anyway, here's another blast from the past I found on a site I no longer submit to:

The Withering

... and Death rode upon the back

of an aging mare. Once black,

her coat now withered grey,

the bloated flies of man's decay

a gnawing at her festered rump.

Within Death's talon hand

the heart of man beat red,

its rhythm racing, its septic

fluids dripping from

the ancient reaper’s scythe.

Blind the moon.

And the tortured stars,

strangling on their own deceit,

couldn’t weep for the child of man

placed gently at their feet,

a crippled child supping, sipping,

sucking calmly at the tainted blood 

flowing from Death’s open palm.

Half devoured by a starving Death,

this infant’s flesh filleted to bone,

his guiltless soul stripped naked

on a cold, hard rock

offered forth as alter for

his fruitless life.

The child, this precious child

didn’t whimper, or cry out.

Three times the knife plunged deep

into his tiny chest ripping

through the sternum, lungs, the fragile

thoughts that innocence possesses.

With those three thrusts of steel,

salvation’s hope which mankind clung to,

longed for, shriveled-up into a black hard stone.

Man’s demise tapped lightly at the door.

...and Death rode past

on his swayback steed,

her shrunken flanks

bobbing up and down

as she pranced beyond

the piercing screams

echoing from mankind's grave:

"Can you help me, sir? Please,

help us, sir...? Please?"

But the horse cared nothing

for such selfish pleading

and Death— it's sad to say—

is extremely hard of hearing.

                                                rrw 9-12-09 (rewrites 4-20-12)

Thursday

April, 19, 2012

Sometimes, it's nice to go back to a poem after... years and look at it again... where does it work, where doesn't it? That's what this one is.

i

i’m counting shadows once again.

Disgusting habit yes, i know.

As my sins sink below oblivion,

There’s really nothing else to do

here in my teeny-tiny room.

Thoughts rolled up,

and sheltered deep in arms of elms

one finds the morning crows now

whiter than the night approaching

in the dying sky.

Pointless moonlight

lurks along my windowsill,

sings silent songs to me

in sleepy notes that use to be

quite pleasant to my ear.

But i, a withered vagabond,

belonging to a beggar’s world

who now has aged beyond

himself and greets sweet night

with nose and thumb

and battles on with

a slightly sweet ho-hum

and falls quite out of place

within a universe too vast for him.

Or so it seems as i roast myself in

effigy beneath the glowing embers

cascading from my cigarette

dying long before they reach

the carpet of my ever-present gloom.

Doom on top of doom

fills the corners of the room

with scary creaks and groans

that whisper to my soul,

“ You are alone.”

My bathrobe needs a wash.

But crusts of food

and coffee stains

and frayed cuffs

feel too much like

the  warm womb must have felt

way back before the shadow

came a calling with its doubt

and found a pleasant seat somewhere

inside that fetal mind of mine.

It sat there as still as a stillborn dream.

Evict its ass? No, Alas, I couldn’t do that!

It had  always paid its rent on time.

i listen to the junkies

stumble down the stairs,

Thumpity! Thumpity! Thump…!

Down, down into a needled darkness,

ghostly off-white hoodies wandering….

Where? I do not know… or care.

i long for quiet streets and friendly neighbors

a brightly colored hula hoop about my waist

so I might lose the excess weight

that’s found a foster home

around my already ample belly.

“Whoa, Nelly!”

Dick Lane loudly spat

for Classy Freddy Blassie

finally penned Miyako to the mat

and the referee slaps, “One… two… three!”

The rest, of course,  is wrestling history.

But back to this dimension…

She has eyes that milk kindness from my rude lips;

she sucks up all the air from stale rooms leaving me

so breathlessly in love! So painfully glib her slurs,

her mispronouncing Shakespeare’s words

with a gaudy English accent that she thinks

is so alluring.... and accurate.

But her love knows not love when said love

denies my dreams in dawn’s weak light.

No gentle touch upon this scorched, dry skin,

no kisses wet upon my balding head.

A thought for love? No, no pretence

at all from love. Just old days ending

neither with a whimper or a simple… BANG!

Just life… going preposterously on...

while gently… calmly coming to a halt. 

                                                                rrw 4-05-08 (rewrites 4-19-12) 

Wednesday 

April 18, 2012

Remember What I was talking about how much time I took on the last poem? Well, after a fairly decent night's sleep, I read it over this morning and... man, too stiff. Too forced. So, made some rewrites and HOPE it's closer to what I want... I guess I'll see tomorrow. I decided to leave the old post (April 17, 2012) intact.

Black and White (2^nd draft)

My shadow lives, his back against a wall. Secure,

at home he feels. The cold and gritty touch of brick

along his spine, a lover’s stroke to him, strong but kind.

But here, within this lively world of ours where color

reigns in harsh and brittle light, this poor shadow

mine can barely find a friendly wall to stand upon.

Too three dimensional, our world. Too many voices shouting,

too many wrongs to be righted, too many wrongs made right.

A shadow’s life is simpler, at peace in black and white.

                                                                                            rrw 4-17-12

Tuesday

April 17. 2012

Writing poetry seems to me to be a lot like cooking. Takes time to season it right, takes time to cook, allow the flavors to blend. About 8 hours writing this piece... still not sure if it's simmered enough.

Black and White

My shadow lives, his back against the wall. Secure,

at home he feels. The cold and gritty touch of brick

along his spine, a lover’s stroke, strong but kind.

Here, within this crippled world color reigns with harsh

and brutal light. It carves the aging scars into my shadow’s

legs and thighs. Here, poor shadow mine, can’t possibly survive.

Far too many colors in it, too many wrongs to right,

too many rights made wrong in it. A shadow’s life is

simpler, a peaceful world submerged in black and white.

                                                                                                   rrw 4-17-12

Sunday

April 15, 2012

Damn. Missed a day of posting. Basically, because this one took me awhile to get right. But also because I went to see a movie today. I like going to movies but I wish I had a friend to go with.

Giving

The flesh dissolving to a fine paste.

Bones splintering, cutting away

at tendons, the muscles ground

down to mists of foggy red. There

was blood once, rivers of it, rapids

rushing to the open seas of an open

heart, engorging the brain with lakes

and oceans full of malignant thought.

Rushing, forever rushing, filling

the empty knot between my legs.

Will I remember the feeling of fingers

impatiently taping the back of my neck

once my desire to feel has withered away?

Will I remember you? Your kisses wet,

somewhat smoke-stained bitter and yet

somehow uncommonly sweet. Your spiky

tongue drilling its way between my teeth,

impaling itself to the roof of my mouth.

Sometimes the only love we felt was the pain

we offered each other.

Soon the memory of time will be dead.

Days will waste away into hours, hours

will fade to moments, to seconds. If I

had the courage, I would shut my eyes so

hard the sun would refuse to ever shine again.

                                                                               rrw 4-15-12

Friday

April 13, 2012

It must be nice to have more than one B-Day a year!  

An old poem that I've been working on for awhile. Still not sure if it's exactly where I want it... but, I suppose, if you write in one direction long enough, it will lead you to another way of expressing yourself. I did use the poster design from Romero's Land of the Dead. Need to make my own zombie pic for it some time soon.

The Weathergirl Promises

and Flesh Eating Zombies

Somehow, in some damn way the day seems off.

Although the pleasant little weathergirl (Yeah, she was hot!)

said, Heavy thunder storms to be expected—

None, not one, not a single one (as of yet)

has shown its grieving face. No hail, no

thick sheets of rain, not even the hint

of disgruntled cloud. Just clear blue skies

to impale my sad eyes upon.

I don’t like disappointment... of any kind.

I’ve worn my waterproof jacket for goodness sakes,

my winter boots... in the middle of July, and there

appears to be—on this sun scorched day,

at this sweaty moment in time— no apparent

reason for having done so. I hate it when God

reneges on a solemn promise no matter

how pleasant the final outcome might be.

And damn, George Romero while I’m at it.

His flesh eating zombies moved quite slow

like Jell-O on legs, in the 60s, devouring all we

 breathing things that got in their way

at an extremely, leisurely pace. Perhaps

it’s because  they were dead and just couldn’t

eat that fast, or maybe, just maybe, they didn’t

have anywhere to go, no pressing appointments

to keep, no distraught friend waiting in a café,

waiting patiently to tell someone, anyone

how lonely this life has become!

                                   

Or perhaps they were just being polite.            

But monsters, these days, move way too fast for me.

Emails! Computers! Lightening speeds consume

the flesh, mind and spirit with little time between

breakfast, lunch or dinner to take a quiet moment

to be really, really horrified by text messaging.

                       

Gone in a Cyberspace mini-sec... all gone. No

hesitation, no reservations… skin and bone

gobbled-up like so much raw tofu… all humanness,

depleted, deleted… defeated by one, tiny misstep

on the cell phone of life!

The bogyman, dressed in black dragon tats,

tall and pale, he waits at the gates

of his Facebook account… Woohahaha!

I don’t want to be forgotten when I die

or eaten alive by computerized zombies

who will (more than likely) swallow me

whole then assume my identity.

Please, someone, remember me... as me…

one who wrote simpleminded  poetry

and was... almost  always human.

                                                            rrw 7-10-08 

                                                                            (rewrite 1-30-12)

Thursday

April 12, 2012

Well, the day has by at a reasonable rate, much like the traffic outside my living room window... steady, sturdy a flow each car leaving just enough room bumper to bumper to slow if absolutely necessary... Yes, the has gone by note at a coffee and cigarette pace... more like a nicotine patch, and a hot cocoa jog from my lips to the intestines which grumble hungrily at the warmth the dark chocolate and the white marshmallows generate...

Regret

The bedroom stays moderately cool since your hasty departure.

Particularly frigid that side of the bed you claimed for your own

when we first moved in, “The Right Side.” The name chosen

by you, no doubt, to commemorate your point of view whenever

we argued over some unimportant, domestic  issue like whether

or not I should toss my dirty socks in the middle of the living room

floor,  leaving them there to pile up until “Laundry Sunday.”

Can’t say I regret the absence of your snoring even though

it wasn’t an unpleasant sound. More like a baby breathing

than a locomotive passing through our apartment.

But that thick glob of golden brown hair that always

clogged the bathtub drain? No, I don’t miss that at all!

Standing ankle deep in lukewarm water every time

I took a shower isn’t a fond memory.

I often forget that you’re gone: asking you questions

as I place my one plate and one fork into the dishwasher,

angry at you for a moment because you’re not here to answer.

Sometimes I’ll roll over in the middle of the night,

my fingers reach for you ... and touch nothing

but darkness. Sometimes I hear a funny story

at work and say to myself, “She’ll get a kick out of that...”

then realize you won’t be there when I get home.

I suppose it really doesn’t matter, ‘cause

you never laughed at my jokes... only at me.

                                                                                  rrw 1-4-12