Sometimes, the words just pour and you need to grab some paper to mop it up before others drown in the overflow…
Poem #6 of 30
human movement minimal-
as if everyone but our small tribe
has traveled off planet
and we are left behind
uninvited to what’s happening anywhere else
in isolation
the inner voice yells its agenda
PACE
EAT
CREATE
RESEARCH
do something
do nothing
are they different?
now, in this void of action
left to our own devices
we sit like children
outside the principal’s office
waiting
for a ride home
I was angry
and I let it go
I was hurt
and I let it go
I was worried
and I let it go
I was sad
and I let it go
I was scared
and I let it go
Now,
it’s me
without the reasons why
it will never work-
I am free to begin
unburdened
there were no sirens
no practice drill
to ready us for this
like the vapid teen in the slasher film
another fool swaggers out
into the village taunting the threat
unaware he’s brought the killer home
where it will steal the breath
from his mother’s mother
here- north of the world
in this small village
we don’t feel the cold punch of truth
the city dwellers face
here- we can still pretend there is a place
called “Over There”
where that thing happened one spring
we can still imagine
summer waiting
fresh and clear and lush
with night blooming jasmine
and sweet hammock dreams
on a hot August night
and we are all, still, immortal
in our bathroom mirrors
If you had known
before you signed the book-
agreeing to this mortal life-
that you would know
first hand
first heart
what it would be
to rise up out of yourself in ecstacy-
to fold down into yourself in grief-
that you would hand your heart to someone
who would later, hand it back
scarred, with missing pieces-
the only evidence of an entwined life that would,
forever
define love for you…
If you had known
that those two-syllable words
would start your world
and stop it
in the seconds it would take to say them-
would you have said hello
knowing that goodbye was destined?
Motion of the roadway
Opens floodgates
To almost forgotten journeys
Other people
Other places
Each, all my world
In their own golden moments
Tattooed now onto my heart
Every face
Every voice
~my private gallery
National Poetry Writing Month ~ 30 Poems in 30 Days ~ Poem # 16 of 30
So,
It’s down to this, is it?
You, who can not handle the beauty and significance of a building you did not build, you do not love; you have decided to burn it to the ground
You, who can not handle the beauty and the wisdom of women; you have decided to burn them, assault them, rape them, sell them, murder them
You, who are insanely jealous of the fact that females carry life inside them; you have decided to pass laws about what is in their bodies or not.
You who can not control your own erections; you have decided to cover women from head to toe so you won’t have to mature and control your own penises.
You who can not handle the thought of anyone else having water or shelter or food or good health; you have decided to covet the water sources, the food and the access to shelter, doling out small tastes of life sustaining elements for extortionist prices while you hoard the lion’s share
You, who can not handle the thought of a country that allows its citizens free speech, its women to vote and drive cars and have their voices heard at a boardroom table; you have decided to wage war against their open hearts and minds
It is down to this;
The jealous fits of rage of an adolescent male are the role model for religions, corporations and military organizations
Eleven Year Old Boys are running the world while hiding inside old men’s bodies.
It’s down to this.
It’s time for the sane adults
to bring these wicked boys in line.
Poem #13 of 30
Appointments serve as structural dividers that cordon off our days into neatly ordered sections
In the off season
Or in retirement I’d guess
The absence of these structured
Place holders causes days to collapse and run into one another
Like cake batter poured on a plate
That can not hold the volume
Yet we expect it to firm up
Once the heat of the day gets at it.
We find ourselves confused that it’s weekly trash day again
Didn’t that just happen two days ago?
The phone tells us which day this is because we didn’t care enough to cross them off on the wall calendar we never look at.
There’s some rebel, Kerouac shit that rises up in us when we eliminate time commitments
It’s a free range
Confusing beautiful.
Mess.
See you Thursday
Or not
The Train Ride
He on his train
Me on mine
Same track
Same destination
One hundred fourteen years later-
He was 15 and like his brother and cousin
Braved the ocean passage from the north side of the island
to the dirt streets and crowded immigration buildings of Ellis Island
The hard part still awaited him
The years working at the rail yards-
Carrying a meager sandwich, a partial bottle of wine and an ever present switchblade in his boot that he used for more than cutting apples grabbed from trees along the way
This rough place where boys- almost men – spoke languages foreign even to the foreigners
Working, sweating, laughing, fighting
Finding their way to gathering enough to dare a dream of a home and family
To imagine the unknown future sons who would one day bring the rest of us into this world
Like me-
Moving now on this same track
Also Chicago bound
And imagining an unknown future grandchild who may cover this same ground
In a distinct future
With her own dreams held like this journal
Filled with the promise of more
gone again these summer darlings arriving with the leaves of spring and gone in a golden whirl on the October wind across the street lights out and the thousand treasures … Continue reading Poetry Day: Summer Darlings
A new friend brought me here tonight. Into this bustle of writers where we are working alone or gathered in small groups, talking, laughing, sipping wine with others; gathering here from a 50 mile radius; our host tonight, fellow writer, maker of extraordinary sparkling wines, Larry Mawby.
It’s a picture perfect summer evening and poems are rising. Here it comes….
Dance of Soil
Vines rise on wire scaffolding
Pushing sunshine up green spines
Still summertime-
and fruit is but a dream
sleeping quietly in the roots
I have seen this dance before on other continents.
Deep in the Barossa-
Strewn across the Andalusian plain
Spread boldly through the valley at the top of California
and here, today-
Teenage vines safely held in the heart of Leelanau
All dancing to the tune
of soil and fickle weather gods
After casting their magic-
some of this …some of that
Leaning air on wood and steel.
Around the world the vintners
wait to plunge
their thief
into the barrel’s heart
Breath held- until they catch the scent
Of devil’s feet and the sound of money burning-
Or rare bouquet of perfect wine-
Kissed by sun and fanned by angel wings.
Word Ninja Girl 