Transition

He threw all of his t-shirts away
when he found out his sentence.
Cast them out with his freedom,
for he would not need their tired
messages, they would not clothe his
purpose correctly after the journey.
There's something to be said for
not selling anyone down the river
for a lighter load to bear.
Not too much to be said for sitting
there longer than one must.
He was gone much of the time before
he left. On a bus to anywhere, somewhere
other than home, Any way to move,
to be fluid in his space,preparing
for being just the opposite,
stationary within the walls,
for longer, because he would not crack
and sell them out. He moved just to look
at the changing, blurry scenery
that sped through time and seemed
to also stop it.
Make it stand still just long enough.
For him to take note, reveal it's purpose.

The Models are Drunk Again

Scuplted garments fall to the floor
as the long limbs of the girls
shed them off. They hurry to
shimmy into the shelter of the next.
As the lights change and as they are cued,
walk in wobbly heels with the grace of gazelles.
Show the work of the nervous girl in the back
The short one who has an eye for form and function.
And a love of luxe. A gather,pleat, or hem
in exactly the right spot. Sewn in
where it will flatter the fabric.

I've Fallen Behind

Earth Day

(I have no idea where I was going with this. Maybe I've been sitting in the sun too much.)


The people gather to watch as the bold few
share their words and songs with the mother.
A nature poem here, and song about mountains
and seas there. Falling together as others
walk by, on their way to more important events.

An anstonished crowd looks on as one who is so
bold as to sing about her lover, who was swallowed
up by the sea, and how she must look to dry land
now that he is gone and not see the waves wash up.

The sun shines on the ones who paint bright pictures
on themselves and paper, wisking away to worship
and all along missing the point. That the earth is here
to hold them until forever, and they should worship it once in awhile.

Frantically he waves his arms, calling up the bold to
sell the value of the earth and it's contents,
not to the highest bidder but to those who would
hold it and trust it's instincts.
For we all know, that Mother knows best.

Lush

The green of this place
seems to set upon me.
It wraps it's humid arms
around me and rocks my
body from side to side
with a breeze that blew in
with the rain.
The green seems to swallow
everything that dares
to be any other hue.
It dances and slithers
its way up to sky
trying desperately to
convince the sun to go away
and let it play
a litle while longer.

Ignatius J. Reilly

I have a class with Ignatius J. Reilly.
He sits in the front and is oh so wily.
He is disguised to be sure so that we won't bother
his sensitive valve while he talks of his mother.

He is missing his green cap and his pirate sword
But I know it is him with every word
That comes out in opinions on this and that
I know it his him without the fucking hat.

He preaches and rails, and probably paints posters
about how the teacher fails, oh how he roasts her!
He's sloppy and belchy, and rolls over the chair
and always seems to be scratching his hair.

I know it is you, Ignatius! I want to scream,
when he speaks of a righteous uprising against the silver screen.
Dude, it's just Theatre Apprectiation Class
Not such a righteous cause, you ass.

Early Morning Drive

Nothing is quite
as unexpected
as the calm that
reveals itself
on an early morning drive.

The world seems
to be shaking off
slumber, wiping
sleep from its eyes;
just as I do.

I sit back in my mind
and calmly pick
my topics of thought
as my hands grip the
wheel and propel
myself into the
still dark dawn.

My headlights
point the way
as I gather myself
toward my destination
and the sun creeps
along the horizon.

I think this time of day
must be when people plan
the world.
Over a gas station coffee cup
cruising down Hwy. 9
drifting through the morning
and arriving at many
conclusions
before the day knows it.
Before it has even had time
to shine.

A Path of Pots

At work, we pave the foot paths and fill in holes in the driveway with pottery that cracked during the bisque firing. There's no use for them even though it makes for quite the expensive pavement. I thought it was sad.

Your feet move over

These poor little pieces of broken pots.

Broken bowls and plates, vases, bakers

And casserole dishes

You move over them like

That these are the things paths are made of.

But they lie there, knowing

That had they not cracked

Under the heavy eye of the master,

Had they held it together

Instead of splitting

And falling apart,

They could have been something great.

What kind of paths are made

with shattered dreams?

What million dollar heartaches

Submit and lift up your sole?

Isn't it the way many paths

Are made?

Many fail and line the path

That leads to the few

That get to sit

With honor and such hard

Cold

Beauty

Upon the shelf.

Yes, These are the things that paths are made of.

I’ve got John Lee hooker and Dilated Pupils

Okay, I pulled this one out of the back of the closet (Ha!) I shined it up a little bit, but as with the rest of them, it's still pretty rough.

 

I will braid your hair

For an excuse to run my

Fingers down your spine

We will forget by morning

That we ever had the desire

To explore each other's bodies

And we will not blame

Honest attraction, but

Instead, the beer, and wine

And go back to the party

Coffee

This is last Sunday's poem.

Every morning I slide out of bed

To put on my face

And then drive to the café

I smile and make conversation

with the girl behind the counter

and then take my cup

to the counter and sweeten it a little.

I browse the community bulletin board

Turn around

Take my first sip

And

Awaken.

Catch Up

Yesterday's Poem
(edited 4/10/09, still needs work!)

How unnatural is seems
to be locked up
within the cold stone walls
with their steel and wire frames.
Unnatural that we go all day
without one single breathe
of fresh air or that we
rush from one cage
to the next without a single
discerning glimpse of
the natural world around.

It is almost gone,
the natural world, it seems to be
eaten up by sidewalks to protect
our nice shoes, that fit so nicely
inside the cages.

Demolished in part, by our greed.
Demolished in part, by our laziness.

We have come so far, or have
we simply lost our way
from the days when it was just as natural
to shove hands into the earth
to coax one's food to grow.

And sit outside, after a long days
toil; with the hum of nature
all around. Eating a meal
with dirty fingernails,
that was raised up with the same.

Dreaming of the day, where they might
sit inside and breathe cool air
even in the dead of summer heat.

But even now, when one world
has been destroyed for another,
buildings and families
and lives have crumbled.

Demolished, in part by our greed.
Demolished, in part by our hastiness.

To Lay Me Down

To lay me down
I need a pillow
in which to put under my head.

I also will require
a blanket or quilt
so that I do not catch a chill.

I would like a mattress underneath
that is soft and not too firm.
So that I may sink into it while I dream.

A dark room, an alarm, a bedside table
with a lamp, a night shirt
and a quiet house.

All to lay me down.
But if you have none of that,

I should just like to have
the crook of your arm
to rest my head.
And possibly the big night sky
to wrap up in.
Maybe your legs tangled up with mine.

That is really all that I require
to lay me down.

(I have the poems from this weekend to upload, but haven't gotten a chance yet. They'll come soon.)

Dear Houseguest, (I'm gonna get medievil on your ass)

Oh ye who refuses to bathe.
Whose acrid smell wraps around
my living room
And sneaks under my door.

Ye who stinks like the flounder
stuck upon shore with no tide in sight.
You are not welcome; You are not welcome anymore.

I gracefully let you in
When a thousand other faces
Would have not.
And bided by your bodily odor
for over one thousand hours.

The maidens shrink away from your room
With it's vile and putrid air.
And must hold cloth over their face
when ever they must enter there.

Your robes are stiff with pine and sweat.
And often they scream to be off;
Free of all that binds them to your body
and set down in the washer woman's basket.

But it is time we bid farewell
let it be known I do not think you
a ne'er-do-well.
Just maybe an ablutophobe.

Prized Possession

(A very rough draft. Critiques welcome.)

There were two panels of stained-glass
In the house that I grew up in.
They framed the front door
That opened up to a hardwood forest
That cushioned my house from the world.

I remember looking up at the glass
as it cast its amber colored light upon me
and wishing that I could be
so tall
as to touch it.

The glass creations
were an artistic interpretation
of a woman's most prized posession.
The uterus.
They hung upside down
speaking volumes about
the woman
who put them there.

My mother had put them there.
She had discovered them
while digging through bins at
a flea-market one June.
They were nestled in between
stiff, wrinkled copies of Ladies Home Journal
and forgotten and quite moldy
crocheted throws.
She saved them from certain waste.

They rode in the back of the van,
promising her that they
would shed their light
on her and womanhood
as soon as the house was built.

For months the glass waited
faithfully following her
on every trip to town.
Until it was time to be placed
into their positions.

When it was time,
my mother
pulled them out.
Only to find that the beautiful glass,
had shattered, held only together
by the lead that framed each shape.

My mother felt as broken as the glass
and wept for the prized possession
that she had failed to give new life to.
And she swiped her tears away
and hung them anyway.
Blemishes and all.

And there in their place of honor,
framing the door that looked upon the woods,
I saw them. Long after my mother
herself, had cracked beyond repair
and relinquished her prized possession.
With my hand, outstretched to reach up
to the amber colored light that
wrapped itself around me
like a maternal embrace,
I stood there wishing
I could be
so tall
as to touch it.

I woke up to a moaning monsoon

That hung around just outside my window.

I rolled over to redeposit myself in my sheets

And let the sound of the storm

Sway me back to sleep.

As I awoke later

I pulled on my pants

And open my door to find that all around my room

The stampede of the storm had subsided

To a rhythmic rush of rain.

It had cleansed the smut off everything

And baptized the blossoms with

Thousands of tiny tears.

I was left with a new day

In that mellow mixture of green

That means everything

Will be alright.

Punch

I have always felt like I am the author
and life is the book.
I sit at the old typewriter in the corner
of my room, and punch each key
like I mean it.
The introduction went well,
The character has been well formed
but the plot is always
just beyond my reach.
(But I have a working outline.)

I've had time to plan and dream
scheme, draw, list, and organize
the next chapter.
"The lady goes off to California
and wears pretty dresses every day
so that the cool Pacific air floats around her legs."

As I step onto the plane,
lugging my ancient typewriter,
I, the author,
will have to jot down
a reminder
to remember
to keep punching the keys
like I mean it.