This thing called time
I need time.
Making time out of nothing at all.
Is this time?
Is your time in vain?
That's the way time goes.
Crazy in time.
Burning time.
Abandoned time.
Time sick.
Addicted to time.
I want to know what time is.
Endless time.
A groovy kind of time.
All out of time.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Transfiguration refigured
I am very humbly grateful that this poem was included among the top 50 of the Poetic Asides April challenge . Thanks Robert! Reprinted here from the April 17th "Big Picture" prompt (with some corrections)
Transfiguration refigured
Fighting sleep in the blinding light
the first thing to do is make tents?
Peter runs off, grabs goat skins
and ropes and while the cloud
is trying to encompass
them, God trying to be heard,
the disciples are busy hoisting
and raising as if it could be contained.
But the dazzling brightness
keeps blazing through,
burning holes in the goat skin,
brightness not stopping
God still shouting
and nothing stops it all
from disappearing,
going back to normal
so that everyone wonders
whether any of it really happened,
except now there’s a piece of charred goat skin.
Centuries later, it's a fragment of tapestry,
the face of love gazing out into the cathedral
until it shimmies off as a spider,
spins out to become a spiral galaxy;
the face had only been holding its breath
wincing in the flashbulbs of our folly.
Transfiguration refigured
Fighting sleep in the blinding light
the first thing to do is make tents?
Peter runs off, grabs goat skins
and ropes and while the cloud
is trying to encompass
them, God trying to be heard,
the disciples are busy hoisting
and raising as if it could be contained.
But the dazzling brightness
keeps blazing through,
burning holes in the goat skin,
brightness not stopping
God still shouting
and nothing stops it all
from disappearing,
going back to normal
so that everyone wonders
whether any of it really happened,
except now there’s a piece of charred goat skin.
Centuries later, it's a fragment of tapestry,
the face of love gazing out into the cathedral
until it shimmies off as a spider,
spins out to become a spiral galaxy;
the face had only been holding its breath
wincing in the flashbulbs of our folly.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Rain Bop
Rain Bop
Green hides only deeper green,
raindrops playing hide and seek
in leaves that just can’t wait to be found
and we are so sick of the gray skies
and gloom: we want to go outside
but look, sadly, through streaked windows.
In dry places, people are crying for rain
We remember only tears and pain.
People sing of migraines.
Ball players toss wet balls and crawl
into dugouts, dripping with loss or victory:
what matter. We are drowning.
Levees are breaking and floods engulf fields.
We change our screen savers to desert scenes
and listen because we were told that
In dry places, people are crying for rain.
The meteorologists barely muster a smile
when they promise, that the end of the week
may hold a glimmer of blue.
What is blue? we ask one another, having forgotten.
It is green without yellow, a wise one speaks.
It is hope without ribbons. It is knowledge:
In dry places, people are crying for rain.
See http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/2011/05/12/WDPoeticFormChallengeTheBop.aspx
Green hides only deeper green,
raindrops playing hide and seek
in leaves that just can’t wait to be found
and we are so sick of the gray skies
and gloom: we want to go outside
but look, sadly, through streaked windows.
In dry places, people are crying for rain
We remember only tears and pain.
People sing of migraines.
Ball players toss wet balls and crawl
into dugouts, dripping with loss or victory:
what matter. We are drowning.
Levees are breaking and floods engulf fields.
We change our screen savers to desert scenes
and listen because we were told that
In dry places, people are crying for rain.
The meteorologists barely muster a smile
when they promise, that the end of the week
may hold a glimmer of blue.
What is blue? we ask one another, having forgotten.
It is green without yellow, a wise one speaks.
It is hope without ribbons. It is knowledge:
In dry places, people are crying for rain.
See http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/2011/05/12/WDPoeticFormChallengeTheBop.aspx
Monday, May 2, 2011
Friday, April 29, 2011
April 29 Ode
Ode to Spring
Even willows drape yellow.
Red maple buds
Burst now, suddenly open, green.
Sixty-three degrees
and girls hear the call of their skin--
Show me show me show me--
prance around in tiny shorts
while boys jump off rocks into chill pond.
Nearby, peepers start up chirping
and salamanders follow their lovingly built
crossing, avoid being squashed beneath tires.
Amherst buzzes with it: the light!
Forsythia! Rhododendrons and daffodils!
No stopping it now.
Even willows drape yellow.
Red maple buds
Burst now, suddenly open, green.
Sixty-three degrees
and girls hear the call of their skin--
Show me show me show me--
prance around in tiny shorts
while boys jump off rocks into chill pond.
Nearby, peepers start up chirping
and salamanders follow their lovingly built
crossing, avoid being squashed beneath tires.
Amherst buzzes with it: the light!
Forsythia! Rhododendrons and daffodils!
No stopping it now.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
April 28 without something
Without the train’s whistle,
I wouldn’t look up every so often,
asking, what’s that music?
Is an organ playing somewhere?
I wouldn’t think of Emily Dickinson
hearing the same train a little ways
down the track, some time ago
or remember the retired librarian
who gave a little wave and a smile,
and jumped in front of the train.
Without the train’s whistle,
I’d likely forget the music of distance.
I wouldn’t look up every so often,
asking, what’s that music?
Is an organ playing somewhere?
I wouldn’t think of Emily Dickinson
hearing the same train a little ways
down the track, some time ago
or remember the retired librarian
who gave a little wave and a smile,
and jumped in front of the train.
Without the train’s whistle,
I’d likely forget the music of distance.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
April 27 In the this of that
In the clamor of innocence
longing to be knowledge,
unwary children jangle like spare change
in the pocket of God’s cargo pants.
Forgotten hitchhikers climb pillars
of broken thumbs, trembling with error,
squashing berries of lust.
At last the hush of razors.
longing to be knowledge,
unwary children jangle like spare change
in the pocket of God’s cargo pants.
Forgotten hitchhikers climb pillars
of broken thumbs, trembling with error,
squashing berries of lust.
At last the hush of razors.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
April 26 Lead or follow
Marriage: a dance
His daily whims
take the family
through complex choreography.
We become a team of ginger
rogerses (backwards and in high heels).
Today he thinks we should move to Utah,
ski all winter and trap stallions
in the spring. Tomorrow
he’ll decide a hammock
for our little yard will suffice.
We count our blessings
his father made him fear boats.
His daily whims
take the family
through complex choreography.
We become a team of ginger
rogerses (backwards and in high heels).
Today he thinks we should move to Utah,
ski all winter and trap stallions
in the spring. Tomorrow
he’ll decide a hammock
for our little yard will suffice.
We count our blessings
his father made him fear boats.
Monday, April 25, 2011
April 25 Falling
Birds falling from the sky
Trees balancing on branches
Roots like antennae scraping clouds
Searching for a signal where
where is the nest
With its pale blue eggs
Has your vacuum inhaled them,
Sent them through the void
Like a message to the conductor
Of the train twisted orchestrally?
Clap, ye martyrs.
Trees balancing on branches
Roots like antennae scraping clouds
Searching for a signal where
where is the nest
With its pale blue eggs
Has your vacuum inhaled them,
Sent them through the void
Like a message to the conductor
Of the train twisted orchestrally?
Clap, ye martyrs.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
April 24 Poem on Prayer
Cheating at Prayer 1
It hurts! It hurts!
With mother, band-aids
Appeared, bearing lady-bug
Designs. With God, a nod
Yes—and?
Cheating at Prayer 2
You don’t love me.
If you loved as much
as the preacher says,
I’d be happy.
Happy. Hmmm. I see.
Cheating at Prayer 3
This is really the last time
I’m asking You for a favor.
If it doesn’t turn out right
I’m done.
OK then.
See you tomorrow.
Same time.
It hurts! It hurts!
With mother, band-aids
Appeared, bearing lady-bug
Designs. With God, a nod
Yes—and?
Cheating at Prayer 2
You don’t love me.
If you loved as much
as the preacher says,
I’d be happy.
Happy. Hmmm. I see.
Cheating at Prayer 3
This is really the last time
I’m asking You for a favor.
If it doesn’t turn out right
I’m done.
OK then.
See you tomorrow.
Same time.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
April 23 quit what you’re doing
Dear Sisyphus,
thank you for showing me
just how ridiculous
I am with my inability
to admit I’m beaten,
even after all the tortoises
have finished the race
and are hoisting
their well-deserved pints,
toasting their glossy publications.
This persistence is no virtue,
this continuing to write poem
after dreadful poem:
it’s just habit.
What else is there to do,
but push that stone?
thank you for showing me
just how ridiculous
I am with my inability
to admit I’m beaten,
even after all the tortoises
have finished the race
and are hoisting
their well-deserved pints,
toasting their glossy publications.
This persistence is no virtue,
this continuing to write poem
after dreadful poem:
it’s just habit.
What else is there to do,
but push that stone?
Friday, April 22, 2011
April 22 Only
An only child,
the only one
to hear
angry words sparking
through night air,
falling as dust
behind the couch.
Only the child
remembers, tries
to make sense
of the jagged words,
still glowing in her mind.
Could she be sure
they were really screamed:
the accusations,
declarations of despair?
Under the couch,
she finds only
gum wrappers
and a forgotten doll.
the only one
to hear
angry words sparking
through night air,
falling as dust
behind the couch.
Only the child
remembers, tries
to make sense
of the jagged words,
still glowing in her mind.
Could she be sure
they were really screamed:
the accusations,
declarations of despair?
Under the couch,
she finds only
gum wrappers
and a forgotten doll.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
April 21 second thoughts
Second thoughts? That would require
excavation—an archeological dig.
I’ve been through third, fourth
and well beyond thoughts, am quite
deeply immersed in the infinite loop
of regret. How far back
does the chain of blame go?
Birth, conception,
parental conception, the
cries of the persecuted, the exiles,
the wanderers on the earth.
The hemlock swaying so abashed
by the wind, beaten into showing
its lighter leaf undersides.
excavation—an archeological dig.
I’ve been through third, fourth
and well beyond thoughts, am quite
deeply immersed in the infinite loop
of regret. How far back
does the chain of blame go?
Birth, conception,
parental conception, the
cries of the persecuted, the exiles,
the wanderers on the earth.
The hemlock swaying so abashed
by the wind, beaten into showing
its lighter leaf undersides.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
April 19 Love and anti love
Love: a Literary History
First came Love Story
with the profundity we pre-teens
lapped up: “Love means never
having to say you’re sorry.”
Our parents recoiled with rightful horror.
Then we read Fromm’s The Art of Love,
and explained it to ourselves
and each other: all I can now recall
is egoism a deux,
which does explain quite a few.
Next we all spied in Nin’s House of Love
excluded from the feasts
others enjoyed.
Hints of lesbianism and incest
but whose was that hairy chest?
Once I read a book that said Love
is God or was it the other way
around, or ought it not be a reflexive
statement anyway, if love is love
and God is within, without and above.
First came Love Story
with the profundity we pre-teens
lapped up: “Love means never
having to say you’re sorry.”
Our parents recoiled with rightful horror.
Then we read Fromm’s The Art of Love,
and explained it to ourselves
and each other: all I can now recall
is egoism a deux,
which does explain quite a few.
Next we all spied in Nin’s House of Love
excluded from the feasts
others enjoyed.
Hints of lesbianism and incest
but whose was that hairy chest?
Once I read a book that said Love
is God or was it the other way
around, or ought it not be a reflexive
statement anyway, if love is love
and God is within, without and above.
Monday, April 18, 2011
April 18 “Like”
Like I always said,
no one can predict:
you just can’t tell
Like I would have listened
had anyone warned me
but no one did: no one ever does
Like there’s any point
Like anyone ever learns
any way except the hard way.
no one can predict:
you just can’t tell
Like I would have listened
had anyone warned me
but no one did: no one ever does
Like there’s any point
Like anyone ever learns
any way except the hard way.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
April 17 Big Picture
Transfiguration refigured
Fighting sleep in the blinding light
the first thing to do is make tents?
Peter runs off, gets goat skins and ropes
and while the cloud is trying to encompass
them, and God is trying to be heard,
the disciples are busy hoisting
and raising as if it could be contained.
But the dazzling brightness
keeps blazing through,
burning holes in the goat skin,
brightness not stopping
God still shouting
and nothing stops it all
from disappearing,
going back to normal
so that everyone wonders
whether any of it really happened,
except now there’s a piece of charred goat skin.
Centuries later, it's a piece of a tapestry,
the face of love gazing out into the cathedral
but finallay shimmies off a spider,
spins out into a spiral galaxy,
the face had only been holding its breath
wincing in the flashbulbs of our folly.
Fighting sleep in the blinding light
the first thing to do is make tents?
Peter runs off, gets goat skins and ropes
and while the cloud is trying to encompass
them, and God is trying to be heard,
the disciples are busy hoisting
and raising as if it could be contained.
But the dazzling brightness
keeps blazing through,
burning holes in the goat skin,
brightness not stopping
God still shouting
and nothing stops it all
from disappearing,
going back to normal
so that everyone wonders
whether any of it really happened,
except now there’s a piece of charred goat skin.
Centuries later, it's a piece of a tapestry,
the face of love gazing out into the cathedral
but finallay shimmies off a spider,
spins out into a spiral galaxy,
the face had only been holding its breath
wincing in the flashbulbs of our folly.
April 16 snapshot
Snapshot
Snapdragons spoke easily to me
a gentle touch opened their jaws
for velvet voices:
Yellow wisdom
rich red remarks.
Why are they silent now?
Snapdragons spoke easily to me
a gentle touch opened their jaws
for velvet voices:
Yellow wisdom
rich red remarks.
Why are they silent now?
Friday, April 15, 2011
April 15 Profile
Blitz poem (but shorter) to the Old Man in the Mountain (also known as Profile) of NH
Face Up Now
Mountain top rock
Mountain top face
Face of a man
Face of a God
God’s sign
God of interstate
Interstate through a Notch
Interstate by Frost’s place
Place in New Hampshah
Place in the universe
Universe wide
Universe cold as ice
Ice sheet receded
Ice age eroded
Eroding continued
Eroding never stopped
Stopped the face
Stopped the falling
Falling overnight
Falling into day
Day of wreckage
Day of emblems lost
Lost the symbol on coins
Lost the image on signs
Sign of permanence once
Sign of transience now
Now we gaze at crumbling
Now we hike and ski alone
Alone
Crumbling
Face Up Now
Mountain top rock
Mountain top face
Face of a man
Face of a God
God’s sign
God of interstate
Interstate through a Notch
Interstate by Frost’s place
Place in New Hampshah
Place in the universe
Universe wide
Universe cold as ice
Ice sheet receded
Ice age eroded
Eroding continued
Eroding never stopped
Stopped the face
Stopped the falling
Falling overnight
Falling into day
Day of wreckage
Day of emblems lost
Lost the symbol on coins
Lost the image on signs
Sign of permanence once
Sign of transience now
Now we gaze at crumbling
Now we hike and ski alone
Alone
Crumbling
Thursday, April 14, 2011
April 14 MYOB
Thank you for your interest
in reading this poem.
Its contents are classified
however, and the remainder
of its lines will be
in reading this poem.
Its contents are classified
however, and the remainder
of its lines will be
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