Archive | May, 2012

Chapter 1 – Perhaps

23 May

The blankness

Of this page

Is lurid

I am a waterless well

My poetry leaves me for dry wit

Here in Finland.

Circa 1991

Perhaps I am not a poet, but a mere peasant in the field of loneliness. Plucking away at the fruit of my labors until my knuckles are calloused and bleeding. Only to rise and sell my harvest to the highest bidder or the most handsome man in the village for a simple compliment. Or a kiss. A kiss that would linger on my lips through sun quenched rainfall in the field, in the mud with only my bag of onions and a memory of you. The kiss you gave me as I left your bed that early morning in July. Your hands and mine entwined for a only a second in time. My tears still wash away the grime. The only rainbow I see ends not at the pot of gold but at your feet. And in your eyes I see the rain.

The rain that once caressed my cheeks to rinse away the stains. The rain that fell the night before I left you to drench that cotton dress and drip from my hair to your chest, heaving in wet delight. My feet are heavy with this field. I feel it hard to escape until I have dropped my baggage but it usually falls on my toes. So, I must carry my own weight. From the start your presence beside me on this road of life could not impair my perseverance. We are lovers individual and self-sufficient, sharing our lives as well as strife.

With your hand holding mine we can walk through the field. My other hand managing the weight of my harvest and your reaching for your own goals. Together the mud is not so deep and we both stand at the end of the rainbow grasping our dreams – separate yet infinitely bound by love.

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Chapter 1 – Tango

21 May

Pussy cats tango

On the front lawn

While black widows feast

On their husbands

The boys grow up without a father

And the little girl spiders tease

Snow covers the garbage we leave

Prowlers seek refuge

Near my window

Peering relentlessly

Through black blinded panes

Chimney sweep curses

Neglected soot

Dinner is served on plastics

Microwave safe

Warm milk in crystal glasses

My poems have all been cut-up

Nervous scissors

Lint covers the clothes we wear

I catch

Light in broken mirrors

To point in your direction

Chapter 1 – A poem for the presence

21 May

Hovering

Perching on a dreamer’s head

No biology

Pulse races, sweat drips

Permeating skin

All laws defined

Contradicted

Controlled breath

Shallow evidence

Doubting minds

Constricting

Denouncing

The presence

Of another

Denying

The essence

Of terror

Chapter 1 – Slumber

21 May

Mind races with wolves

Lethargy drags me under

Into the comfort of submission

Cold, fresh, clean

Upon the body – heavy

Heat radiates

Red, glowing embers ascend

From skin to blanket

Rising

While I fall

Deep

Into fearless slumber

Chapter 1 – I Dared

18 May

(Then) I dared to live

And love and

Yes

To falter

I dared to dream

And hope and

Yes

Desire

I sought to fill

A gaping hole

Between myself

And what I named

Reality

It got me nothing

Save a hole

In my heart

Over you.

____________________________________________________________

(Now) I dare to live

And love and yes!

To be grateful.

I dare to dream

And hope is no longer

Simply the absence of pain

Faith fills my once insatiable desire

and wisdom comes from knowing

That naming reality

Still gets me nothing.

But my heart is whole.

I’m over you.

Chapter 1 – Judgment

18 May

Knowledge is a shaft of light

Breaking through the cracks

Of dungeon walls

For a time in reach

Then dissolving

As the bits of dust within that light

Our bodily concatenations

Impinging upward toward truth

Motion of mind

Hot coals underfoot

A wise man rules over phantoms

For fairdom

Nutritive soul, airy appetite

Waxing worldly worries

Truth is the shadow, the echo a memory

Yet the wax remains

From underworld’s darkness

As extended

And known into judgment.

Chapter 1 – Discovery

18 May

My poems grip me

As each new handshake

Enthrall me

To the point of discovery.

My poems awaken me.

A mute dreamer

Must exude emotion

Through his hands, his expression

No spoken language remains universal

In silence or the dark

My poems move me

I am but a muse

Mating metaphorical catastrophes

Used

Only to capture that which

Sound tends to lose.

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