Poet's Corner

[midcan5]

money where mouth is: bought 'Beautiful Country' by author below yesterday

'A Lock of Her Hair'

"As a hoodoo-voodoo, get-you-back-to-me tool,
this hank’s thankless task is vast,
a head down to the ground impossibility, possibly,
since what I’m thinking of is your toe pad pinknesses too,
your soup hots and round-and-rounds, the fine
and perfect poundage of you on my paws, the very cause
and problem I moan and bemoan
the absence of. For Love, above the head
this reddish coil once lavishly wore, there’s an air so far away
it’s sad for me to even think the same sun’s rays play
where it was and do to you what I would do
if I were there or you were here. Still, some thrills
remembered do resemble thrills, one hopes, and the ropes
of it that gently fell around me bound me so well
no hell of miles can defile this dream I dream. I mean
the anyway DNA I can find of you. I mean the home
of bones and blood that holds the whole of you
and which this fizzed-up missive means to conjure, missy,
my world in a curl, girl, this man oh man half man I am
when you’re gone."

Robert Wrigley

 

[midcan5]

'The Sand Speaks'

"I'm fluid and omnivorous, casual in
my eternity. I'll knock up your oysters.
I'll eat your diamonds. I'm a mutt, no
one thing at all, just the size that counts

and if you're animal small enough, come;
if you're vegetable small enough, come;
if you're mineral small enough, come.
Mothers, brush me from the hands

of your children. Lovers, shake me
from the cuffs of your pants. Draw
a line, make it my mouth: I'll name
your country. I'm a Yes man at heart.

Let's play Hide and Go Drown. Let's play
Pearls for His Eyes. When the men fall
I like the way their arms touch, their legs
touch. There are always more men, men

who bring bags big enough to hold
each other. A man who kneels down
with a smaller bag, cups and pours, cups
and pours, as if I could prove anything."

Sandra Beasley

 

[freedombecki]

continued, w.i.p.


morning

in the deepened shades of morning there are glimpses of light
showing mirrored blues and verdance reminiscent of night
golden sunrise pinks refracting the new day's promised gifts
thoughts of loved ones watching over heal heart's unruly rifts

noon

wasps rush above windowsills overlooking rust-gold field
mockingbirds boldly flitting 'round the fence where ivies yield
potent berries merry-wine green periwinkle and white
dragonfly darts by muddied waters hot as midday bright

night

moonless sky cloud-hidden stars through void yield strangest noises
quaint dialect signals brood alarm or loving soul mate
arthropoid, avian, reptilian, mammalian?
sultry darkness reveals neither shapes nor earth's horizon​

 

[midcan5]

'The Gift Shop'

"When it’s come to that
The end of my life
The glitzy tunnel
The well-lit exit
Let there be a shop where I can
Browse for just a while
The way I’ve always loved to
The best part of any experience
Being its commemoration
A whole life should be no exception
Relive before lights out
A finger on the switch
Relieve me later
Hold on
Just one more thing
Can we stop here? I always
Say after so much Do Not Touch-ing
I want a plastic Tyrannosaurus pressed in my hand
I want to make my own geodes
Polish pieces of coal
From the backyard and save them all
From the pressure of becoming
Diamonds
String Galapagosian shells in a strand around my neck
I want to make sure this has
Really happened
And is not some other thing
Give me proof
There are some items I need to see first, at last
A memento in my pocket
A key chain of my father’s glasses
A postcard of my mother’s silver hair
My loves, felt finger puppets in the shape of endangered birds
My friends, each a snow globe
Some astronaut ice cream
To tide me over."

Cate Peebles

 

[midcan5]

'To My Father'

"I walked into the room.
There were objects in the room. I thought I needed nothing
from them. They began to speak,
but the words were unintelligible, a painful cacophony. . .
Then I realized they were saying
the name
of the man who had chosen them, owned them,
ordered, arranged them, their deceased cause,
the secret pattern that made these things order.
I strained to hear: but
the sound remained unintelligible. . .
senselessly getting louder, urgent, deafening.

Hands over my ears, at last I knew
they would remain
inarticulate; your name was not in my language."

Frank Bidart

 

[Stashman]

Eating Crow

I'm sorry for the things I've done
And the things to come to pass,
But I can't swim the shit creek I'm in
Cause it's wide and just to vast.

I gave a chance to each and all
To diffuse their dirty bomb,
Now in the end it's me that's left
To right this ugly wrong.

Doing time is nothing to me
Because time passes anyway,
So to those whose hearts are froze
Just remember yesterday.

"I'll never deceive you, but might just mislead you"
Are the words that you have spoken,
So it's no surprise that you'd disguise
The promises you have broken.

You wrote the rules and played the game
And you think that your the winner,
Now my turns here and it's quite clear
That It's crow you'll have for dinner.​

Stashman​

 

[Stashman]

Life Sucks

When there's nothing left to live for
And no more dreams to dream,
When the hope is gone and the light has dimmed
And problems are extreme.

When the whip comes down to draw more blood
And the lasher doesn't care,
When you wake each day to face it all
And it seems to much to bear.

When you bend your knee's to pray to God
For all the pain to end,
Than realize it will not change
And no angels will descend.

When the cocked and loaded gun
Is placed firmly to your head,
And than you find the guts it takes
You haven't got a shred.

When you take a drink or do a drug
With hopes to numb the pain,
Than sober up to find your life
Is still the fucking same.

Life sucks!

Stashman​

 

[Stashman]

Little Red Wagon

I've got a little red wagon with four rubber wheels
That say's radio flyer on the side,
I never need to fuel it
I can push it or I can pull it
When I want to take it out for a ride.

Down hill it goes much faster, But I'm a wagon master
And I always have it under control,
I'm not boasting and I'm not braggin'
But nothing beats my wagon
Except maybe for the highway patrol.

Little red wagon
Giddy up, giddy up
Go.

Stashman
​

 

[midcan5]

How remember milk left at the curb, or the breadman, the farmer with fresh eggs, and the huckster calling out, strawberries, strawberries.... watermelon watermelon... simpler times now past...


'Produce Wagon'

"The heat shimmer along our street
one midsummer midafternoon,
and wading up through it a horse’s hooves,
and each shoe raising a tongueless bell
that tolled in the neighborhood,
till the driver drew in the reins
and the horse hung its head and stood.

And something in a basket thin
as shavings (blackberries? or a ghost
of the memory of having tasted them?)
passing into my hands as mother paid,
and the man got up again,
slapping the loop from the reins,
and was off on his trundling wagon."

Roy Scheele

 

[midcan5]

'Aubade In Autumn'

"This morning, from under the floorboards
of the room in which I write,
Lawrence the handyman is singing the blues
in a soft falsetto as he works, the words
unclear, though surely one of them is love,
lugging its shadow of sadness into song.
I don’t want to think about sadness;
there’s never a lack of it.
I want to sit quietly for a while
and listen to my father making
a joyful sound unto his mirror
as he shaves—slap of razor
against the strop, the familiar rasp of his voice
singing his favorite hymn, but faint now,
coming from so far back in time:
Oh, come to the church in the wildwood . . .
my father, who had no faith, but loved
how the long, ascending syllable of wild
echoed from the walls in celebration
as the morning opened around him . . .
as now it opens around me, the light shifting
in the leaf-fall of the pear tree and across
the bedraggled back-yard roses
that I have been careless of
but brighten the air, nevertheless.
Who am I, if not one who listens
for words to stir from the silences they keep?
Love is the ground note; we cannot do
without it or the sorrow of its changes.
Come to the wildwood, love,
Oh, to the wiiildwood as the morning deepens,
and from a branch in the cedar tree a small bird
quickens his song into the blue reaches of heaven—
hey sweetie sweetie hey."

Peter Everwine

get a copy of "from the meadow"

 

[midcan5]

'Quiet Desperation'

"While walking down the aisle
of the Long Island Railroad Train
going to the Big Apple for the day,
sitting there straight-backed,
upright in his grey flannel suit
and close corporate haircut,
looking so business-like,
an old happy-go-lucky kid
I used to run and laugh with
years back in high school.
I could tell he wanted to talk
so I just sat back and listened…
He’s got his boy and a girl,
who drive him crazy spending
his whole life trying to fulfill
all of their wishes and wants,
his wife even worse…
Work keeps him busy, but
brings him no pleasure;
the best time of his day
are the two hours he rides alone
on this train, twice a day
he gets away from it all.
His spirit of boyish tomfoolery
gone, long gone, as I listened
he never looked me in my eyes,
but I could see the blank stare
starring at the seat in front of him;
there was no light to be seen
in those bright blue eyes
that the girls always loved
years back in high school,
now just a smoldering fire that at
any moment could explode,
even worse, extinguish itself;
a heart attack hoping to happen.
When we pulled into Penn Station,
we shook hands goodbye.
I watched him grow smaller
and smaller as we went our
separate ways at the end of the line."

Charles Portolano

 

[midcan5]

'Believing is Seeing'

"in the undergrowth
of an eastern wood a rabbit
not much bigger than a squirrel believes
there are eaters in the overgrowth
and sees them everywhere

it stops stock-still,
aware

still as if its
clock had stopped
no twitch or blink
more stone than hare

believing in suddenness it sees
in every micro-acre of space
what its cells perceive
what it knows is there
what it must never
dare to unbelieve"

Jim Culleny

 

[midcan5]

'A Sad Child'

"You’re sad because you’re sad.
It’s psychic. It’s the age. It’s chemical.
Go see a shrink or take a pill,
or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll
you need to sleep.

Well, all children are sad
but some get over it.
Count your blessings. Better than that,
buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet.
Take up dancing to forget.

Forget what?
Your sadness, your shadow,
whatever it was that was done to you
the day of the lawn party
when you came inside flushed with the sun,
your mouth sulky with sugar,
in your new dress with the ribbon
and the ice-cream smear,
and said to yourself in the bathroom,
I am not the favorite child.

My darling, when it comes
right down to it
and the light fails and the fog rolls in
and you’re trapped in your overturned body
under a blanket or burning car,

and the red flame is seeping out of you
and igniting the tarmac beside your head
or else the floor, or else the pillow,
none of us is;
or else we all are."

Margaret Atwood

 

[freedombecki]

to the peacekeepers
by Elizabeth Beautress Marsh

may beauty surround you
may God stay and found you
may peace walk before you
may children adore you
may all kindness warm you
may no evil harm you
may good health be given you
may justice live in you
so Satan shall fear you
when you keep God near you​

 

[edjax1952]

Count the People

​

Count the people who will not speak
Not because the are shy or meek
But because of ignorance they painfully seek
For a word they do not know

They’re in the barrooms complaining of life
They’re in the alleys throwing their dice
They’re in husbands’ kitchens cooking their food
They’re up in the mountains sometimes ugly and crude

I heard a man shot his wife last night
And someone killed someone else with a knife
And only because they couldn’t explain
That their mind was in anger
And their soul was in pain

Count the people who will not speak
Not because they are shy or meek
But because of ignorance they painfully seek
For a word they do not know

From "Reflections and Impressions" By Ed Taylor

 

[Unkotare]

Any fans of haiku in the house?

 

[midcan5]

Life is Good

There were no really good Labor day poems
so I decided I would write a few thoughts
I have worked so long and yet it seems a short time
if religious I would say I was blessed
WE were blessed we started slow and saved
Eventually we lived the American dream
New car vacations and kids to college
New home no bills everyone's dream
Dinners out and a good bottle of wine large tip
I used to save weeks $1.50 for an AMC model car
One twenty-fifth the size of the car
One day I would own, American what else,
And now my wife's clothing fill the house
We have seen Paris and little town America
The backroads still entice, saner places
Places Rockwell painted.

2011 addendum

This year we visited Rockwell's place in Mass
and sat on a porch from 1773
As Berlin once wrote
Aside the turmoil
We have had a good life
And when we hear of friends departed
Or separated and in trouble
I wonder at the luck of life
Sometimes you need to work at it
Practice, shut up, listen, and try
A favorite line I try to practice
Though I lack deep patience
'I show up. I listen. I try to laugh*'
Advice on this day of labor.



* Show Up. Listen. Try To Laugh. | Somewhere In The Suburbs

 

[midcan5]

I read Brautigan long, it was the time of hippies and too much pot.

See here: http://www.usmessageboard.com/writing/183292-richard-brautigan.html#post4083324

'It's Raining In Love'

"I don't know what it is,
but I distrust myself
when I start to like a girl
a lot.

It makes me nervous.
I don't say the right things
or perhaps I start
to examine,
evaluate,
compute
what I am saying.

If I say, "Do you think it's going to rain?"
and she says, "I don't know,"
I start thinking : Does she really like me?

In other words
I get a little creepy.

A friend of mine once said,
"It's twenty times better to be friends
with someone
than it is to be in love with them."

I think he's right and besides,
it's raining somewhere, programming flowers
and keeping snails happy.
That's all taken care of.

BUT

if a girl likes me a lot
and starts getting real nervous
and suddenly begins asking me funny questions
and looks sad if I give the wrong answers
and she says things like,
"Do you think it's going to rain?"
and I say, "It beats me,"
and she says, "Oh,"
and looks a little sad
at the clear blue California sky,
I think : Thank God, it's you, baby, this time
instead of me."

Richard Brautigan

 

[Sky Dancer]

"Fear is the cheapest room in the house.
I would like to see you living
In better conditions.

Go wants to see
More love and playfulness in your eyes
For that is your greatest witness to Him.

Your soul and my soul
Once sat together in the Beloved's womb
Playing footsie.

Your heart and my heart
Are very, very old
Friends.

Hafiz

 

[midcan5]

'Habit'

"The box…maybe the baby will play with the box, and she can sit, not carry, not pick him up.

He does. Dreamily opens the plastic lid….He examines the lip of the box, where it clicks shut. He slowly, slowly pulls a piece of paper through a thin slot on top.

At first being alone with the baby and the box is a dim, half-conscious satisfaction, like running your fingertips over the dry skin of your feet. He turns the box over in his arms. She gives him a necklace, it falls through his hands like milk. He licks the metal clasp, and her scalp, filigreed all over, electrifies. She comes a little awake.

When she holds out the box he will bubble and tree and ha and silence, he makes sounds that run over her back like mice, sounds that cause the thinnest pins to vibrate—that are the silken, grooved edge of a guitar string not even being touched.

Now she must daily use the baby to feel this feeling: a needle afloat on plain water.

In the world of the box and the necklace there are no words, is no appetite, there is not sex: his sounds take sex away. Is she blameless? Is the box a form of love? If you walked in and saw her, it would be that scene in the movie where the boyfriend opens the door and day has passed into night and he finds her on the floor: dull spoon, burnt match, used up."

Joy Katz