Ars Poetica

for Andrew

As the moon sat high in its
Westward ark, not clear and visible
But intimated by its ball of glow
Infused in gathering clouds in the
Opposite way from which
Dark spreads in warm water
Around a tea bag,
He stood in a dark room of a
Sleeping house staring out the
Frosted window, filled with
Thoughts which were also high in their ark.

Early next morning the snow was falling,
Large fluffy flakes, slow and erratic
In their nearby descent. No hint now
Of glowing globe, neither sun nor moon,
In the illuminated dim. In his breast
A burden blossomed into musical syllables
Of what he hoped you would know.
Sometimes a story of beauty
Which surprised him, sometimes
Questions which everybody asks but
Cannot answer. In failing words
He sought to invent that
Forgotten language that both of you
Could understand, that would save you both
From irreconcilable aloneness.

Beneath the ice we waited.

Grimlin snow suddenly starts,
Forgotten but now remembered in
That time when it just happens.
When you go outside
Ironically, at last, because
You were waiting, because
The children know it as
If it is the first time, as if
With sliding and laughing
Or with simply lying
In the snow, watching, that
The change in dullness
And staying inside is made
Into that strange situation
Of happiness.

And who could guess that state?
But we know because
Beneath the ice we waited.

It was always a box

I was the box back then.
That was before the door
Opened and the box blew up
And the present began
Running like a river without
Gentle bends past groves of
Apple trees in late summer
When the fruit bulged
In wind singing branches.
Thereafter sagging, the fruit
Grew oversweet and browning
Fell in soft plops on brittle
Dry grass above rocky banks.

Little bare feet that ran so
Harmlessly, that shot the sky
With fingered guns and
Laughed among the place between
Dung and dirt and bird filled skies,
That carried the triumphs and sorrows
Of the smallest things
Without knowing any largeness

Or the Emperor’s strange need
For bright swimming fishes or
Dark heart weaning from mother’s
Milk before the portent toothing
Of inflamed gums in moist
Motion of thunder clouds
Imminent of the richly deserved
To him who would get it
Like everything else
In much different ways
Then those thing are usually
No matter how inevitable.

Those things which fly out
From the box so fast
They can’t be caught
And spread themselves around so
That they will not be gathered,
Cannot be separated from the
Rest of everything, some which
Is normal and some which is not,
But can’t be told immediately
From the things they otherwise
Look like because everything
Looks pretty much the same
From the outside.

Do you hear me
At the certain age of a child
The child is no longer a child.
Does the time tell you lies
About the present?
And merry Christmas may
It wrap you with gaudy glint
And whisper absurdly
Get back Loretta
Glad ribbon lessons in
Delayed possession
Which is the nature of history
Which is where I am at.

Beyond the box
I am human but not
Like I wanted, I am
History but not the kind
I want to read or write.
My imagination is not
What I imagined and
I continually must redefine
What happiness is by
Looking at my own
Surprising happiness
Made up of dreams
So strange they must have
Belonged to someone else.

Where did today come from?
It is as if my tomorrow
And somebody’s else got
Mixed up and our
Lunchboxes got switched
And I was expecting a
Sandwich and I opened it up
To find what I am eating
Is not what I packed.

Do you want to know where
My father is? My mom
Can’t remember and thinks
It is because she has forgotten
The moment her box blew up
And life slipped past
Childhood dreams that
Kept us from being sleepless
Although they never allowed us
To fully be awake.
Now my dreams are like
My lunch (somebody else’s)
And I can’t guess what kind
Of me would have possibly
Wanted to dream them
Just like one day when
My father turned out to be
Somebody else.

Oh brave new world
That has such creatures in it.

The flame

It’s the smile, she was the virgin of the garden
and the garden is where I look for her.
I gaze into the candle and the candle
burns out in the cat dish.

There is a thin line between religious ecstasy
and fanaticism, the laser grids guarding
the vaults in the bank robbery
that sets loose the demons.

Can benefit and harm live together
where they can be rats in a maze?
What I am seeking
Burns within my eye.

My hands close
on something ordinary.

Seattle afternoon

Confessions of sea shells
Whispered, never taking a breath.
Bridal registry of the sea
Unblinking like the day
Pregnant as the peace you carry.
What would you like to hear
As it tells of sand and cold blood?

What can be bourn on the wings
Of a seagull as it flies inland?
The air that holds it is
An unknown history of salt,
A rumor of the story of love,

It is a poem that keeps
The land from being lonely.

Now I lay me down

There were these thoughts and they
Were nagging, slightly oppressive
As a prairie dream of low and flat.
There was this time, a whole lot of it that,
Having passed, was mostly in garbage heaps.

There was this music, not exactly
You wish you could forget the tune
Because it was always just a little beyond
Memory but still a little too familiar,
A sound a little new but too often understood.

There were these dreams, some of them yours
And some of them his, the kind to keep you awake.

There was this soldier of the unknown battle
Sitting alone, doing it again until it’s done.

Smile fruit with remember potato

for Sue

So the ham and cheese morning rests on the little it knows.
Angels gather together in the kitchen of dreams
Not slick and stainless, tile and grout,
But close and crowded, clean and lean.

It was so unexpected, that kitchen, practically over lake waters.
In the weakening summer sprinkled with Dutch rain
It climbed the narrow stairway to the sky,
One leg in Eden the other in the deepening water out from the shore.

The handfuls of gadgets were home at last, having found one another.
In another room sat Montaigne scratching that itch,
Ready with manuscript to go to the Voorschorterlaan Station with
The press already rolling like a subway on its track to London.

Kitchens should always speak Nedderlander above the tree tops
High where the best fruit grows.

Harmlessness

The illusion is that something harmless can pass the time
And as it passes nothing is hurt, all change is harmless.
But what of what you’re waiting out? What of the
Children whose lives have been touched with
Unintentional troubles and left to grow in bent up ways?
You did the best you could; I know that, I have too.
We both failed our sons and daughters, believing in a better good
Than us and ours, trusting society rather than ourselves.

I have these tears, I can’t get them out! They burn, sear,
Leaving scars deep within me; they would be like acid
On my face. They are like a bomb within me,
Whose blast I will not be able to survive. So, like mom

On the table lie the cards
I play a game of solitaire.

Dee sonnet of dee day

I’m Drunk now!
The first beer
Spewed over my chest, Mr. Bones,
Having followed much vodka,
I drank voraciously!

This cold, splendid day was
In absence of happiness,
Joy, or joke. Quietly
Problems did their obligatory circle.

Your love spilled over me
As rushing esters
Swept me away.

Foolish crime, loneliness,
Punished as we commit.

My MP3

Where is the rumble,
The war of thought,
Tension on the shaft
Turning the gears;

Momentum mounts,
Picks up pace,
Music tumbles,
A waterfall of words.

At first it’s slow,
I can write things down
(Then gone beyond
The speed I could).

Symphony of syncopated excitement to simply
Listen I sit, marvel at the sound.

55 word poem

you can't hide

you can’t hide coming to grips
with wrestling boy
in a world that always wins
stark dark dog eyes
sometimes growl
sometimes whine
then close in dreams of lunch

horror tells
whore to hurry
watch raggedy run
time’s always short
go ahead roll the dice

the dog is hungry
there’s lye to cure the lice

55 word poem

The Phoenix in Tucson

It is that my life
Grew strong this seedling.
Residue down when
Winter limbs knurling,
Naked claws the brash
Winter sky slow, soft
Scratches on itchy
Dusk’s knobby spine clouds.

But I in my fell
Passion scorched the dark
Night close, day wide bright
And set to this tree
Fire that consuming
Left blackened stump.

55 word poem

Serial Sad

Unquiet day when my
Restlessness startled my sleeping me,
When chambered horrors broke free,
When a pale, white, full moon bag of me
Drained and shuffled down a sad and lightless hall
And said this is it, that’s all.

Last night’s shining smile won’t set me free
And why should I be, this criminal of the heart.
My love’s no joke (like a bad punch line
Told over and over, until everyone starts to laugh).
But I ain’t laughing because it hurts,
Just like dad did me

And my heart broke with a twang,
A tossed out, spring tight clock.

Submerged Science

Apple apologies in a basket,
Rain stained sheets on the line,
Call waiting and voice messages,
Corner foreigner’s the milk man now.

And I’m the foreigner now,
Waiting to know if the
Milk man has a story to hear,
Is it our song, all the kids are humming?

If the ice man cometh
Is global Miami
And Miami is a good dive
(Drove the levee over the Chevy and the levee wasn’t dry),

The country of the Condoleezza Rice
Floating over soppy Atlantis’s dreams.

Sweeping the Dawn Sky

Sweeping the dawn sky
with large, black wings,
crow lands at
very top.

Tree, celebrating,
throws yellow confetti.

Old man clinking
glass bodies
dead of last nights laughter.

Trash being tidied
on faded asphalt
scruffy piles.

Black cat
watches below the trees.

Time stands still

but will start
with children to fro'
in iron chairs.


55 word poem

Halloween was our best season

Howl as an aching moon
goes groaning low and wide
in the west. Howl as time
passes boundary between happy
and sad. Howl because you don’t
know what else to do.

Growl at slowness of dawning,
longness of frowning,
shortness of the breath of fall,
with its amber haired smile

and days of retreat
in memory’s eclipse.

Whimper recalling once was
in grown up child’s busy.

Jilly’s Celebration

Wild haired in the dawn;
It’s not about me.
Saw mill bandits
Still cutting logs.
Cat dance near the sleeping dog,
Growls chasing dreams away.

Do they run, do da!
Horse hair dawn streaks,
Brilliant fur on the horizon of day.

Night grows in anticipation;
Night grows on a cake from the store,
Puffs of steam from sizzling stones.

The gig is done, midnight is noon;
Happy birthday, Happy Anniversary!

oil workers sestina

cause the weight to be lifted
but not before one human moment
sharing the commonality of conversation
touching simple soul to soul
for when the burden is taken away
all is done and in the hole

create something even on the brink of the hole
we cannot escape that weight being lifted
make that connection which does not pass away
have kindness because in some next moment
the coil will unwind from around that soul
touch it with gentle caring in conversation

how many times a day in conversation
do we treat others darkly in ways not whole
in how many ways do we tread face with leather sole
how often we seek that anothers wallet may be lifted
considering only ourselves for that sad moment
looting time and friendship for things carried away

or jealously protecting our pitiful own being carried away
taking the taste of bitter in the words of conversation
carrying the weight of emptiness to burden the moment
like the heavy impossibility of picking up a hole
like wanting first place finding it translates to alone lifted
hungering throughout life without knowing its to touch another soul

the doctor looking down at that last moment of the soul
the pipe fitter asks when they will take the pipe away
not knowing as the doctor does what will be really lifted
while they wait the little things of life are conversation
don’t juggle the tons of pipe let him have his consciousness whole
do you smoke, he asks for a moment

trying to quit says he the doctor offers you can quit in a moment
while they share a smoke they quietly touch each others souls
hes worried will i ever again be whole
theyre still not ready to lift the big pipe away
do everything we can is the gist of conversation
lets enjoy talking til its lifted

smoke dissipates leaving the smell whole as they flick the buts away
rest easy your honest soul and thanks for the conversation
and hes immediately dead the moment the pipe is lifted

Soap Sonnet

What are the real qualities of a clean shirt?
Who could teach it to know that?
Warm, soapy socks in your hands
Are slippery, sensuous.

Dials and knobs tell it all
But tell it nothing else.
If there is joy on laundry day
Its because it works by itself.

Complete with ugly and dumb,
Only as smart as a drowned flea circus,
It can’t be denied it knows what its work is;
Results are good but you wonder why?

While you whistle and sing filling this thing,
The magic goes in with the clothes.

Darkness and Shadow

Day does not begin with sunlight,
It begins with waking.
Dreams go through day and night
And never ask: am I awake?
Dreams sometimes sleep
And then there is true shadow.

I went to sleep in jail
And woke up having killed.
The room where you find the door
Was made of black satin.
The robe of the judge
rustled in darkness I found waiting.

No evil can be done at night,
No good during the day.

Rounding the corner from mind to flesh

In silent dreams we pilot the seams between life and death. The ground is so sure when none is there. Nor does sleep buffer flaws, fears or foes. What we see, unfettered, is clean, pure essence of thought. Whether pain or pleasure, this weighty lumber is dragged to new vista in passive will. What waits there is the thing, the play. Hamlet’s power is that he dreads it so to go there with no return. I, too, long for the foolishness that is waking. I, too, long for the relief when flesh is logic.

Sailor

Fire start nights, the mystery of not
Being somewhere you know –
Water creatures on the shore of wet
Banking into a turn at the speed of air.

Flashing silver rain,
Moonlight in the fountain,
Pale yellow eyes with black dots,
Stretched along the skin of the water,

Watching, waiting, serene
As pomegranates fall from the sky
filling pools of red juice around cobbles
making the night urgent.

Making stone beat feet hard and fast.
Making the woman of the dry ask “What’s your hurry?”

Sad friends senyru

tears reflect
this strangely rounded moment
in a wet eye

dirge for bob denver

what makes the silence as he turns
or laughter we bought in cans
that cannibals and the assortment
of others who kalfka walk
in and out like it was
help you couldnt be
self obsessed enough to escape from
a giant country not a tiny
island and the lost were
there in blank pratfalls of
useless humanity
doing duality with
singleness of purpose and
double entandre until we
finally stop looking and
he walks shakily over the water
sick and tired to stay
very far from any beach

came together

blankness waits again
rolls off the tongue
like a word

ive made it up
just before it
became me

found it out
found out how
right i was wrong

incredible sensation
dark cannot hide
nor pain ease

tears for friends
that you would give up
feeling to end pain