Archive for April, 2010


You give me too much credit–
“Hoard of dazzling scraps”
You flatter me too much,
Words are words     let be
Dash here–     Space there
Their meanings clear
yet you dress them    up
I am not

My visions are woven words,
the heart must feel   if it should know
What message for the soul–

I am a poet      not a scholar
What you see in my works
Though flattered by a brain
I never knew I had

Asks too much
Receives too little
Read! for pleasure or for pain,
Dash here–    Space there

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I wait for pain (17)


I wait for pain–it does not come
Or if did–it must have missed,
I would have heard the train afar
Before the scream   crushed my soul,
I would have seen the needles fall
Before the ground became my bed
Pinned to earth–
a ragged doll.

Their napkins wet   mine is dry
Pain squeezed tear ducts mine are shy.
When pain should or shouldn’t come,
Society decides   but I refuse
Mine are stubborn   Mine are pinned
or maybe sleeping
that explains–

Oh numbness leave my side today!
A little pain   is not too much,
What life in me must be stirred,
and only by great agony–
blood vessels blown
Will pain come visit

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We Read Dead Poets (16)

read graphic

We read dead poets–
What do they know of us?
Roads whistle clouds of smoke
or is it corn      today
that has our hearts pumping
for a better day.

Art is for the poor not rich,
Science! Science!    I will not heed
Dickinson dressed in white
What words have you for women now–
We toil and labor day and night,
Our feet can now touch the ground
run if must       dash if must
Are our wings wider and brighter
than yours?

There is no innocence        and if there is
It is shunned and left somewhere dry
Where water cannot touch its lips
until it cracks and bubbles
a cocoon is formed      and from there
Experience borne.
No, Blake, your songs have died       or if not
and decaying.

Who writes for the readers now
with eyes of youth     mouth for youth,
Knows the slang of urban sprawl–
We laugh, Shakespeare,
your drama too      dramatic
Convert to   Soap operas,
We know your name      Lit class King
but where are your children?
They are

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Live where only the Mind is Free (15)

I seek a shelter for my mind,
One without a roof or doors of any kind,
Where it may dance with Beloved,
Sit beside Socrates in Plato’s Symposium,
Wait for God with Simon Weil,
Drink decaf with industrial machines,
Recite poetry under sunny skies,
Despite allergies that numb sinuses
Extra tissues on the side.

My skull is open to the air,
See the jagged edges?
The work is clearly flawed,
Someone angry
or impatient
Sawed the white bone quick,
Freed my mind
to Liberty
and Justice,
And thank god to Webster,
Those words mean little to me–

Find me home
Where Anne Rice writes,
Interview cold-hearted beasts of night,
Give me fear! give me blood,
I cry for your eyes, Oedipus,
your children too.
I love your pain as I love joy,
Give me all!
Bitter or Sweet,
I cook you in my pot.

My mind is yours to batter and beat,
But leave my body–
my temple,
I cannot filter what enters through pores,
I am flawed.
My mind has Rohan’s stone-built wall,
Soldiers guard every nerve.
Knowledge split my skull and set me free,
But now it wants my body.
Hunger licks the fire of flesh,
No, give my mind a home in Hell,
Never my flesh,
It is pure,
And in death it shall return to the Maker,

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I passed a downtown window early afternoon,
Glimpsed a heart-shaped pendent,
Encrusted crystals like Winter snow,
I saw the pale skin behind the silver,
Dangling like a trail a kisses.
I saw the palm that held the box,
Present to the fairest fair,
I saw her crescent mouth unfold,
Smirk or grin, he could not tell,
Red ribbon fell to the ground
Like leaves in the Fall.

It touched her flesh and she cried,
Air froze–to a tint of blue turned her,
Slivers of crystals dashed down
her throat.
Frosting every inch of fiery cells
Till the pendent fell and echoed
Upon the maple floor,
And she, who was so wicked vain,
Stood solid from heart’s wrongful desire.

And her lover grieved in gasps
For what he spent in haste.

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Give me a Rose (13)

rose graphic

Dear Rose, your petals red
Haunt me ghostly dread,
I plucked you once and bled,
To me your mother said,
“Pass the thorns or flee
Every love demands a fee”

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Dark Night (12)

I heard sirens blast open night,
Ripped the stars, five points slashed
Mother Moon always backlashed
Against the hymns of evident plight.

Who has fallen and cracked their bones,
And who wasted dry asleep on ground?
What high-pitched screams in music drowned,
What fights picked end in painful groans.

Fire, fire! What fire? I see smoke!
No, not fire, a crash half a block,
Red, blue lights of liberty shock,
A body sleeping like splattered yolk.

I breathe the stiffness in the air,
Frozen still by watching crowds
Over me a shadow bowed
To me they said, “Beyond repair.”

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sleep graphic

The Heart listened to its own breath
As it slowed to soft whimpers,
Ticked the sweet sound of time,
World of light began to blur.

Fog-like darkness pricked the mind,
Fingers rubbing conscience gone,
Deeper sank the thoughts of stress,
Docile like a harmless fawn.

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I took two lovers by their hands,
Up stone paths to Chance’s crib,
Here two souls test their flame,
Wait in patience for Love’s command.

Three maids wait with satin sheets,
Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos: their names,
Bathes the youth in sweet-scented rain,
Dresses them gently for midnight games.

When the golden finger points to twelve,
Three bottles given by the maids,
Each liquid blessed or cursed by Chance,
The lovers hold their hands and pray.

We have our past and present joys
May Chance grant our future stay,
Choose the red, black, or brown,
Zeus’s love or Hade’s prey.

Red, they whisper, now tell our fate,
Clotho comes forth with great delight,
“I am the Future, behold your dreams,
Drink now and may your hearts burn bright.”

With a quick kiss they drink in haste,
Crimson poison scorches naked skin,
They cough and sputter to Hade’s notes,
Alas, Chance had switched the liquid within.

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Plain Paradise (9)

In dreams I dream of paradise,
No candy-coated sprinkled fruit,
Just one room of tall glass walls,
Tranquil, solo song of a flute.

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