to dive before the word jump
i can only hope for the best
moving at train speed
a lightning bolt,
a heart pounding colt pace
what's not to love about beginnings
fresh newness
a warm day breaks, springtime
part surprise, part hope saturated anticipation
it just is
heart's in the driver seat, swerving
recklessly indecisive
flying under yellow lights turning red
taking chances, tapping on the fault line
with a round rock in hand
gutsy, stupid, brave
depending on purpose
jumping, ratcheting, striking, racing
moving so fast, blur life
listen to the past
before opening the mouth to say too much too loud too fast too soon
to you
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
it just is/1
it's a feeling thing.
it's a you know it when you know it
sense it as it enters a room like breezes,
sits in the air like smells
nudges comments out the mouth
or
a look over at the next person and
without a word,
just a "i know" smile
it's a feeling thing
can't, don't, won't
be with someone if there is no
inspiration
no temptation to pass time
by the side of a like-wise creative mind
who are these people with hearts
beating so loudly for their life
to follow their purpose and do "something" right
to fight and prove, to make it with good news
when be-ing hasn't been enough
it's a feeling thing
harmonized voices, pleasing sounds
it just feels right
for so many who do not understand
the unique little pieces
not only the details, but how and which ones
piece them together like a quilt
to wrap around on the cold nights
i cannot explain why
maybe who
but really, it's just a feeling thing.
it's a you know it when you know it
sense it as it enters a room like breezes,
sits in the air like smells
nudges comments out the mouth
or
a look over at the next person and
without a word,
just a "i know" smile
it's a feeling thing
can't, don't, won't
be with someone if there is no
inspiration
no temptation to pass time
by the side of a like-wise creative mind
who are these people with hearts
beating so loudly for their life
to follow their purpose and do "something" right
to fight and prove, to make it with good news
when be-ing hasn't been enough
it's a feeling thing
harmonized voices, pleasing sounds
it just feels right
for so many who do not understand
the unique little pieces
not only the details, but how and which ones
piece them together like a quilt
to wrap around on the cold nights
i cannot explain why
maybe who
but really, it's just a feeling thing.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
us/them
they said the sun would shine
they said this would be mine
they said HERE and at THIS time
us/them
and then
we fell asleep under the moon
hoping promises would come soon
they said
they promised
we believed
we cut open our chests
let them take our bloody pulse
they sewed us up
we woke up
to find a missing piece not inside
a valve,
they took what they needed
to tally, divide, percentage-ize
us
too many me's on this side
us/them
we believed
they said the sun would shine
but its night time in winter and
and our words like stars
do not leave bright marks in the sky
only scars on our hearts
they said this would be mine
they said HERE and at THIS time
us/them
and then
we fell asleep under the moon
hoping promises would come soon
they said
they promised
we believed
we cut open our chests
let them take our bloody pulse
they sewed us up
we woke up
to find a missing piece not inside
a valve,
they took what they needed
to tally, divide, percentage-ize
us
too many me's on this side
us/them
we believed
they said the sun would shine
but its night time in winter and
and our words like stars
do not leave bright marks in the sky
only scars on our hearts
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Thursday, January 6, 2011
degaje
poetry plucks at the harp strings of life
and of the bass
poetry pulls at the puppet strings of life
and the stage curtains
---
today on the metro
slouched back
knees out like a table
too big for a room
i sat in a boxcar with windows
we tore through tunnels, wet cement faces
clammy, creating great life-curiosity
what relief to be
up and out in daylight, like coming up for air
the box car with windows commits
it is here that
i bumped into expectation
standing, reading the paper
of your imagination
cordurouy pants, a beret
expectation said they had just
woken up with someone
and mother would be disappointed
i said, even the train car needs
oil, wrenches, breaks,
conductors on call
to fill in, to fix to work in the shadows
even when blue skies
were to be expected
and of the bass
poetry pulls at the puppet strings of life
and the stage curtains
---
today on the metro
slouched back
knees out like a table
too big for a room
i sat in a boxcar with windows
we tore through tunnels, wet cement faces
clammy, creating great life-curiosity
what relief to be
up and out in daylight, like coming up for air
the box car with windows commits
it is here that
i bumped into expectation
standing, reading the paper
of your imagination
cordurouy pants, a beret
expectation said they had just
woken up with someone
and mother would be disappointed
i said, even the train car needs
oil, wrenches, breaks,
conductors on call
to fill in, to fix to work in the shadows
even when blue skies
were to be expected
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Recovery- To Take Back
It is only fitting, seasonally traditional, that I would jump back on the blog-wagon on/around January 1 of the new 2011 year. As we say in St. Louis (and as you probably have said in your respective cities, suburbs and residences), "it is what it is."
This has been half self-initiated. Not to begin the new year self-deprecating, but I do owe a thanks to those who have asked, "where are your poems" or "I've checked your blog and you haven't written". I do not have one or two reasons to excuse or create full understanding. There is a vulnerability here in this open cyber space, where regenerating, reloading, recreating has a limit that DNE (does not exist).
Like resolutions, like proposed solutions, Americans value effort, thought, (sometimes). A for Effort. Like dieting, goals can often be unattainable in how extreme and "cold turkey" they typically are. The emphasis, like Lent, is on what am I giving up. Alternatively, I ask, what am I adding? How is what I am doing contributing to growth? How do I define growth, what is healthy and positive for myself, with my relationships and my environment. Well, as most of you (whoever you are), I do tend to be flowery, poetic in speech and prose. I am interested in concrete this year. Not the cold, hard sidewalk stuff. But, concrete ideas and change. Not entirely sure what that is quite yet (there goes that vague poetic thread). It's all just part of the multitudes. And, if I ever want to get out of something, I'll just pull a Rilke: No feeling is final.
As in, this (whatever this is), is all subject to change.
And, if I want to be complacent in my powerlessness, I'll just say again: It is what it is. Shrink back and forget about it, until it comes around again.
Recovery, to take back. Blog recovered. Re-started, like an old car in the garage, or on the side of the house covered in snow, bird droppings. Sinking deeper into the mud and dead grass every day, week. Until, a choice chooses something new and different for its fate.
Free Write, Incipient Effort
(not a love poem)
it is hard to love without holding
to type, trust, treasure, to try
building bridges over oceans, from
north america to (fill in the blank)
construct a Great Wall stability to ensure crossing
travel to the arms of a beloved
love for many means "mine" "his wife or her wife"
alloy couples: joint accounts, titles, claims
piles of possessions
yielding protection clauses
money distorts love like badly blown glass
diamonds, tickets, cars, even a t-shirt
love as what can you give me,
a dangerous attitude indeed
give you myself, my fidelity
to possess and cherish
to have and to hold
but to love without holding?
each night i walk home alone in lamp lighted darkness
to cross a thousand miles to return to you each morning
This has been half self-initiated. Not to begin the new year self-deprecating, but I do owe a thanks to those who have asked, "where are your poems" or "I've checked your blog and you haven't written". I do not have one or two reasons to excuse or create full understanding. There is a vulnerability here in this open cyber space, where regenerating, reloading, recreating has a limit that DNE (does not exist).
Like resolutions, like proposed solutions, Americans value effort, thought, (sometimes). A for Effort. Like dieting, goals can often be unattainable in how extreme and "cold turkey" they typically are. The emphasis, like Lent, is on what am I giving up. Alternatively, I ask, what am I adding? How is what I am doing contributing to growth? How do I define growth, what is healthy and positive for myself, with my relationships and my environment. Well, as most of you (whoever you are), I do tend to be flowery, poetic in speech and prose. I am interested in concrete this year. Not the cold, hard sidewalk stuff. But, concrete ideas and change. Not entirely sure what that is quite yet (there goes that vague poetic thread). It's all just part of the multitudes. And, if I ever want to get out of something, I'll just pull a Rilke: No feeling is final.
As in, this (whatever this is), is all subject to change.
And, if I want to be complacent in my powerlessness, I'll just say again: It is what it is. Shrink back and forget about it, until it comes around again.
Recovery, to take back. Blog recovered. Re-started, like an old car in the garage, or on the side of the house covered in snow, bird droppings. Sinking deeper into the mud and dead grass every day, week. Until, a choice chooses something new and different for its fate.
Free Write, Incipient Effort
(not a love poem)
it is hard to love without holding
to type, trust, treasure, to try
building bridges over oceans, from
north america to (fill in the blank)
construct a Great Wall stability to ensure crossing
travel to the arms of a beloved
love for many means "mine" "his wife or her wife"
alloy couples: joint accounts, titles, claims
piles of possessions
yielding protection clauses
money distorts love like badly blown glass
diamonds, tickets, cars, even a t-shirt
love as what can you give me,
a dangerous attitude indeed
give you myself, my fidelity
to possess and cherish
to have and to hold
but to love without holding?
each night i walk home alone in lamp lighted darkness
to cross a thousand miles to return to you each morning
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