in dreams i remember love
in love, i remember to dream
in memory i love to dream
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
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
aug 30
"no feeling is final"
sitting cross-legged in the present
joy bubbles from the core extending
from my spine in a ethereal blue glow
like an iridescent tree
strong and growing,
glowing
ah, take in a deep breath
exhale, smiling
nothing and no one reaches
permenance
no forever
interconnected eternal webs
of change, of dynamic nature force
like survival
the fit, the calm, the roots in my palms
watch my eyes growing deeper
as my hands gather scars
cuts and carves into the ground
tender earth soul
sitting cross legged under branches
who whisper "peace" in the breeze
live water heals memories
trees stir memories
rememberance is a form of meeting
forgetfulness is a form of freedom
i contain multitudes
when i dare to use my voice in service of my vision it does not matter if i am afraid
i speak
of change, of gratitude for growth
more than silver lining
of belief in the present
and in no feeling is final
may what i do flow from me like a river, no forcing and no holding back
sitting cross legged- under branches
physican, heal thyself
water washes over me
sitting cross-legged in the present
joy bubbles from the core extending
from my spine in a ethereal blue glow
like an iridescent tree
strong and growing,
glowing
ah, take in a deep breath
exhale, smiling
nothing and no one reaches
permenance
no forever
interconnected eternal webs
of change, of dynamic nature force
like survival
the fit, the calm, the roots in my palms
watch my eyes growing deeper
as my hands gather scars
cuts and carves into the ground
tender earth soul
sitting cross legged under branches
who whisper "peace" in the breeze
live water heals memories
trees stir memories
rememberance is a form of meeting
forgetfulness is a form of freedom
i contain multitudes
when i dare to use my voice in service of my vision it does not matter if i am afraid
i speak
of change, of gratitude for growth
more than silver lining
of belief in the present
and in no feeling is final
may what i do flow from me like a river, no forcing and no holding back
sitting cross legged- under branches
physican, heal thyself
water washes over me
Monday, August 23, 2010
aug 22-2010
I honor those who try
to ride themselves of any lying
who empty the self
and have only clear being there.
- - -
Keep walking, though there's no place to get to.
Don't try to see the distances.
That's not for human beings. Move within,
but don't move the way fear makes you move.
Walk to the well.
Turn as the earth and the moon turn,
circling what they love.
Whatever circles comes from the center.
---
This world is a watery shadow of ocean-love.
That sea of light cannot be contained
in single human beings, so leave fragments,
and be the mountain.
---
When light returns to its source,
it takes nothing
of what it has illuminated.
It may have shone on a garbage dump, or a garden,
or in the center of a human eye. No matter.
It goes, and when it does,
the open plain becomes passionately desolate,
wanting it back.
---
Every part of you has a secret language.
Your hands and your feet say what you've done.
---
Drive slowly.
Some of us walking alongside
are lame!
Today, like every other day, we wake up empty
and frightened. Don't open the door to the study
and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
from The Essential Rumi, translations by C. Barks. 2004
to ride themselves of any lying
who empty the self
and have only clear being there.
- - -
Keep walking, though there's no place to get to.
Don't try to see the distances.
That's not for human beings. Move within,
but don't move the way fear makes you move.
Walk to the well.
Turn as the earth and the moon turn,
circling what they love.
Whatever circles comes from the center.
---
This world is a watery shadow of ocean-love.
That sea of light cannot be contained
in single human beings, so leave fragments,
and be the mountain.
---
When light returns to its source,
it takes nothing
of what it has illuminated.
It may have shone on a garbage dump, or a garden,
or in the center of a human eye. No matter.
It goes, and when it does,
the open plain becomes passionately desolate,
wanting it back.
---
Every part of you has a secret language.
Your hands and your feet say what you've done.
---
Drive slowly.
Some of us walking alongside
are lame!
Today, like every other day, we wake up empty
and frightened. Don't open the door to the study
and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
from The Essential Rumi, translations by C. Barks. 2004
Thursday, August 19, 2010
aug 19
"don't get me wrong, relationships take work, but love should Not be that hard." AF
Float On, Float On
Float On, Float On
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
aug 18
love, like true love
the subject of far too many
first lines, and
more than enough poems
stanzas sick of violet talk
flowery blind fools trippin
on sips of breath and sighs and kisses
i miss myself
caring so much about the other
forgetting the sister
inside this soul
these lungs and heart
the only reason my spring is sprung
my name is rung
by the ring of a sunrise
i am calm, not surprised
by the changes happening
life rearranging before these eyes
small rhymes and ties that bind
a spring in my step
left foot in front of right foot
and so on, go on,,,
on the ground
heart bowed, hands high in hallelujah
give thanks for the breath
and not eschewing
these moments for sparks
illuminating this life
these moments for knives
sharpening this life
daily grind on the whetstone
make these bones live
i am
i walk on
the subject of far too many
first lines, and
more than enough poems
stanzas sick of violet talk
flowery blind fools trippin
on sips of breath and sighs and kisses
i miss myself
caring so much about the other
forgetting the sister
inside this soul
these lungs and heart
the only reason my spring is sprung
my name is rung
by the ring of a sunrise
i am calm, not surprised
by the changes happening
life rearranging before these eyes
small rhymes and ties that bind
a spring in my step
left foot in front of right foot
and so on, go on,,,
on the ground
heart bowed, hands high in hallelujah
give thanks for the breath
and not eschewing
these moments for sparks
illuminating this life
these moments for knives
sharpening this life
daily grind on the whetstone
make these bones live
i am
i walk on
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