You say I’ve never sung you songs
in all this time —- ten years along —-
which proves, to some degree,
how much I love you.
You’ve found the time, you often say,
to write about and sing and play
so many other topics;
is that not true?
And when I offer in defense
that love is an experience
which falls beyond the edges
of expression,
you laugh and say, such an excuse
is, in its own way, living proof;
that there is no song
is its own confession.
But if my love could be contained
in some trite, overwrought refrain
composed to please the ear,
I would not claim it.
Inside a thousand symphonies,
in whispered wind through ancient trees,
no simply melody would dare
contain it.
So I will write no other song;
and if you think me in the wrong,
or simply without feeling,
I can bear it.
For my love is no simple verse
for greeting cards, or even worse;
What good are words?
They only can declare it.
You say I never sing to you
of how my love is strong and true,
and wish for me to come
and serenade you.
Under your window, in the night,
beneath the moon’s soft glowing light,
you wish a lover’s tune
that I should play you.
But if my love could be so sung,
each drop of life thus from it wrung
in sentimental tones,
how could it move you?
unless you felt the singer’s core,
and knew that there was something more
than simple words,
would it not just pass through you?
My song for you is ten years wide;
I cannot split or subdivide
one hour or two apart
to try and woo you.
I sing it every day and night;
the verses may not be quite right,
but they each speak
about, and of, and to you.
I love you. Is that plain enough?
I have no masquerade or bluff,
no other way than what I am
to show it.
And ten more years are not enough
to finish it, it is still rough.
I only hope that in your heart
you know it.
19 MAY 2010
Recently in Poetry Category
Continue reading A song for a star.
I am so sick of poets, in real life and found online;
how they tend to wax poetic, and pretend to be sublime
when describing some quite minuscule and unimportant thing:
the dewdrop on the lily, a mosquito’s lacy wing.
With pretense they have pretensions, and expect to be profound;
particularly when their fancy talk has drawn a crowd around,
and every word that drops like nectar from their honeyed lips
is guaranteed to break a heart, or at least, sink a ship.
But worse are poem lovers: those sad, sycophantic thralls
who quote their favorite bards by name whilst walking through the halls,
and without grace or courtesy, expose the world to verse
that often only merely stinks, but sometimes, is much worse.
Not everyone can hold a tune, or expect that their voice
will earn them any supper, if the listener has a choice.
Likewise, because you cast in rhyme a metaphor or two,
and hang a shingle (or a website), does not make true
that you are either poet, or can recognize the same;
such things are proven over time, and not by just a name
applied by those who dare not prick your bubble of esteem
for fear their own imagined greatness will be robbed of steam.
I am so sick of poets; every single one I’ve met
is either spent and sick and sad, or hasn’t happened yet.
In either case, I have no interest in their point of view
unless it can be spoken in a simple phrase or two
that doesn’t count on me to picture some fantastic scene,
and waste my time imagining I know just what they mean.
Dispense with all that sentiment, and vivid imagery;
a life that needs a poet is a boring life, indeed.
If you would this sad world improve: a battle cease, a mountain move, or seek to build up or destroy a single thought of fear or joy, there is one place alone to start. You must teach all your children art.
Imagination is the key.
By thoughts alone there come to be great mysteries, faith and belief in gods and demons, kings and chiefs; in justice and equality, in separating I and Thee.
So teach the arts, and music, too, in your religion, path or school. To have adherents worth a damn, they must imagine what "I AM" you would propose designed the world, created life, or wrote the rules.
Imagination is required.
Without it, none can be inspired to see beyond their own small selves, or care for something else that dwells beyond the sight and smell and touch; and such a life is not worth much. It does not toil, nor hope nor try, imagining no reason why, nor answer worth the seeking out.
Art teaches balance: faith and doubt; without it, gods are merely rules: like architecture without tools.
Teach art to all your children, then; for they must learn how to pretend if they would use your sacred texts for more than mindless genuflects or rote performance of some rite
that without teeth, has lost its bite.
Imagination is the key.
Without it, all gods cease to be. Existence becomes drudge and trial, an endless chasm of denial where anything we do not see does not exist and can not be.
05 MAY 2010
Imagination is the key.
By thoughts alone there come to be great mysteries, faith and belief in gods and demons, kings and chiefs; in justice and equality, in separating I and Thee.
So teach the arts, and music, too, in your religion, path or school. To have adherents worth a damn, they must imagine what "I AM" you would propose designed the world, created life, or wrote the rules.
Imagination is required.
Without it, none can be inspired to see beyond their own small selves, or care for something else that dwells beyond the sight and smell and touch; and such a life is not worth much. It does not toil, nor hope nor try, imagining no reason why, nor answer worth the seeking out.
Art teaches balance: faith and doubt; without it, gods are merely rules: like architecture without tools.
Teach art to all your children, then; for they must learn how to pretend if they would use your sacred texts for more than mindless genuflects or rote performance of some rite
that without teeth, has lost its bite.
Imagination is the key.
Without it, all gods cease to be. Existence becomes drudge and trial, an endless chasm of denial where anything we do not see does not exist and can not be.
05 MAY 2010
After the
"Song of Amergin"
I have been a fly on the wall of a corporate meeting
I have been a child lost in snow that drifted roof high
I have been a broke-winged bird, flightless through winter
I have been a prisoner in some Gothic dungeon
I have been a supporter of lost, hopeless causes
I have been a wandering fool, aimless and goal-less
I have been a prodigal son for whom died the fatted calves
I have been a homeless man in cities of great wealth.
I have been a harsh word
whispered in a darkened alley
I have been a silver slick carp, no good for the fry pan
I have been a glee-man singer for spare change and train fare
I have been a ragged voice crying in the wildness
I have been a drowsy student of life's strange instructors
I have been a trust fund baby given deceptive means
I have been a reed in the wind blown aside by gale force
I have been a poet stoned with drunk and swollen words.
I have been a teacher of some useful knowledge
I have been a night janitor in the halls of justice
I have been a poor cross-maker, Pharisee and martyr
I have been a young soldier, grown old in the battle
I have been a raging fire made from drenched matches
I have been a quick perceptor without a portfolio
I have been a childhood plowman, tiller of the earth
I have been a knowing victim of victimless crime.
I have been a
cold white speck in a snowfall blizzard
I have been a big, loud fish in an empty trout pond
I have been a moving current and the dry of drought
I have been a helpful force to some creative light
I have been a drifting cloud on the face of the sun
I have been a changeling spirit of the moonless night
I have been a watcher of winds that shape the noon sky
I have been a friend of the trees that breathe the earth's air.
Who, more than I, can claim to have been
loved?
Who, having also being lost, can with more conviction believe themselves found?
Who else, having for so long lived under a curse of their own making,
Has been more blessed?
for Pietro
My blood is thinned from summer's passion;
where I once could stand
the chill of winter's disposition,
now I am unmanned
by this untimely season;
and the harvest I once sought
I find now sells for such a price
it won't be quickly bought.
So I who once was drowning
in the glow of love, find drought;
and you, who I thought my soul's twin,
decide to do without
what I believed was mother's milk,
and manna from above:
my life as sow's ear, turned to silk
with the touch of your love.
For years I sought you out, I thought
to win love, like a prize;
but found a bitter-sweet reward:
just laughter, in your eyes,
where I found nothing but regret
for all those wasted years
I spent in search of some ideal
to best both lust, and fear.
Such fantasies may feed and grow
but offer nothing real;
they hide what you already know
in shadows, and conceal
the simple truth as your time wanes
in frivolous pursuit,
and as you near the harvest
leave just rotted, bitter fruit.
So what is love? What do I know?
I thought myself immune,
but strangely find September
feels alive and much like June;
and you, who I imagined just
one half of my extreme,
have turned into the one I must
both have and hold, and dream.
27 SEP 2009
My blood is thinned from summer's passion;
where I once could stand
the chill of winter's disposition,
now I am unmanned
by this untimely season;
and the harvest I once sought
I find now sells for such a price
it won't be quickly bought.
So I who once was drowning
in the glow of love, find drought;
and you, who I thought my soul's twin,
decide to do without
what I believed was mother's milk,
and manna from above:
my life as sow's ear, turned to silk
with the touch of your love.
For years I sought you out, I thought
to win love, like a prize;
but found a bitter-sweet reward:
just laughter, in your eyes,
where I found nothing but regret
for all those wasted years
I spent in search of some ideal
to best both lust, and fear.
Such fantasies may feed and grow
but offer nothing real;
they hide what you already know
in shadows, and conceal
the simple truth as your time wanes
in frivolous pursuit,
and as you near the harvest
leave just rotted, bitter fruit.
So what is love? What do I know?
I thought myself immune,
but strangely find September
feels alive and much like June;
and you, who I imagined just
one half of my extreme,
have turned into the one I must
both have and hold, and dream.
27 SEP 2009
What conversation would you like rejoined,
pretending that no years have intervened
and that the cares we once thought so immense
still weigh in at their same old magnitude,
when those long idle hours spent in talk
with no intent except to measure time
with Prufrock’s gilded set of coffee spoons,
pretending some profundity in words
that seemed so easy then, rolled off the clock
like AWOL soldiers beyond duty’s fence?
What alternate reality would seem
the right place, now, to take up where we left,
imagining somehow the world had stopped
at just that precise moment when we two
in some ungainly ballet both were cast,
commanding neither balance or much grace,
and fumbled blindly at each other’s steps?
The music for that dance has long since stopped.
An awkward silence echoes from the stage
that swallows whole all kinds of might-have-beens.
What conversation that we never had
(at least, aloud in words, in the same room)
needs finishing at this point in our lives?
There is more water underneath that bridge
than fills the seven oceans of the world.
No, if we speak again, let’s talk as friends
who simply compare mileage and confess
no secrets, or regret for past mistakes;
what participles dangle in the mist
are sentences we’ve both served long enough.
17 SEP 2009
Someone told me once we never grow
beyond the point we turn the age eighteen:
what insecurities we carried then
still manifest themselves throughout our lives.
That makes those speeches every June
(you know the ones that say life's just begun)
much more than naive lies, and still the truth:
depends on just how much you would believe.
I wonder if it's like the weakling boy
who overcomes his limited physique
by spending endless hours in the gym
to change the image in the mirror,
but never runs quite fast enough to flee
the sickly shadow he would leave behind.
Could be the "eighteen" theory's full of shit;
What would the world be if we never grew
beyond the high school notions that we held
to be so absolute and crystal clear?
A playground laid out on a global scale,
with territories marked in black and white,
a constant "them" and "us" dividing up
the haves from the have-nots, and so forth.
We must evolve. I'd like to think we do,
although it often takes ten years or more
to come to terms with who we thought we were
(in contrast with what we had yet to prove).
How many of us reach the other side
with anything but memories left alive?
14 SEP 2009
beyond the point we turn the age eighteen:
what insecurities we carried then
still manifest themselves throughout our lives.
That makes those speeches every June
(you know the ones that say life's just begun)
much more than naive lies, and still the truth:
depends on just how much you would believe.
I wonder if it's like the weakling boy
who overcomes his limited physique
by spending endless hours in the gym
to change the image in the mirror,
but never runs quite fast enough to flee
the sickly shadow he would leave behind.
Could be the "eighteen" theory's full of shit;
What would the world be if we never grew
beyond the high school notions that we held
to be so absolute and crystal clear?
A playground laid out on a global scale,
with territories marked in black and white,
a constant "them" and "us" dividing up
the haves from the have-nots, and so forth.
We must evolve. I'd like to think we do,
although it often takes ten years or more
to come to terms with who we thought we were
(in contrast with what we had yet to prove).
How many of us reach the other side
with anything but memories left alive?
14 SEP 2009
I do not wish to change the world;
its own design is near enough
some muddled state of constant flux
that nothing I could add or try
would make much difference in the end.
I do not wish to shape or mold
young minds to fit my own intent;
Ye gods! Imagine them grown up
and emulating my life's work!
Why duplicate such a mistake?
I do not wish to change your mind,
or gain your trust or force your hand;
my own revolt at such nonsense
turns my own stomach into knots;
I can imagine your dismay.
I do not wish to change the world.
I cannot even change my mind
or stay a course for long enough
to make a ripple in a pond;
one moment here, and the next, gone.
11 SEP 2009
its own design is near enough
some muddled state of constant flux
that nothing I could add or try
would make much difference in the end.
I do not wish to shape or mold
young minds to fit my own intent;
Ye gods! Imagine them grown up
and emulating my life's work!
Why duplicate such a mistake?
I do not wish to change your mind,
or gain your trust or force your hand;
my own revolt at such nonsense
turns my own stomach into knots;
I can imagine your dismay.
I do not wish to change the world.
I cannot even change my mind
or stay a course for long enough
to make a ripple in a pond;
one moment here, and the next, gone.
11 SEP 2009
Here's a poem I wrote some time back:
"Wherever I look, I see men quarrelling in the name of religion ---
Hindus, Mohammedans, Brâhmos, Vaishnavas, and the rest. But they
never reflect that He who is called Krishna is also called Úiva, and
bears the name of the Primal Energy, Jesus, and Âllâh as well --- the
same Râma with a thousand names. A lake has several ghâts. At one
the Hindus take water in pitchers and call it 'jal'; at another the
Mussalmâns take water in leather bags and call it 'pâni'. At a third
the Christians call it 'water'. Can we imagine that it is not 'jal',
but only 'pâni' or 'water'? How ridiculous! The substance is One
under different names, and everyone is seeking the same substance;
only climate, temperament, and name create differences. Let each man
follow his own path. If he sincerely and ardently wishes to know God,
peace be unto him! He will surely realize Him."-- Sri Ramakrishna
(1836-1886)
Water seeks its own level,
on a quest to find the sea;
The answers we seek taste of metal,
our understanding like liquid drawn from a well
that finds the hard edges
of knowing, the galvanized pail
holding the essence of our being
in one place, in this world.
What is outside this frame of steel,
this skeleton that time binds to this space?
To where are we going?
From where did we come?
What can we know of answers,
we who will be one day poured from this bucket
into the ocean?
What need is there of questions then,
when we are part of the wave?
And to those who are still on the shore, separate,
how shall we describe
what is gained, what is lost?
21 DEC 2004
We reconnect through wireless means -
no strings attached, just memories
like wisps of smoke we can't inhale
without a self-accusing stare.
Like ghosts, we shuffle wall to wall
and watch as life unfolds somewhere,
where we could be, on different paths,
some roads less traveled, others not.
We fondly look in retrospect
at days long gone, and former lives;
our innocence, perhaps, our joy -
some part of us we think now lost.
It's just illusion that we weave,
this semblance of the village square
that in an instant may be gone.
It's really just us, standing there.
And what do we have left say?
Not much. We share our politics,
or random thoughts about the world
that make us feel as if we care
beyond this circle in the dust
of wild electrons spinning 'round
that gives us substance in this mist
and makes us seem alive again.
26 AUG 2009
no strings attached, just memories
like wisps of smoke we can't inhale
without a self-accusing stare.
Like ghosts, we shuffle wall to wall
and watch as life unfolds somewhere,
where we could be, on different paths,
some roads less traveled, others not.
We fondly look in retrospect
at days long gone, and former lives;
our innocence, perhaps, our joy -
some part of us we think now lost.
It's just illusion that we weave,
this semblance of the village square
that in an instant may be gone.
It's really just us, standing there.
And what do we have left say?
Not much. We share our politics,
or random thoughts about the world
that make us feel as if we care
beyond this circle in the dust
of wild electrons spinning 'round
that gives us substance in this mist
and makes us seem alive again.
26 AUG 2009