Recently in Poetry Category

Accidentally browsing through my journal archives, I ran across this gem from 2005.  It touches somewhat on the work of Charles Bukowski, who died in San Pedro, California in 1994.  I think now that I had driven by his house a couple of times in the late 80s when I was living in California, and thought about stopping by, but never did.  Some friends of mine at the time knew him pretty well, and he occasionally showed up at the Dancing Waters club in San Pedro to see an awful band (like most of the ones I knew).  Of course, the Dancing Waters club was infamous for making almost any band sound pretty bad - they had a live waterfall going full-time at the back of the stage that was quite loud.

For Bukowski

Believe it ... poetry can heal wounds;
of course, an awkward, ill-set bone
will sometimes need to be re-cracked,
and soft illusions that so gently cradle us
to bind the flesh beneath, must go.

And often, language is so poor
a conduit for what needs said
that poetry, to remain true,
must eschew words and simply ape,
pretending to be civilized.

In drunken rages, curses slurred
and spewed into a sewer's maw,
a poet finds epiphany;
and if not driven to reveal
that underbelly, often pawns

off lesser dreck to pass as art,
or spends their time in all-night shops,
dissecting life with coffeespoons.
Let he who is well understood
explain such mincing words. Pray tell:

What inner demons exorcized
conduct themselves with grace and charm?
The world needs screaming, now and then,
and herds of pigs snorting, pell-mell,
beyond decency's cliff.

04 OCT 2005

There is a poem, somewhere, here,
behind these words that ramble on
and with no seeming purpose try
to hint at meaning where there's none.

There is a poem, somewhere, here,
between ramshackle rows of prose
that seem too weak to stand erect
or hold in a protruding gut.

There is a poem, somewhere, here,
despite itself, against all odds;
in lock-step cadence down the page,
it rolls on in a drunken march.

There is a poem, somewhere, here,
too subtle for its meager words,
that feel so common in the mouth
and leave their sour taste on the tongue.

There is a poem, somewhere, here,
beyond where critics dare to look,
afraid they might find nothing left
once deconstruction has commenced.

There is a poem, somewhere, here,
one ardent fan, at least, insists,
who seeks some message more sublime
than those who practice show not tell.

There is a poem, somewhere, here,
but I have failed to write it down;
like here, and now, its life is past,
and will not come again. It's gone.

11 MAR 2009

We all want to be the victor,
to believe that right is always on our side;
and to those who would oppose us,
any kind of sympathy we would deny.

Keeping score, mind on the numbers,
so we never lose an inch of precious ground;
'Cause there's only so much of it all,
and never quite enough to go around.

It's a constant state of vigilance,
just making sure you always end up on the top;
only fools and weak kneed cowards
dare suggest that anyone would dare to stop.

At what price, this precious victory?
To win, at last, and be alone and free;
with no one to share the moment with,
no one to dare to doubt or disagree.

You know, the world is full of choices
and each one of us must live as we decide;
So before you burn your bridges
best make sure to not be stuck on the wrong side.

13 JAN 2009

What still remains when words have run their course,
and soundless, lay exuberant and spent
beyond the realm of sound? What is the source
that waits between each breath, self-evident

for just the briefest moment, as the lull
when one idea dies and one is born
expands in pregnant silence and is full
of consonants and vowels not yet quite formed?

In which dimension does such time exist?
It has no breadth or width, nor is it tall.
It has no form, but hangs like evening mist
on summer nights surrendering to fall.

And past that quiet whisper, when all sound
has faded into nothing and is gone,
the meaning of the universe is found:
the stuff that only dreams are built upon.

02 JAN 2009

If you would write the soundtrack to your life,
the background noise for every single hour
- those shining moments when you're at your best,
as well as when you're sad and dour -

what music and what songs would fill the space
when even time and motion seem to cease,
stretched far beyond the limit of your ears?
What voice conveys some sense of inner peace?

16 DEC 2008

Arise, new day, your way much like the last,
one footstep forward further from the past;
and in your wake leave only settling dust
that would try to preserve because it must,
or else subside to shadows that soon fade
as from their brittle bones new day is made.

Arise, new day, your time has surely come!

Your heartbeat echoes last night's funeral drum,
and pulses with the force of health and light
along the pale horizon, left to right.

Arise, new day, waste not a single breath;
lest you, too, slip complacent into death.

12 DEC 2008

I've never met a President, I doubt I ever will;
In recent years, the only likely one for that was Bill.
They never seem to be much like the people that I know:
they have more money, that's for sure, and travel to and fro

persuading and attempting to convince me what is real
in case I haven't figured out the truth of the whole deal:
it doesn't really matter, in the end, who claims to run the show
or who claims some authority based on some need to know,

I'll do what I believe is right, just like I've always done,
and won't require one law to change, nor need to purchase guns,
nor back my claim with scripture, nor intimidate with threat,
nor count on anyone to help me but my work and sweat.

You see, it doesn't matter - 'cause if the whole world's insane,
the only thing you've got to fear is what's in your own brain;
and if you need approval from the masses for your truth
you might as well forget it. It won't be from voting booths

that your redemption will come forth; no, it will never be
so long as there need to be laws to give you liberty.
You're free already - it's your choice to stand or else to kneel;
you'll be convicted either way, so which has more appeal -

to live the life you know is right, be kind, and just and wise?
or wait for some new world to dawn? If you think that these guys
who look to be elected, either one, can make things right
and turn approaching twilight into dawn by skipping night,

can with some magic heal the wounds we've spent years making sore,
can get rid of depression, terrorism, hate and war,
can counter greed, and selfish interest, and make people care,
then you're off in some other world, and I wish you luck there.

But here, real change is up to you and me, and no one else;
there's only one who's fit to change your world, and that's yourself.
Unless you work to make this place, this time, worth living in,
you might as well vote with a blindfold. Don't bitch if you win.

03 NOV 2008

When surety retreats to shadows,
tenuous and mewling like a frightened child
that in the creeping dark sees monsters
and in a fetal shivering ball refuses
what assurance reason offers -
in that time between the second hand's
slow grinding pulsing on,
when the low thud of eardrums echoes,
drowning out each labored breath,
and the future seems as distant
as one blade of grass from another
in the scale economy of a flea
on the back of a mongrel universe -
in that moment of uncertainty,
the wounded soul heals
and by its scars is grown.

01 NOV 2008

Should you and I want to discuss
the ins and outs of our belief
(how one way suits and others don't),
let's keep it to the point, and brief,
and leave those things like faith behind.

For faith and reason do not meet;
the one without the other fills
quite different needs: pure faith exists
to carry us between effects
for which we find no logic's cause.

And reason? That's the evidence
that each will use to prove their case
(and often, when intents diverge,
can point so many different ways
and then make liars of either side.

But you and I, unless we hate,
can talk about our firm beliefs;
and find perhaps some middle ground
where our perceptions may give way
to solid ground, instead of air.

But hate? What good is that to us,
if what we dream we can achieve
is something more than us and them,
beyond the blame we both should share,
some kind of balance, some small peace?

Let's talk, and leave such fools behind
that would become what they despise;
instead, let's listen for a while
and let our voices, strained with shouts,
take time to heal before we speak.

15 SEP 2008

Watching the news about Hurricane Ike and watching the water rise on the front door step, looking through some things I wrote immediately before and after Hurricane Katrina, I came across this piece that makes me think of the both Democratic and Republican national conventions.

No Shaman Left to Heal Our Tribe

for Jim Morrison

Come, dig the grave, but not too deep;
the eighties were a shallow time.
We spent a decade just to learn
how to maintain appearance's sake
and delve with questions, off-the-cuff,
in cocktail conversation bluffs.

Come, dig the grave, the shovel's mouth
will gouge the earth enough to serve
as depth-gauge for the swollen corpse;
besides, the scavengers we bred
in boredom need not work too hard
to find in us their daily bread.

Come, dig the grave; it's only death
that by necessity is born
and like a cancer spreads throughout
the tender tissue we have formed
to shield us from the sunlight's glare
and make believe there's nothing there.

Come, work the soil and lay the sod;
the garden must be fed anew
lest what fruit has escaped the rod
be left to rot by morning's dew.
What harvest plenty still remains
is just enough to clog the drains.

Come, dig the grave, but not too deep,
lest toil and sweat destroy our youth.
Let future generations weep
that they've no gravestone for the truth.
Besides, it's almost happy hour ---
we should arrive by our own power.

03 OCT 2005