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Tag Archives: writing

#266

In my mind…

In my mind
All that is poignant has died:
      the silence of the arrow
      as it listens to the wind,
      the starry reflections
      on a crow’s glass eye,
      the lonely strength of a cactus
      in a desert thunderstorm.
My mind has been surrounded
By the birth
Of talk show chatter,
The rainbow reflection
Of driveway oil slicks,
And the beeps of microwave popcorn

I have waited for far too long,
Waited for something I never recognized,
Something to appear bright and golden.
But now I am lost
With only the idea of sunlight remaining.

Yesterday I realized
There is someone out there
Who will dig my grave
And I started writing him a poem
But I could not see anything
Except the shovel and the dirt.

I could not even imagine his hands.

 
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Posted by on January 28, 2014 in old discoveries

 

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#238

1:31 a.m.

Sleep-awake, conscious of my stomach growling,
I reach for my notebook.
      (keep a pen beside your bed,
       my son,
       for only then will your dreams come alive)
My tears fall
To be gathered like jewels in a paper basket.
I dream-scream
To scare away any vagrant ghosts,
But my words laugh at me.
The jewels glisten back in the darkness.
I am not free to run away.

 
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Posted by on December 31, 2013 in old discoveries

 

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#173

Two voice poem (You find the line)
(with Adam Kerr)

You find the line
                                                  I’ll look here
I’ll trap the words
                                                  Or maybe there
I bought myself a net,
   a metaphor net                         I’ll find that line
                                                  I’ll trap that word
Together we’ll create                    Together we’ll create

                                                  Look I fly
Flapping gently over doubts
                                                  I soar amid the thoughts
It’s amazing what imagination will do
                                                  When you live in a world
When you live in a world                  a world of pain
   a world of love

Creating gives us power               Creating gives us power

I see life in fragments
                                                  I am blind
Images haunt me
                                                  Images are me
In our differences
Where can we find the poetry?      In our differences
                                                  Where can we find our lives?

 
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Posted by on October 23, 2013 in old discoveries, springboards

 

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#148

For Poet Marc                       (old)

Sometimes you know

An image, a line, strikes you
And you start
Then it flows
Smooth, continuous
A wave begun far out in the ocean
That travels and travels
Gently pushed by the wind
(with the depths always underneath)
It rises and flows
Line by line
Image by image
Until the wave
The poem
Finally crashes and then eases
Its white foam
Onto the shore

And you realize
On the sand of your finishing
What a ride it was
And sometimes you know
What it means to be a poem
What it means to be a poet

 
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Posted by on September 28, 2013 in old discoveries

 

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