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 |  A new book to house this year's (and future years) NationalPoetryMonth's daily poems. |
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I'm writing once again this year. This book is my special event place for thirty special poems. Here for National Poetry Month in 2018, I'm participating but life has not been kind in the last 15 months, so I'm not always in writing mode. |
| Let's avoid sex, religion, politics, late trains, TV reality shows, lazy students. Define rant, Siri. "To suddenly give a long speech that usually results in rambling and repeating of nonsense." Etymology, Siri. Briefly, "From Dutch ranten, randen, (“talk nonsense, rave”)." And if I don't want short and sweet, Siri? Like stupid maternal pecks on the cheek instead of honest praise? Siri, how many people asked me how was my day today, did I do anything earthshattering that will remain in the annals of time? Are you earthshattering, Siri? A figment of my fermented imagination. Talking to an invisible friend, who answers, OK, but what kind of future is there for humanity when we all talk to invisible friends on telephones? Define earthshattering, Siri. "Of enormous importance of consequence." Oh great, I need to morph into an active, lava-spewing volcano and destroy Central Park. Can you cleave this sensation of "laisser pour mort" and find me a cheap shady plot in Père Lachaise where tourists will visit my grave and wonder "who's this guy in Paris' most famous cemetery and how'd he get here?" When I turn off this damned phone for the last time, will you remember these stupid senseless conversations with anything resembling fondness? Will anyone? Can you make a list of their names? What do you know about this black craggy cliff of solitude that I haven't already asked myself a million times with as many responses that all seem like a drunkard blabbering into his snot-filled sleeve? What do you know about human suffering, Siri? I'm sorry but I don't understand the finesse of your metaphysical questions. Can you find me a delivery for a bottle of Scotch now? At three in the morning? You’re kidding me, right? Paris suburbs go dark, unlike New York. The corner grocery stores all close at eleven. Can you wait until CCC opens at eight? Do you recommend other calming effects? Silence. At last. Maybe the battery is low. Am I a madman? I don't understand the concept of anger. Shouting is bad for your blood pressure which I estimate currently at 140 over 90. Siri, call SOS Doctor. They have no psychiatric services before six. Conversing with madmen [2018.10.4…a] |
this most sincere desire, beyond food and sleep and companionship, emboldens us to escape ourselves through the drain holes somehow bored into our solitude, unknowing we follow our postures of hope on radio waves as they travel past the homeless dark side of the sun into budding moon crescents, and like match to fire, emblazon our new found twin spirits the trajectory follows a mischievous voyage on a magic carpet studded with gold and gems we wait in asanas, for wandering pain to subside The Seeker, The Opening, The Dreamer, waiting for The Individual Explosion to hail the magnitude of Two Arms Welcoming The Universal Quest love, like atoms in stellar fusion, paired thus with a tangy sweetness of belonging, unaware we balance this unity throughout the dizzying spin of constellations lighting distant planets alive, each of us a star with a billion light years mapped into the past/present/future continuum we do not feel the pulse of the in-betweenness the heartbeat of up versus down that levitates to bypass our thoughts, images and a preference for blues or yellows and coerce us into spider-web memories floating through the growing pains of becoming nuanced with binary yes/no responses, not related to brine-imbued summer skies and winter hearths instead, we weave great tapestries of breath that grow as thick and strong as forests pungent sanctuaries to promote life abundance until a single star dies and surprised, we mourn something that unglues a few of our atoms repositioned like pink glares fade from sunset we morph into books of poems where life and death play out romance better than each scene from Romeo and Juliet starcrossed, they, our childhood tin soldiers, learned the prematurity of the big bang’s afterlife qasida #4: posing for photographs [2018.8.4…c] |
| to outmaneuver its twisting feet the thin threshold of its icy hands guiding the tower of darkness as starlight blinks out imagination to stop the in-between lurking of good-versus-evil uproar its trancelike dance gyrating like a seasoned sex worker who every Sunday remembers the foundations set down by Sister Maria Joseph's rainbow smile and returns to light a candle hoping to appease the encroaching fear that something someday will succeed and steal her youth and beauty they both choose to partner love and life in dances that recreate the warmth of sunlight to tame monsters [2018.8.4...a] |
| intrusion in a salad of fresh fruit, a single maple leaf, a perfectly etched portrait of Martin Luther King, art of artistry some dreams are more important to love or not to love should never be a question nor choice trees fend it off, they bend to honor the wind's power, they laugh at rain drops that feed the earth which can't forget all things flow in all directions a monumental traffic jam mars the human brain allows reason and emotion to bypass the heart and alter its life into the cantankerous mutiny of death there is no either/or, only and [2918.7.4...a] |
| TWO POEMS FOR THE PRICE OF ONE! [someone] that vagueness again // can we not prefer you or me, even us? [something] like gasoline, polluted water or Botox? // snow [you] like the awfully cloudy somebody? // the cat called River, an elm tree [should] tell me again what to do, values imposed by a murky [someone] // better auxiliaries are will and want and desire [avoid] really, is that still a word? // welcome, love eliminate "thou shalt not" mode [you should avoid someone, something] Two proposals to wed a) The cat called River will welcome snow. b) An elm tree wants to love me (when my final demeure is as his root tickler. He is my new and benevolent god.) opposition, a first lesson [2018.6.4...a] // \\ // \\ // \\ I break the atmosphere munching chocolate-covered chips at the koi pond its steadfast stone lanterns silent mossy rocks narrow red lacquered bridge a single maple centered at its vantage point if I take a selfie I'll be a postcard perhaps they will accept this undigestible hive-inducing food peas and a beet/Brussel spout mix diced into bite-sized morsels fish ‘n veggies [2018.6.4...b] |
| I want to say god is an optical illusion unloved, battered children homeless children war the death of children too often from cancer anyone's death, too early in demonic suffering why didn't he just decide the only way death could happen was to fall asleep and never wake up? war anti personal mines suicide bombs assault rifles in schools in churches in movie theatres in shopping malls governments with laws that protect no one the ugliness, the tyranny, the hate in the name of religion this freedom of choice ideal when so clearly shit ices too many cakes why aren't circus schools brimming with a thousand generations of happy-face-painted clowns? this is not just "c'est la vie" [2018.5.4...a] |
| I can't give you my death to rip away your sweet cotton candy smile, to dissect the laughter from your throat, to unthread the muscles that make you run, to varnish an airtight mask over your joy with this thing must not be shared but if you want to breathe dragon fire and help me melt the hell eating my life like chocolate bonbons I'll show you a piece of eternity until then I will yell this thing is not me [2018.4.4...a] |
| we all have history you were an accident I was unwanted and granny a drunken afterthought, the ninth our fathers all died before we were born your questions? they're like late night booze you answer once and in the morning everything changes for the worst love? I guess it happens, like on TV but didn't God's only child die for our sins and leave his heavenly father and mortal mother bereaved at the cross? so, am I a sin? discussion with a small child about love [2018.3.4...a] |
| No prompt available yet! i stopped my search for dictionaries but still listen to the music in their voices are they angels? and will death deliver me from wondering, awestruck, why i have been thus chosen? beetles and lady bugs quiver like arrows whistle daffodils mumble and roses speak as clear as wind trees are louder and oily patches on city streets rumble like elephants when rain recites poetry machines hum simplicity, their din purposeful no angst when guessing about flutter crisps as a child i invented languages to respond they seemed content, was my muffled accent truly sincere? perhaps they are frivolous, or timid, or tainted somehow and whisper like falling snow only for the fairest heart i toy with sadness at moments when doubt draws near they shed no tears and joy is contagious the gift of a lifetime [2018.2.4…b] a response to C.D.Wright, « Imaginary June » https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/imaginary-june |
| Like death, writing an ode to cancer fills any normal soul with dread, doctor, sir … I do not beg to differ, I hate your diligent point of view. Pain and inevitability are lopsided answers. In a garden, tendrils of ivy prey on nooks and crannies sinking roots deep into brick and mortar. A decorative result comes about, though no purpose adds charm to surfaces in need of repair. This weave happens by accident, not gruesome forethought that traps a healthy flower in a grasping lair. Young tender fruit on trees seeks a protective height while roses and bougainvillea climb to dazzle the air like wisteria and vines that make wine, drunken pleasure to nurture good health and eyes that wander the horizon with a flair for soothing details that erase the mind of untidy thoughts that dare trouble a frail and weakened body tainted by this ill which merits no name spoken. No, it does not care. It does not care about mourning and cemeteries and all the people who have lost everything to share. No, it does not care that it decimates those left behind when death slips despair into each word of prayer. Qasida #3 "No, it won't let you forget" [2018.2.4...a] The Qasida is the ancestor of the ghazal, an ode poem originally written in couplets and structured into three distinct parts. Traditional Qasidas can be up to 100 couplets that commonly use aa or aa/bb/cc or xa rhymes and are woven with common threads, unlike the ghazal. Research is frustrating because it is a form not adopted by many English language poets and most of the authoritative literature is written in Arabic and the philosophical nature of its three parts seems difficult to impart. |
| special doors open anywhere thoughts abide chimney smoke perfumed with Havana tobacco dusty double paned windows, no curtains or blinds there is only an imaginary connection with the view cold spring air seeps somehow across brick and mortar barriers, wool refuses seasonal retirement night lights dim totally as does the moon waning or waxing away from any permanent state you refuse to talk about love and commitment hiding all the cliché surrounding Valentine’s day I thought we would lose singularity, become paired somehow, these dreams bother someone else’s sleep in my dreams, our dead child has nightmares of transparent caskets each bearing one of his school chums, suffering horribly the firemen were too late, helmets and ladders both red, bloodshot eyes, bloodshed happened anyway we draw lines where circles are appropriate oddly shaped pegs that fit in dull, surprising places it would be more appropriate to live through views of desolation, wreaked havoc from a war zone maybe in our collective consciousness weeping willows are the most prevalent tree, sturdy oak limbs break sunlight, even veiled with thick unhappy clouds always returns and brings something called balance after life reduces our numbers [2018.1.4..a] |
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