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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. |
| Hesitate. Wait for faith’s beckoning. A wish come true, wrapped with children’s bows. Cold comes. It was yesterday, an invitation from far away, a place known too well. Arrhythmia. You could not come. To honor her passing. To mourn the crisp mornings spent while snow flurried, when Christmas would come. Feel your heartbreak drown in the blood of memory. Pray for its sway to fade. A bond of us will never come. Unspoken sorrow versed in Shakespearean laments. Years later courting my own death, I begged it not to come. I am a mere passerby, a poet, a timid and unworthy notetaker. Not alone to shy away from the great timeline of things to come. ghazal for my second mother’s death [2017.19.4…a] |
my hands rouged by the blood of regret strawberry stains eat at my heart’s regret I have fourteen reasons why I don’t want to lose my name to you, silence to regret absence plunges me in a world of quicksand mysteries, breathing synonyms for regret the sound of your fading voice beckons from the Mediterranean, a siren calls regret too short a life, harpooned, clotted in pain do free whales know music for regret? arms too frail to out-row these bruised clouds my words fail to express such great regret ghazal to express too much sorrow [2017.18.4…b] |
| at first, for years in fact, I heard GOT, thought "video game" since I live abroad, don’t take cable TV & am not game for series (beyond NCIS, Grey’s Anatomy, Housewives, etc.) to keep up year after year, whereas 800 pages of Game of Thrones kept my eyes keen, until the next thick volume popped up on an Amazon list, to improvise a twirling game of rotary note cards to track records of every cast member actor or tech, a juggler’s finding-book-time-per-night game of pages & memory sticks & Excel sheet & drat! where's a good Rubick’s cube, Monopoly or Twitter Tweet games no,that’s been mixed with FarceBrook Crushed Sweets until interest rear ends my time: four books to go, match set & game of Rolland Garros or Wimbledon easy-as-pie replay, release pause & two years later you continue to realize it’s always an endgame because Beckett stained the cards with wine, senility infiltrated who’s who & I’m stuck going home -- motionless is a fool's game ghazal to read after a month’s prequel of the latest six-volume blockbuster [2017.18.4…a] |
| dear you: I crave emptying the delta of emotion to bridge the river of our love's flooding emotion dear me: this missive of pain cannot be dammed up over the ever-intensifying swell of your emotion dear you: love’s bomb made us blossom like pretty and unexpected dandelions, not the roses of emotion we both deserved, then we paralyzed Venus (dear me: such words empty our well, no rebound for emotion) dear you: I dreamed of orchid filled forests, sunset colors at noon, festivals of song, as your naked emotion invaded the orbit between us like Joan of Arc championed her invisible voices, sure of their emotion dear me: perhaps the planets cycling like swans courting carried too much overtly perfect emotion you never spoke out … dear you: I never heard a simple I love you, keeping my head above the waves of your emotion ghazal for lovers in a black hole [2017.17.4..a] |
| coerced from maize and cobalt, forget-me-not is a rare overwhelming phrase I'll say not catch-alls like daffodils and roses wither too soon in stale water, love strays to not the emerald city waved high expectations the solution of clicking one's heels was not I packed three pairs of ruby slippers for this holiday where my escape could not under a peppermint striped horizon, crowds elbow for one more tutti-frutti Parasol, why not? anthracite skies may charm a few moody Mondays a certain time, passion briefly swells, then not in distant fields, terra cotta markers dripping sun dancers to their knees, June farmers cry we cannot why burnt umber is the best color [2017.16.4...a] |
| to a child yellow imagination makes perfect sense a stubble of faith sounds like pealing nonsense to shave those corners under raucous light mirrors flat brick walls affecting a sleeper's sense a marshmallow sentinel holds himself upright by flower-power weed brownies and incense one day a blind man will teach us to photograph the smell of lilacs and wisteria, fanning out this sense poems can be infused with blue, why not get drunk on skyline orange or a cat's gnawing sense? days pass after even bananas are sad, added salt pinches frustrated or confused tears into real sense through pickled cravings for green fried tomato kilts troubadours battle each in-and-out to carve gold sense ghazal for daydreamers in kimonos [2017.15.4...b] |
| Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter. Don’t become. Speak clearly to contest the rise of bling bling despots overlording those too weak and unlucky to become. Oppose each Midas whose eyes dare the Almighty and who, in million dollar temples, will never become. Grow as vessels for internal wealth that pour light on shadows harboring fear. Strive again to become. Raise strong united voices as one, humble and endearing you shine a path for those lost and unsure how to become. ghazal for Martin Luther King [2017.15.4…a] |
| I want to describe myself like a painting that I looked at, closely for a long time, painting each tiny detail again in my mind, each nuance each brush stroke, engraving a new painting on the oldest canvas of my memory, to transform a dream, brighter and animated, a re-painting of emotions beyond my waking hour, shivers to remember the moment of your painting that portrait of my youth, the piano, Chopin a still-life that my greatest sadness is painting … ghazal for an emptiness [2017.12.4…b] Opening words from Rilke’s Book of Hours: Love poems to God |
| out-of-time weathered hands, secret joys reign unlabored and cultivated in a garden of rain small measureless drops, Amazon cloud bursts flow in strange patterns to the Alps, and reign in a silenced patchwork tapestry of greens, ferns mosses and lichen, trees canopy the rain hummingbirds and bees hover and buzz over a strange Tarot card called cups of rain providence walks with disavowed desire, hand in hand with a small Eden where peace finds reign an old man watches, not boats fading at sea but his life’s garden left to soothe in rain ghazal for an old man’s watchfulness [2017.12.4…a] I used the prompt and my favorite phrase from Katya's poems. |
| “I am too alone in the world, and yet not alone enough to make every moment holy," revolving to unite a world. a single man, no, not too small can turn a manifesto’s lungs into a forest without preaching to contradict prayers to only my world to make a pinpoint of cobalt explode into the heavens lit by a smudge of dandelion why can’t every man paint his world with palettes of hope and longevity's brushes that overflow each river and quench three billion people’s thirst with pages to counter hate as it peals this world like a rotten orange, corroded, tasteless stunted by negative ions, a bane against its original perfection why won't the gods cry for this world? ghazal for tears that nourish nothing [2017 11.4…a] Author's note: Opening quote from Rilke’s Book of Hours: Love poems to God |
| I want to ban this thing, this morbid song, not my time to die to sear this passing thought from my past, the wrong time to die I want the light in my eyes to reflect the moonlit love you feel a philosopher’s dream, a poet’s idée fixe, until we all die I want to erase autumn and winter, thresholds for change so the weak and scrawny, idle and lazy do not lay down to die I want to know moments when destiny hails a fickle shooting start and others prolonged like studying a black hole’s life, how does it die? soothing music signals time running short, an hour glass broken its shards piercing a tender heart, I want to feel its wish to die and some perish, the most vulnerable, sensitive, the roses among us on a Valentine with nothing returned, the thorns left behind will die ghazal on a very singular moment [2017.9.4…b] |
| returned to an old haunt, thing you shouldn't've done nothing matters when you jinx a list of things not done written on a rusty bucket, in a cracked dish of wishes the old kitchen linoleum waits, dulled ’n dreary, done new over thirty years ago, and cat-and-dog soiled carpet, strips of wall-to-wall bare, torn and undone next month the mortgage paid off, then Paris, Rio numbers eight and nine, too far, crossed off like done so you OK Yosemite closer to home, with a side trip and Las Vegas, king of dice rolling, will see you done in, penniless and debt worse that a student's back to the drawing board, new list, updated, done and you go back to that place of ultimate happiness wash it down with whiskey and wipe tears done staining another shirt for the laundry, second load you wait, elbows in grime, until the timer rings done it all started in the wrong direction [2017.9.4…a] |
| some always run aghast, against the flow of time sweating and convinced there is never enough time to scribble a note to a friend alone and in need priority lists will scream not to taunt the essence of time and he, alone to survive cancer's temporary quake ballasted in exile, battling see-through ghosts, struck by time and he, face bright receiving rare gifts of gentleness abashed by the idea of begging to share another's time I, the poet, will find little solace if you pen a flourished sorry, you deserved more than a morsel of my time ghazal in need of a timeless title [2017.8.4…a] I told myself this month I would not write directly about my "unwellness." Being declared "in remission" is to win only part of the battle. There are still side effects to deal with, I’m unable to go back to work and be useful, and I did not count on the emotional roller-coaster I’ve encountered. And the feeling of being left by the roadside hurts. |
| in their garden a vine of hearts climbs to infinity its darkest green leaves confuse night with infinity wild populates the grass beneath this bloodless ivy poppy flowers charm inebriation, glow to tempt infinity they sleep beneath shimmering starlight unsure of origins, of shivering leaves, they glance at infinity through visions of shaman incantations, peyote drums the light for many labyrinth passages promising infinity questions emerge from the dense fog, its cling a hint of answers with roots that sink as deep as infinity from the paths of Carlos Casteneda [2017.7.4…a] |
| I have only wanted this state of grace never really knew why they said grace it wasn’t stained glass or new Easter clothes something always said it wasn’t that kind of grace I heard more than music in the bells the wrong kind of trance closed in on grace music kept me there, the French and Russian poets, the painters of God, and that grace later, moss beneath bare feet, a twenty year old tattered housecoat, cornered pages, grace leading to and from the portals of solitude befriending its aura of emptiness, more grace filled with words remembered from youthful days pages filled with the thoughts of a aging man, grace sought after illness, heartbreak, heartthrob heartbreak and stillness, now walk with grace talk without secrets, share the unshareable unspeakable, what souls hide, allow that grace to cleanse, heal, move beyond imagination and dreams, follow the widening path of grace not truly a prayer, a monk’s retreat cell, silent days learning to hear blood flow in veins, grace appearing in a sunset, a clearing after brambles torn and worn, then, only then, run in a state of grace search with many paths and many endings [2017.6.4…a] |
| I dreamed of flowing colors who spoke to silence a whirlwind of ochre befriending arms of silence ginkgo leaves veined in turquoise blanket thin cows leaking ashen milk, I heard prayers for silence at Hiroshima only rainbow confetti fell and Syrian children still play, I ask silence she is a goddess distressed by blunt blackness in a reign imploding from purity to whispering silence dreams of discreetness tumble in pastel ideas and after rowdy limericks, life unwinds in silence a bluebird caught in pearly north wind gusts unfinished, I wake to these memories of silence a blue mouse merges with Gouda cheese puffs and watches as purple thunders after Prince's silence every now and then dreams come true [2017.5.4…a] |
| modern orchestral dissonance titled land of remorse can only Syria and Palestine define land of remorse? in barren plots between corn and wheat, farmers let weeds flower and nourish the soil, no land of remorse the cat lost yet another aluminum foil ball space under furniture leads to lands of remorse a child cries behind a locked door, mother too busy to create anything than a homeland of remorse a beautifully staged and dressed Shakespeare tragedy raises Ophelia to crown any land of remorse those who hear the phrase "no longer in remission" soon fear the unfinished nature of land of remorse in the city of light, a troubadour sings this tear-stained sky will not hide a land of remorse when now suddenly becomes unraveled [2017.4.4...a] |
| Escape to spring time. I cannot say no to these dusty lungs, freedom is all I know. Days turn to weeks, months linger, seasons pass. The wise man counsels: there is nothing I know. While grass grows, a woman sweeps gravel into Zen circles, a décor for theater Nō. Another paces in a flowing black mourning dress; she spits at grief though her heart screams « no." I meditate passing clouds and flocks of birds. This locked window is what I show to explain no. Far-away children call out in play time fun. Back to class, happy, lucky, they share books to know. The power in the requiem Libera me cries out: "I am made to tremble, and I fear." My will is no. And when prayer is the only thing we have left [2017.3.4…b] |
| When your adventure spirit takes you from me let me bleed to purge my heart’s excess love. In the night, it isn’t you who waits for me. Near my home no bombs ever fall. A storm's clouds obscure the full moon and demons silence the nightfall, no peace will comfort me. I recite mantras against ill omens, dying too young, old enough to sing Lux aeterna. At midnight, fear still comes looking for me. City quiet and windows lit by TV blues. The same Requiem, I hear Libera me. Deep in the night, solitude talks to me. A thousand times imagining your return do you not hear Orpheus' lyre? Look back! Now, isn’t it love that waits for me? When I dreamed, I dreamed of you [2017.3.4…a] A tercet ghazal. I borrowed a line from NOVAcatmando   's poem yesterday. |
| I wake in the dark, I did not dream and you my love, of whom do you dream? this longing for health consumes my hours do you see how this path hampers my dreams? at the piano I play the Nightingale and the Maiden, while she forgets, I dream saddened, I watch you depart once more and damper again a part of my dreams your days alone in far away places filled by adventure, but dreams? I wait, sustain a growing restlessness the sleeping cat, tail twitching, he dreams as Sheherezade's tale ends the morning bird sings to offer a dream of a sleepless night beyond a full moon [2017.2.4...a] |
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