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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. |
| she lays in bed with her full breasted lover under the window, free to choose a rust-colored duvet and hang no curtains until they are cheap or free from the balcony I compose dreams, fantasies and verse without rhyme strangers inspire too many idle hours as I sit waiting to be free a three-year-old runs back-and-forth along the nine-foot corridor her mother doesn’t think disrupting peace has a price, rarely free the doctor, poised and confident, said two words, in remission I stared believing and not at once, wondering am I free in the garden, two men labor to plant seeds for the first time waiting to be amazed when tiny flower buds finally push free I decide to be a parrot, the wispy white trail of an airplane a mime reciting a Shakespearean sonnet, today I set myself free the last page of his memoirs, remembering Berlin in the eighties a troubadour lay naked in high noon park grass, for the first time free all things visible, or not a ghazal [2017.1.4…a] |
| Lists are endless they haven’t happened yet. Will you read me a happy ending? Under a lampshade poems hide: a tight-rope walker spurning balance, a black magic spell occulting youthful visions of peace, a dubious sensation of the moment’s sublimeness, cemeteries filled with regret. I, an object for your curiosity, am not an entertainment. We applaud Greek tragedies pizzazzing on Main Street. I sly away … and that teardrop dilutes darkness. Discard the fear, the hatred, the loneliness, the abandon. Nothing soothed my inner turmoil. Heroes do not die as the curtain closes. In a series of strange episodes, it was my first dream: to become a legend, freshened by rose petals, ocean spray, pine cones. I often went missing from myself sitting at a Paris sidewalk café bathed in Technicolor sunlight. I found proof of life in your smile; together we were fearless. Strangled by the pathos I wept for days for this God-like love, every word sculpted into a collection of superlatives. In the space of everything that keeps us alive we slither away from the wrath of an obscure God of jealousy and try to break free with toothpicks. One becomes accustomed to the mundane. The Zen koan keeps no riddle: I wondered how love fit into this fluorescent narrative of decades spent traveling, justly dissatisfied with the humdrum of suburbia. I got drunk afterwards hoping the song will become a multifaceted version slow enough to meet on a dance floor and embrace people you'd never meet standing in line for the premiere. They will form a path back home. Remember the chatterbox years? Free your heart, become an ace at breaking monotony’s cling. The peace of never having to say words aloud … few understood my message. I am an elegy, a commemoration, silent, like melting ice, a soft feather twitching away the pain since that day my personal geometry made a complete circle and found you. Love does not exist beyond dictionary definitions. How to cast these things into daggers: the monotony of rainfall, beer binges and lingering kisses. Crime and Punishment was never opened. Caught in the ether of oldness let's dance a foxtrot. A not-yet-written etude in solitary— sometimes the perfect one brings freedom — whirls the outline of its boundaries, a courtyard room with shaded venetians. It was my private cemetery, brought a calm to the celebration. I’m not impatient for the surprise, a whirly-bird in search of a suitable piece of life. Other people lived there … The calming power of splashing memories while seating beside a roaring fire [2016.29.4…a] A cento poem |
| the years we spent together … counting days hours minutes pressing roses into 24-set encyclopedias inventing new words of tenderness folly rouging at my daring cooking classes fine winery haute couture threads holidays on deserted islands front row tickets for opera theatre ( we agreed to forego stadiums ) private museum screenings parties in penthouses walking in the rain tucked under the same umbrella arm in arm millions of smiles that dim the milky way closing your book every night tucking you in a last kiss dousing the lights making love in the morning yes lists are endless ... they haven’t happened yet I am no longer sure about true love and soul mates, but thus is how to pretend [2016.28.4…b] |
| just in case I asked for magical white ink for tattoos larger than life a commemoration silent, like melting ice until stalactites fall and pierce a sorcerer’s heart you did that once, woke one July morning your voice empty of life said love’s like a light bulb when it burns out there’s no going back on that day too much of me died I returned to a no man’s land rolls and rolls of undeveloped film made the bonfire blaze with majestic chemical reactions my cheeks, rouged and salted for a year like pretzels, peanuts and popcorn unattached to circus clowns I would have preferred that dagger of ice under certain lights the invisible ink patterns crouch like goose-bumps difficult to ignore patient reminders journaling the years we spent together if love were translucent, perhaps we could read the future [2016.27.4…a] |
| on a calm lake never learned how to catch anything other than sunburn and a dubious sensation of the moment’s sublimeness, its sunny emptiness would killing a fish have changed anything? decades later I seek this gentle lull deliberately, a way to Zen I have a large-brimmed hat that creates magical shade though I’m rarely dressed warmly enough I sly away from these slippery ideas, you know, the closer-to-the-end kind and that in the finality so far yonder the atmosphere may welcome in one sense, but I think I’ll need a few fur coats to keep my blood on the up and up just in case to be prepared in any situation [2016.26.4…b] |
| smiles as delicate as porcelain shatter as easily, glue lines always show an eighteen-inch vase, imitation Ming thirty-seven sharp pieces indeed, I am not an object for your curiosity my creases, laugh lines, scowls of scorn one way or the other misdirected words they are now so damned mismatched for the living room harmony malicious, with bent intent the pout returns you cannot tame me I am not an entertainment thing for a mundane soirée I've told fifteen of my guests you enjoy playing Chopin a pet chimp on a street corner with a tin cup, fondled by strangers I too will bite your ugly hands those that won't share the same delicacies sorry darling you have to earn the right to foie gras would you smile, hooked like a fish on a calm lake, cooked to a crisp left for the maid's harsh hands neither of us got thanks changelings born in the wrong neighborhood [2016.26.4...a] |
| only one giant teardrop like vapor filling oceans and lakes connecting us all barely freezing, almost May scattering rain, Arctic winds cemeteries filled with regret maternity joy to be linked with Hamlett or not to get shot dead so easily children wonder we age, then wander live to love a solution global feast, desiring to preserve life and that teardrop dilutes darkness with the delicacy of a smile an explosive cocktail of things learned too late versus as simple as a happy meal ... (or not) [2016.25.4...a] |
| there were none to coax me further my back to blackness where are the beautiful people with souls to care which one of us will love the most fall into folly and cheat all those magicians of life darkness is a trap door under a lampshade poems hide waiting for a different glow be it the sadness in my eyes let me shout until I'm hoarse until I tremble like a storm until I am a tight-rope walker spurning balance and from this silence you reinvent the art of saying what hearts quest mine is ready to conquer starlight take me with you from my shadows only darkness holds me here I don't want to be a teardrop are we ready to defy never? prayer of illusion to a young circus performer [2016.24.4...a] |
| his one callous embrace was all I had, thirty years after the blackest Christmas that seared the first hole in my wholeness happenstance, making a dinner reservation a hostess chirped "you're not dad's son? he’s at the bar,” an unwanted attempt to unite split families -- we snarled politely I got drunk afterwards hoping she’d pity me, later, many years later I prayed for a message from the hospital he's dying and he wants it never came so I never had to answer, to sound my soul and discard the fear, the hatred the loneliness, the abandon the so many other emotions and look into his dying eyes and take the risk of seeing the last ember of his love there was none you can play "what if" long after the day you die [2016.22.4…a] |
| death echoes among us loud-mouthed and brazen a black magic spell occulting youthful visions of peace its arsenal of zombies totes its sick kiss to schools, sidewalk cafés shopping malls, its twisted face has pulpits of hate where we are born from love my sense of beauty could not make a difference but to riposte, I will not avail myself of his callous embrace all arms held wide open do not see the light [2016.22.4...a] |
| about that happy ending the theory of relativity, chimes Einstein is a bathroom scale after Thanksgiving a 25-mile marathon later a place in the middle is achieved -- that's the principle check the box most appropriate a) ecstasy-induced euphoria ( go quick to d & e ) b) planning your wedding c) content d) "you're fired" e) it's time to say goodbye at the hospice Hollywood spoils people modulating hope from major to minor, oceans are filled with our tears and we applaud Greek tragedies pizzazzing on Main Street, the pizza house the beauty salon the drugstore overwhelmed by over-the- countering pills to bring back la vie en rose -- it's so easy to forget all the other colors mix outside of balance into a no-star night -- the church and its frenzy of prayer we return, dizzy and expecting Van Gogh swirliness to our departure point, a marvelous Pilgrimage that outlasts a lifetime we leave echoes often loud-mouthed and brazen how can we not believe in reincarnation? [2016.21.4...a] |
| songs of love need to rhyme with sincerity and verily, tied with bright ribbons they need a beat, slow enough to meet on a dance floor and embrace notes that soar higher than lower lift me out of those blues and take me away in a yellow submarine that our mood morphs in to a hot air balloon, higher than every tomorrow, our hearts as light as butterflies from sweet melodies bigger and better, faster and louder they swell and merge as one with no escape from this magnetic pull, from valentine rituals to vows in church, roses not red but white for better or worse although yellow ones made me melt will you read me a happy ending before you fade into dreams scream from that eight-lane freeway how you can’t live without me [2016.20.4…a] |
| logs crackle hickory scents the air become one with the trees for even when they are dead, they offer us this beauty the zen koan keeps no riddle human ears are not needed to hear the sound of a tree falling in the forest its crash of grief the big bang must've been marvelous a symphonic cacophony a celebration mankind is still trying non-collectively to write its music if each language offers one word the song will become a multifaceted version of that single word shared generation to generation a song of love another song to bend our hearts [2016.18.4...a] |
| why do they want me to smile standing in front of a sexy billboard featuring a three-day-bearded stud paid to seduce the world with a new after-shave, how can one compare, impossible to avoid his Adam-like features whoa! we need a new reality show depicting Average Joe city mice and country mice rarely dine without speaking of heritage while opposites attract that truth also storms the home front I've forgotten Jean De La Fontaine and this moral, chin in hands admiring a real-life GIF of a cloudy day no risk for a busy man's farmer’s tan at his first appearance on a paradise beach realizing he packed dried-up sun block, it’s Sunday and even the local shops ten kilometers away are closed can’t pay in euro dollars? yens? three strikes against last/minute/vacation dot com all in all, happiness glues us in place for ten days squint under a perfect sky and the smile, like umbrellas in bright cocktails is automatic, opening up one of Pandora's boxes the wrath of an obscure God of jealousy and a new selfie acclaimed by people you'd never meet standing in line for the premiere of Steven Spielberg’s umpteenth saga blockbuster when you’d rather be home playing scrabble, listening to logs crackle hot cocoa, yes but frowning, you quip the eyes are mirrors of the soul beauty is only skin deep or some other overrated drivel a new minimalist opera: a lovely face, idyllic vacations and after shave [2016.17.4...a] |
my favorite teddy, called Cuddles had three unmatched brothers a worn out and ragged quartet of everything that held me together even today, they smell of childhood, happy-go-luckiness and giddy laughter I lost most of it in a hospital room, reeking of more illness than the one creeping through my skull I selected sleep therapy after a month, I asked a clown with an out-of-tune guitar for a sad ballad he didn’t know one I kissed the hiss of disappointment again I have trouble finding things a few bones from each hand right ear, heart, my soul took them hostage on your tombstone when you free them they will form a path back home why do they want me to smile the first time is rarely the hardest [2016.16.4…a] |
| "But My Darlings, a bleeding, or broken heart, which is certainly less poetic, is the suffering inborn to the human condition." My grandmother as always. Dressed in Sunday regalia with a lace hat worthy of the queen of England. We listened with more interested than Sunday mass, respectful of her age, her wisdom, her experience; she outlived three husbands while my mother divorced five. We were all, my sister, myself and my cousin Roger who already had a beard, perched on the powder blue sofa and drank tea from her marvelous collection of Wedgwood China, each a unique piece, as were we, no two cups matched. She stood at the window overlooking the courtyard in its early spring attire, statuesque, her demurely painted lips in perpetual movement, refraining from "inappropriate corporal gesticulation," intoning the afternoon’s speech about the Eiffel Tower in Paris, the Coliseum in Rome, the strangeness of neon signs in Tokyo, the wandering canals of both Venice and Amsterdam, the odd juxtaposition of glaciers and volcanos despite the bitter cold in Island. She had plans for India and China. And a third African safari. I wondered how love fit into this fluorescent narrative of decades spent traveling. She spoke more fondly of the in-between-marriage trips. Still, she incarnated all our dreams. To listen to her reminiscences, it seemed so natural to travel, to be justly dissatisfied with the humdrum of suburbia. She pooh-poohed any negative connotation impinging upon the notion of solitude. She was not an expert on romance. "It's so much better if you can find a husband who wants mere companionship. They are as rare as black pearls. My dear Christopher, bless his dearly departed heart, was always a perfect gentleman." Christopher was number three, dead now a month. An exercise in mourning etiquette: gather the favorites and talk of the past while laying out a path to glean how our futures might be as keen. My peers look for sensuality, true soul mates. Sex. Behind-closed-door family speculation had her doing that only twice in her life -- first as a one-time-only lucky strike ending up with my mother, who I'm sure came out screaming and kicking like a demon, and next to honor my first step-grandfather. I too prefer to cuddle before hopping into separate beds. A few more wise and essential parts of the jigsaw puzzle [2016.15.4…a] |
| I was never fearless engraved in the marble epitaph waits for a second date sitting at a Paris sidewalk café bathed in Technicolor sunlight re-writing the outskirts of last year's gay pride, I tell myself I’ll participate in the festivities next year" old song, sad refrain, I never do grandmother loved all my men kept our photos on the mantel "but don't cry it from the rooftops dear" I often went missing from myself remembering her words my "raison d’être" tumbling on growing pains I hate sound advice, said I do so many damn times from the anonymity of a Champs Elysées penthouse, sipping Pouilly Fuisé from crystal, the shenanigans below embarrass the die-hard peace- and-lovers among us and we’re too polite to tut-tut another petit four, as decadent as the rampant sexuality on the street below fear is an energetic companion to wed a bandwagon becomes a lifestyle throwing a defensive punch puts "till death do us part" on the line violence, love’s anti-Christ has catapulted original sin to interstellar orbit there is still no cure for a bleeding heart some random thoughts trying to flee a stereotype [2016.15.4…a] |
| whatever the direction a turning point sits down at your table and says "check" that day I found proof of life in your smile it didn’t matter I'd never been in love, I found a lucky charm and other smiles were just refrigerator magnets I had tried to be a bad boy choked on the first cigarette stupid not to try a puff behind the backyard fence before showing off cussin' like a big shot got my mouth washed out with soap couldn't even spit nor shriek a two-finger whistle I wanted to be legendary you were brighter than Fifth Avenue eager to show me back-stage mysteries of love's floodlights you tore away my comfort zone like a barbarian eager to conquer my thoughts of porn, sex felt so different fast and furious, tenderness a danger towards addiction with your hands as points on my compass I wiggled into my man skin learning the girth of humility and how little things connect like puzzle pieces letting us see the horizon together we were fearless and didn’t need to be bad boys to rule both sides of the fence Breaking out of the maze or the birth of a dream team [2016.14.4…a] |
| to survive was to define forever in the space of everything that keeps us alive there were forsythias and magnolias, the walkway to the front door, curving gracefully and lined with so many dogwood, their blooms the proof of life and the future then, I defined love, fidelity and grace a very small grocery list [2016.12.4…a] |
| yes, it was all your fault and everyone else's freedom to choose and we slither away from godliness some days pain voids any right choice … it was mine I remember the first afternoon you kissed me lips softer than moonlight before I was blind count on it, life will squeeze us into tight ugly spitballs that throw us hell shoving us once, twice thirty times beyond our limits we’re handcuffed to routine and try to break free with toothpicks so iSad, so iWorried hidden between parable and melodrama won’t win at the casino no new car, computer, telephone, diamond stud for my ear, or my bed do you even feel the sunlight? how could I forget the first time I slept in your arms I defined forever what happened after we saw La Traviata the first time together [2016.11.4…a] |
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