Tag: poetry (page 2 of 4)

August 18, 2017 / 0 Comments

euterpe

Euterpe! Muse of Melody,

How did I forget
The beauty of these leaves?
Regret I did not see
The forest for the Trees

Please! One more reprise
Of these sad reeds’ pleas.
Sown seeds can mend ravines
Wait. One moment. I have to pee.

See, these fickle trickles of daffodils
Thrill me as they spill upon my sight
As a whirlwind of wonder. Woodsy trills
dally dully like the Doldrums do at night.

Phantasms merge volcanic chasms.
A crescent moon spoons the sky
as I pray through chattering teeth. Spasms
suffocate the susurrus of my sighs.

My muted, morning lullaby
Mingles with the tingling dusk.
My musk reeks of the Bacchanae
‘In Vino Veritas’ I vociferously busk.

I must confess I’m all alone
in this. I’ve kissed macbeth’s skull
And fell into some empty throne
Or forest ditch. This depression is full

Of all the beauty and all the dreams
That gleam like the breath of ghosts.
Nothing is ever as it seems.
Night annihilates nostalgic toasts

To what is passed and forever lost.
Now, dawn’s cold fog stiffens my soul
And I must bear a boring cross
To mend my home and pay the toll

To alcohol. That fiery fiend keeps me in thrall
With bounteous beauty and bedraggled sense
Of sight and smell. How sickly seems its call
In the belligerence of the present tense.

And was it worth it, after all?
What is wisdom that stales with sobriety?
If you leap from a cliff, are you now free to fall?
Was the guilt in my soul planted by society?

How will I recover my self from me
If I have lost my sense of direction
In this lively forest? The pores of every tree
Stick with the sap of seduction.

I could sweat a suit of tears
And find no solace in sadness.
So, I will sing away my fears
In another drunken bout of madness.

April 21, 2017 / 0 Comments

You never get the time you need to say the things you can’t afford to leave unsaid.
It will always take Herculean strength to speak.
It doesn’t make me weak
To concede that I’m in need of remote support,
A beggar’s brigade, even a house-poor cohort.
I’d resort to a children’s crusade
if it meant graduating from this façade I’ve played.

Because I’m more worn-out than a mask at a masquerade and I’m
fresh out of lemons for my life’s acrid lemonade.
So, mark me like Marquis de Sade, I’m glad for a touch of coherent pain
when I’ve gained so little from singing in the rain.

& yet & yet, I tell myself, this too shall pass. Everything I’ve lost I swore I once had.
You’ll slip through my hands like the sands of Xanadu.
Too lax with my use of xanax, I’d do anything to fool you –
even lie about my use of xanax. The proof is I panic when you turn the screws.

The truth is I’m more screwed up than a screwball enthralled by a bottoms-up beer hall putsch
and I fear all put-me-downs ‘cuz the brutes just try to put me down the hatch like toxic hootch.

I want to walk you through this windowless room
you may presume to be my mind. I’ve dressed it up with demure rhymes
sanitized by turpentine.

But I don’t know if I make more sense as a poet or as a musician
but I know a good chunk of my change comes from when I just stop and listen.

Silence can be a powerful force.
John Cage proved that of course with his symphony 4’33”,
an excerpt of which, we all played just this instant.
He showed how incidental music could be
as it courses its way through our fluttering hearts,
as we shift and we sigh, or we grumble and moan,
and we cannot deny that this all makes a tone
that registers as music when we hear all its parts –
the highs and the lows, all joy and remorse,
taken together as one tapestry
woven in secret like a morse code beat
which may seem, on first listen, arbitrary
until you bear witness to the mystical melody of humanity
and watch order dance amid a chaotic drone.

Cross that border, decypher, discover you’re not alone.

For silence can still contain music even when you choose to break it.

September 1, 2016 / 0 Comments

Drawn and Quartered

You make me feel drawn and quartered,
sending me to all four corners of the galaxy.
In love and war, you give me no quarter,
I’m not half the man I thought I was, I’m a quarter.

You make me look smarter the way a tuxedo
can show that I chart my own charter.
Loving you is like walking a high tightrope –
it’s a hard barter but the vista is like no other.

I’m smothered by pure wind – an angel’s breath away from flying,
a hair’s breadth away from dying – but I can see farther
than any landlubber. I just can’t look down – it’s forbidden.
For if I fall, I will land harder than any martyr’s mother.

I’ve been bitten by a love-bug so I feel stung
when my cheeks blush, I’m not kidding –
It’s like I’m a kid bidding his mom to let
him eat the forbidden cookie dough in the kitchen.
Lucky licking. You’re butter dripping.
And I’m thinking how can I get more of you into my system?

I’m insistent on walking a straight line but
on a tightrope what you need is rhythm.
So you can bounce in time
like knowing how to land on a beat with a fresh rhyme.
Or knowing when to pass the mic to an MC
who can speak to the moment with some truer lines.

What’s yours is mine and what’s mine is yours.
Household chores feel like foreplay.
My romantic regimen is a mix of making you
moan in bed
and serving you coffee when you wake up every day.

I love the way you love my way of being.
I love that we see each other’s way of seeing.
Some days I swear I’m dreaming.
Can you tell me are you seeing what I’m seeing?

It’s like I stumbled toward a mirage and found an oasis teeming
with fauna and flora fit for a corsage
and I thought to myself “Oh my God!” even though
I don’t have the confidence of any god.

Faithless atheist baiting higher powers with a lightning rod.
Show me what you got!

April 2, 2016 / 0 Comments

Two keys

Two keys, chained;
Two private passwords;
Two separate addresses;
And somehow I always use the wrong one first:
The key for your door when I’m at my own;
The password to my laptop on your keyboard;
Your address on google maps when I’m late for dinner,
leaving me lost in transit between my home and yours.
My hands are telling me something that they only know
and I have tried strangling them to discover the truth
but only ended up wringing my hands with worry.
I’m not an absent-minded person.
Or, am I? I don’t know –
that might be too hard of a question for me to answer alone.
But, is there a pattern to my forgetfulness?
Am I selectively unconscious about certain things?
What will happen if I ever leave one of these two homes?
Will I hang on to the old key, the old password, the old address
and use them by accident out of blind nostalgia?
Or, will I toss it into the river and say “Be done with it!”
and curse the past like a feckless child?
Who’s to say what the future holds when the present
slips in between the past the way wind
winds through bamboo.

Collab. with Mariana Stabilé

March 21, 2016 / 0 Comments

Merkel’s, Obama’s, and Putin’s Acceptance Speech for Poet Laureate

Merkel:

It is with warmth and pride that I stand here before you today, my fellow citizens of poetry.

The past year has been one of triumph and tribulation. There have been unexpected events that have tested our national character to its limits and I acknowledge the intrepid boldness with which you have faced these difficult times.

We stand together against the forces of terror and ignorance which plagues those abroad and threatens our values at home. Alongside our allies, we must defend the free world. We are playing our part, because it is in our interests. But, one sad fact of the war against knowledge and literacy is the number of refugees who flee brainwashing itself, aggrieved by censorship and oppression. For those that may speak out loud, free from fiendom, we must lead these encumbered individuals into the safety of our great nation with our united cries.

Again, I thank you for your kindness and openhandedness. Together, we shall lead towards a better tomorrow!

Obama:

I stand here humbled by the great responsibility that each and every one of you has granted me here tonight.

That every word must have its place is now well understood. The poetic body faces outward against a great sea of chaotic thought, while our collective vision carries us safely towards the horizon. Ships have sunk in the past and salty tears have been swallowed by all. As our pain unites us in this interminable quest for hope, we must pray against the nightmares of violence and fear.

We stand upon the waters of doubt and uncertainty alike, and I have been trusted with the honourable task of steering at the helm of this ship. As I rise to take on this challenge, I am reminded of those who have come before me, and how they have remained resolute in the face of incredible danger because of the strength of our poetic body’s principles and beliefs.

We are the keepers of this legacy. Your will shall guide my hands as we sail onwards unto prosperity.

Putin:

I would like to, first and foremost, thank you all for your many votes of confidence.

Thank you to all who said “YES!” to poetry and dared to asked the question, “Will we prevail?”. I answer you tonight, “we HAVE prevailed!”. We won in a fair and open field, without the requirements of brute force or intimidation to elevate this humble servant onto this stage that floats above our great and unencompassable motherland.

This is not only a test of our will as a holy nation of writers and thinkers, it is a test for poetic ripeness, for independence and freedom of expression. We have shown that none may impose their will upon us. Nothing and no one.

And to all neutral observers, it was a clean victory, an honest submission of excellence. So, I thank you all for holding me to my promise – we HAVE succeeded. We WILL prevail.

Glory to Poetry!

February 18, 2016 / 0 Comments

The Unanswerable Question

Whither music?
And where from?

Listen: I have fallen off a fading fanfare a few times too many.

Often, hot-jazz musicians hopped up on pomp and pizzazz drag me by my ear whenever their cadence spills into a doo-wop two-step
and I find myself toe-tapping against my will.

How now, rhythm?
Have you stolen my body from me?

I forgot the sound of your fury:
the fleet-footed fandangos and soft, silky tangos
which fasten my feet to the floor.

Whether I’m rich or poor, you move my mind from within with no engine.
I can speak without words.
I understand without knowing.
I feel beyond mere being.

It takes me back to when I first felt blessed to hear my heart hearken hard against my chest, when I knew that this drum would become the meter of all this strife.
That in my core, a metronome would measure and mete out my life.

But when I grew up, my brain began to scan and train itself to be
a kick-ass pattern recognition machine.

And my dreams became unseemly, tainted by hormones raging.

Amid all the acclimation of aging:
the acne, the awkward locker room showers,
the eternal hour of unrequited love,
my heartbeat became a background pulse in the orchestra of my culmination.
My heart a faint ticking time-bomb dutifully noting the beats per minute.

For what it’s worth, I’ll listen to the tenor and timbre of my body,
until the drone reminds me of my birth and the warmth of the womb.
I know I first timed my tempo to my Mother’s measured meter.
Ba-doum. Ba-doum.
And my heart did match her tune.

In sum, music precedes me from before the time that I begun.
And when I go, and my time here is all done,
whither music?
and where from?

a cappella

_{Dedicated to my Mother}

February 4, 2016 / 0 Comments

The Beginning of the End of the Beginning

What is poetry?
he asked aloud of
no one in particular
What is narrative?
he wondered
to himself with his mental voice that had grown
oh so old after a
long period of inchoate thought.
What matters is where a narrative goes,
he mused,
even if it never goes anywhere.
The man speaks aloud to hear himself think more clearly:

“Running in place is still a form of time travel.
A static motion of sorts.
But, what of those stories with no beginning?
How do they work?
How is it that I can be satisfied by a story
so old,
so re-told,
that the endings are withered, worn, and plain forgot,
but a story without a beginning unravels everything about myself?

I know I cannot cope with a story that has no beginning.

I cannot remember how or when or where I began but at least,
I can fabricate a narrative that reads like poetry
of how I was birthed
by my mother
who was birthed by her mother
and so on,
until I am satisfied by the fact that I belong to my species
just as any branch is a part of a tree.

I am safe between root and stem, so long as I do not pull on this thread
about my genetic origins too hard,
or else,
I may unravel the entire story of life itself
by asking the very same questions that I started with,
why this? and how that?
that got me into this mess of unspooled string,
wondering, how exactly did unorganized matter
ascend to the order of life?
With no answer, my questions die, alone and in the darkness.
And, as I have noted,
I do not like it when a story does not have a proper beginning.

But, we know no more than that. So, those who would claim this knowledge
are escaping from the uncomfortable feeling that some stories never begin –
they simply are from whence they weren’t.

That’s why the Big Bang is so overwhelming
for my simple Simian mind to digest
and understand so I argue with the Universe, yelling:
“Well, of course you have to obey the rules of time and space, you ARE time-space! You can’t not be and then just suddenly exist, creating the very essence of change itself and carrying along with you existence itself!”

But, of course, I know nothing of the inner workings of the Universe.
And, I know nothing of the inner workings of my own mind
for I do not know where I came from, really,
but, at least, I can leave you here, hanging on my words,
going nowhere in particular, coming from no place
miraculous or spectacular, and still end up,
with nothing more than a poem without a narrative,
and a narrative without a beginning…”

March 22, 2015 / 0 Comments

Jack Love Jill

Jack Love Jill.
Jack will love Jill.
Jill is loved by Jack.
Does Jill love him back?
No, Jill does not love Jack.

One day, they are asked to fetch the water.
The elders say, “Work together.
Hold hands, do not let go –
or you will teeter-totter.”

So, up the hill they went, with the pail in tow.
Hand over hand, they drew the water from the well.
But then, their tender grip slipped, and down the hill they fell
And so begins this tale of woe.

While rolling down the spinning hills
Jack wonders, “Can grass grow in tousled hair?
Do I see Jill tumbling there
or just a cloud of grass that spills and spills?

Which lands Jack on his head.
“Thud!” is precisely what the ground said.
Wobbling to her feet, Jill sees, and screams.
Collapses back down upon her knees.

But now! Jack howls, cries foul, and gets back on his feet.
Runs wild, while Jill rubs her eyes in disbelief.
Stuck dumbstruck and then, whew! relief.
Lets herself release the tension
in her butt cheeks.

Then she speaks, “Jack, you spilled
All the water in the pail!
You really ought to be more careful!”

Jack stops stockstill and tries to tell Jill
That he may have broken down,
For he cannot produce a sound –
That something else must have spilled
For he has never felt so frail
But alas, he fails to tell this tale,
And collapses upon the ground.

Jill sees and agrees to lie Jack down while telling Jack that Jack looks pale.

Now, Jill is talking wrongly.
Or, is Jack not hearing rightly?
Did Jill just say, “Must you more hold the pail tightly?”
Jack wonders, “Did hear that I correctly?
Why do feel so sleepy I?
Nighttime is it, blue, bright sky?”

Now, Jack is snoring soundly.
So, Jill runs down the tiny trail and yells so loud
You would have thought she had a siren in her mouth.

And out they come, one and all,
“Jack with the cracked head,” they said, was the village call.

And when they found him lolling there,
He was tearing up all the clover.
And when he woke, he only spoke
The same words over and over:

Jack and Jill went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water.
Jack fell down and broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.

Nowadays, Jack, head cracked, can not love Jill.
Does Jill now love him back?
Jack is loved by Jill.
Jill will love Jack.
Jill love Jack.

October 20, 2014 / 0 Comments

Stereotype, a definition

A static formulation of an individual; hearsay.

To anticipate behaviour without prior substantiation.

A judgment formed a priori.

To disallow complexity.

To indulge in oversimplicity.

To deny Truth its gray vestments and vague vespers.

To yield to Confirmation Bias; see Pattern Recognition (Psychology).

To indiscriminate.

To inherit the assumptions of one’s immanent culture.

To unwittingly bastardize a people; see xenophobia.

To yield to Arguments from Authority; see filial piety.

To believe without knowledge.

To understand without compassion.

To see without Love.

To laugh without smiling.

April 11, 2014

in the company of writers

In the company of writers,
every word is treasured.
Each phrase or paraphrased anecdote
Is turned over and twisted and rearranged
By Experience and Intuition and Irrationality
To extract meaning from perspective
And to boil truth from trial.

Coffee-cup questions and curiosities are courted out for company
Present or otherwise or in mime;
Dance to the jingle of diner spoons and sehnsucht.

Tears efface the wrinkles in your hand,
The soft, sunken spot plotted upon your cheek,
And the crinkled chin.

My hand is unfamiliar. Unwarranted. Grasping.
I am turning a knob to a door without a frame
And I am lost in the dark space of your gaze.
Yearning. Expanding to encompass my destination. Grasping.

We listen for the moments that we missed and we jot it all down in the notebooks that we’ll miss when we are so old our bladders take 20 minutes to take a goddamn piss and the youth and the beauty was so close you could taste it with raspberry lips incandescence.

I want the memoir ink of every word to wind its way back into the mouth of babes from whence they came so I could see the world all young, afresh again.