Category Archives: Uncategorized

Now comes the part where…

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We all make lists.

I like lists because they 1) help me remember things and 2) I have a sense of accomplishment when I can mark something off the list. This is particularly true with activities and goals. I like seeing a piece of paper with lines through items.

So with the new year rapidly approaching, I thought that I would put a list here on the blog…not that I have a tremendous following that cares. It seems like a natural place to put stuff like that.

Things I want to do better in 2012
So here goes…
1. Read more books, one at a time – I am a bad parallel reader. I try to read too many things at once. It doesn’t work. Best thing ever – Books on Audio for commutes.
2. Get more exercise – Yeah I know, this is used every year and I give up the ghost every March or so. Consistent, paced activity…that’s all I’m shooting for this year. I want to be healthy, shouldn’t you?
3. Make more money – I know that sounds materialistic. Be real, we all want that, especially in this era of poorly performing stock funds. Actually, I want to be a better steward of what I have been blessed to receive. In that way, it would seem like I am making more money.
4. Have some more poetry published – I do write because I enjoy it, but everyone craves acceptance. I’ve had one item published online (see links), and I’ve been notified that a couple of other poems will be also published online during the first few months of 2012. Stay tuned for more information.
5. Come up with a 10 year plan – I’m approaching what should be the twilight years of my career and I want to have more goals in my back pocket. New interests, travel, any ideas?

What about you? You hearty few who might stumble upon or follow this blog…:)

What are your goals? How do you feel about lists?

Happy New Year to you. I wish you the best in 2012. Work hard, have fun, and be safe.

John

Oeuvre

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Characters written in fresh milk
on paper
– when her heart
was full of longing,

Did she divine this as a song
in a pentatonic key?

Elevating her joy to ignition by dusting
her soul with gunpowder,
then showered down from the sparks
to low crackles and hums.

Guiding the hands of one
to accompany her riff
on Summertime, she

adorned her melody
with a solid chord structure
and a bounding rhythm.

It was sincere.
It was breathtaking.
It was…

Bouncing Down

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The lightened drip of single voices
droplets fall to meet the stone,

sing with resonating choices
a pebble, repeats its tenor tone
in mellow, normal phrases.

And gathering then, another sound,
cacophony of voices mold

as chords and dissonance abound,
a single roaring river’s hold
on ebb and flow in places.

In counterpoint, with rise and fall,
the song meanders as it seeks

annointed clamors ring and spall
a rush ascending to its peaks
with nothing heard in spaces.

icicle lights

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I see glittering in the eyes
when she does something thoughtful

A gesture that passes between souls
-Unspoken-

or when she says a kind word,
and the light shimmers

chasing other photons down the string
passing through junctures,

and out into air
as new growth.

I see a flickering nimbus
in the darkness,

as I pause to blink,

then hope
that the reflection is undimmed
when I turn to face her smile.

Tiny Places

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Some place that could harbor
the largest fugitive gorilla
away from prying, pointing fingers
or the smallest butterfly
from a praying mantis.

Like the ad libitum
pause of a musical phrase,
there beneath and behind the holly bushes
against the church wall
and sitting on dry and cool dirt

-I could hide for the evening-

fifteen feet from Main street

Just as a porch swing,
bound away and raised
to the ceiling,
sways in the subtle breeze of autumn,

a recollection,
placed among other words
is a union
to a tiny space
and how big it now seems.

Where the road intersects

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very near the river,
just below the old railway line
and across from the covered deer path
that veered into the unknown,

we discussed our own trails
some thirty years apart.

I had walked it.

He was a cross-country runner.

I recognized the race path
and never once assumed
it to be repeated.

Yet, for a while, he ran in my footsteps
and was running the hills smart.

Meanwhile other runners passed intermittently,
and we handed them cups of water and
they would douse themselves,
discarding the trash along the way.

We picked up the litter
so the path would be as we found it.

-unscarred and ready for travel.

what matters most

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Somewhere between
Blaze and the Indian Cave
and Bukowski,

I discovered the undead.

The multitude of stumbling carcasses
that slowly overrun the world.
They move as a herd toward the nearest
warm-blooded creature with a brain.

– They like those, don’t they?

They stay in houses, alleys, shopping malls,
libraries, hospitals
and churches,

but not in caves.

Caves are for rustlers and Indian treasure.
Boys and their horses.
Adventure.

Zombies are obsessive.

They like brains.

They stagger and lurch as they walk.
Not like horses, that gait, gallop
and jump.

Fences and shit like that.
Horses wade through deep water
or jump hoops of fire

Zombies don’t like water or fire,
and can’t jump either;
Not up from the ground
or out of 8 story windows.

Well, maybe for brains they would.

Grasping

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In that moment before grief
When you have a hold on something
-it could be anything-
maybe carrots,
or a sheet of paper,
or pencil.
You release your grip in an instant.
Time does not continue,
yet the object falls away.

Not like dropping a ball,
with a child’s anticipation of return.
Neither as with a moment of revelation,
or when gasps follow a feverish plea
for more.

It is different.

It is a moment we cannot predict,
unable to stage a photograph
of the way the touch vanishes
and grasp fails,
yet the burden of loss enfolds.

Becoming

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If you cannot be a poet, be the poem.
~David Carradine

I struggled,
no…toiled
quietly.
with the puzzle
of what was to be my next poem.

Separating the magnetic pieces of words
on the table.

Shuffling them into phrases
and finding
only prepositions
and adverbs:
Often before,
Sometimes between,
but mostly among
all of the words.

An admirer asked,
“Have you written anything recently?”
with a nod and held-breath and widening eyes

I replied with a slow head-shake.
and a sigh,
then realized what I had not done

-placed myself inside the poem-

I left the table
words askew
until perhaps tomorrow.

Why Rise?

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Daybreak,
crawls in brightness,
stirs living stones with breath
and curls inside the void and forms
a thought.

Wakened
sunlit spirits
coax and spy a wry grin
in your smile, time to linger in
rising.

Leaving
shades that night showed
facing, not turning back,
just as the music builds, entwines
then rests

as one.
Did we lie down
because of shadows dim
or body aches from tiresome whims
of day?

Softened
whispers in streams
of touches, parting rays
just risen, and no recourse but
to stay.

*****************
A blogging acquaintance challenged her readers to write a cinquain. A cinquain is a structured poem consisting of a least 5 lines with 2, 4, 6, 8 and 2 syllables, respectively. The above is inspired by John Donne’s “Break of Day” and is actually a crown cinquain, a collection of 5 cinquains to function as a larger poem. I hope you enjoy.