Category Archives: writing

Soundly

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An artless man dreams no dream,

writes no poem,  cannot scheme.

He sees no beauty in those that wish

for better efforts netting fish –

Building hopes – not a gist.

Money talks – lime and twist.

A feckless man walks no walk,

Only chitters on in talk.

Shares no elegance in wit

spewing anger, bile and spit.

Polished words – not a skill.

Poisoned venom – strapped and shrill.

A useless man will he become?

Continued uninspiring thrum –

Whilst the beauty grows in spite

filling in the space and fright.

Magic overtakes the ill.

Speak it soundly, you know the drill.

 

 

 

Veritas

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This poem was born of a phrase,
its stem and budding promise
a point, the origin of which
is unknown.
There was growth,
with cooing and a wriggle of cadence.

It crawled and I was proud.

With careful diagramming,
bone to bone, its frame was
constructed – evolved to stand
and as a laggard on legs, walked
from the mirage of composition
to live.

It left behind the chaos
of structure, the wild haikus
and couplets in the dark,
keeping grasp of its intent,
as language that now endures.

Shouting and singing its veritas
to anyone who passes the moment
and lingers.

And when the time for its jaunt
is at an end, it will sit for awhile
and crumble in upon itself, leaving
the predicating letters – its a’s
and u’s – to seed the next generation
from the soil.
 

Walkways

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The hollow sound of steps on concrete
as I move through quiet halls,
walking with a mood of purpose,
striding forward without pall.

Thinking of the crunch of leaves
in autumns’ past on wooded malls,
Shuffled red and brown debris
whispering with their ruffled brawl.

Memories of a trail in snow
with silence mid footfall,
or sloshing on the coastal sand
the tides erasing tread and scrawl.

The running gait on playground fields
and rhythmic marching bands recalled
echoing their pace and chorus
clapping, steps from those enthralled.

All this sound and vision walking
as I move through vacant halls,
listening at the sound of knocking
of my own steps, from wall to wall.

 

 

 

In wandering and being inspired

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I jump over waves in the wind, now thinned-
causing a splash on descent, and the water imbues.
I walk in circles in some well-trodden shoes,
soles that are worn to the heel.
And the crestfallen face of my mind
urged in the gentle spell of her lines-
the brushstrokes of her pastel flowing gown
compel me to write something down.
I frolic amidst the swell and soak in
the flow of her form that rescinds
the aches in my well-trodden soul.
I stand embracing the image and whole.

 

Words

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Borrowed light from the edge of the blinds
illuminates and too, reminds
a claim that words festoon –
Be it despot, king, or brass baboon.

As wind-blown foolishness accounts-
judgement – dogma- can win out
if echoed loud, with sheening rancor.
Out to dull our dreams, this cantor.

But tides roll in to shape the sand
and acrimony leads the damned
to an ever-shifting, deep abyss
where nothing left can calm or kiss.

So to this hole of excrement
trash words of hate and their assent.
Endow more words to raise and soothe,
and stem the shit of brash baboons.

Scale

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I step to the side of a ladder
and look up the beams to ascend –

Pulling the halyard, extending
the length of the climb to the end.

Firming the placement and facing,
I place on the first rung, a tap

of rhythm and firm motivation
supporting the weight of the step.

Then, rundle by rundle, I top it
climbing by scaling the air.

Grasping the sides upon reaching
a place at the base of the stair.

And wondering a bit as I conjure
the memories of whence I have come,

I turn, and with hand on the railing
continue my climb to the sun.

************************
A poem for the hope that a new year brings, though I suppose it could apply to other challenges we face daily. I wish everyone a prosperous, happy, and successful 2018.

Quench

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Most times it is a crumpled ball,
this sheet of words, intact and small –
wound around and bunched within
my secret thoughts and synonyms.
Folded, once or more, the verbs
bundle but do not deter
the escalating captive theme-
a wish once held inside the dream.
Sometimes, I unwrap the leaf
bending back the freed motif
to see your smile and hold your hand
then I crush it back again –
A crinkled memory, held in close
that now I render in repose.

Ghost light (Cento)

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When you came with white rabbits in your arms,
not for greater gifts of genius,
the wispy, the lightly lifted or stirring threads of existence.

I’ve learned everything is falling outward –
Quickening for the land and sea,
Drawing contours, shapes, and lines.

Shining nowhere, but in the dark
watching illumination upon illumination,
plunging and lifting, the grain spilling back.

Another circle is growing in the expanding ring –
and vanished into where they seemed to start
They are the future of us all.

**********
 This Cento was composed using lines from the following poets.

Rita Dove, Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, Christopher Buckley, Gail Wronsky,Stephen Edgar, Henry Vaughn, Robert King, Barbara Howes, Tami Haaland, Dylan Thomas, May Sarton, Seamus Heaney

 

Gathered

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The grey blue sky sits somber
till the sun arrives, pink glint and shine
off buildings -faces in the darkened
canopy revealed as blossoms in bouquets.

The stack of bricks sit solid
till the men decide, with sweat and mortar
placing them in preset order – line
structures built to demarcate.

The words I hear ring silent
till the light resides, with spur and purpose
on their ebbing rule and tide – a dawn
A gath’ring of brush come late.

Prima(l)

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From 2015…..

^#^#^#^#^#^#^#^

They wander, and yonder they go in the dark
with glow sticks, beyond
them the moonlight, and barks
the taffeta, heavy-set makeup and screams-
the night of the beggar, of horrors and dreams.

The rustle of paper, the rattle of chains-
Billy and Molly fight over the brains.
The princess and pirate, too shy to speak up
the conjuring words while Dad just drinks up.

A drop in the bucket-a thump in the night
the blood of the ghoulish departed from sight.
The clown with the paste face, the witch all in black
the ogres and goblins all stomp and attack.

The flapping of ravens, the quiet of stares
at once-a-year play acting- acute and with scares.
Then beating the pavement and swarming the lawns
the tidal rush crushes, and then they are gone.
All manner of monsters and bold super-kids
Just listen for drumbeats, like Gene Krupa did.

*************
Soundtrack prior to writing/reading this poem: Sing, Sing, Sing.