The concept
is really simple, where
the addition of them
opens a language that
otherwise stumbles in silence,
As a simple “why ?”
infuses the sunlight and breeze
to rattle the trees in reply.
Yet without sound,
with eyes alone,
that creates a chasm in its invocation.
and, just as quickened,
closes a gap in response
between lovers,
with an embrace,
but no words,
and silence fulfilled.
Shimmered metal,
-as curiousity-
sets into motion,
agitates the dust
and ascends a mountain
because challenge told it to.
a distant voice inspired
a click and whirr,
to go and meet the mountain
on a singular path,
once side winding then inclined.
ever moving, but when complete,
and turned to face
the horizon of red, a being might stand in triumph
-arms raised-
and shout for hills to cry out
with sound!
waves that intrude
upon the desolate solitude
separated by 34 million miles
of loneliness – a vacuous truth.
it blinks.
I’ve noticed that the
majority of visitors
to my blog have no real
place to call home in this universe,
this internet.
-they are phantom and leave no trail-
perhaps they move
from place to place
just looking for rest.
I see the bedding areas
that deer make, but I never see them
actually there,
just crushed ryegrass and swamp oats
pressed in ovals.
it’s not
that there aren’t many
good things to write about any more,
-just so many familiar combinations-
of dark and light,
closed and opened
leading and ending phrases,
that if I pen a melody
in the key of D minor,
I might just end
a song
on the supertonic,
where brooding
turns to joy,
in full measure.
Laying my head aside
on the table,
I made the sun rise faster.
While closing,
then opening one eye
(and encouraged to applaud)
it hops up and down.
Inspiration can be difficult
without a strong wall
to bounce a ball.
I seek them
and they crumble upon impact.
Tiles in this table
are neatly placed end-to-end
and side-to-side.
(My poems are less organized,
but still fit nicely in my frame.)
The grout in between
holds them tightly together.
After a pedestrian moment,
a single bell tolls
and calls me to fill
or to empty my head.
I choose the latter
while the sun bounces.
*****
a poem from July 2007, slightly reworked and refocused.
And molded as clay,
pinching and coaxing
with time would change it
at each thrown recollection,
until it listed on the page
ready to be fired and glazed.
and then it is affixed
to a memory.
If only I could write a song,
eschewing many natural keys,
written in the key of “C”, and fond,
as romantic you deserve from me.
No matter what the strain or tune,
regardless of how high, how far
to reach the stars and Ella’s moon,
and find your ears, to be admired.
But slipping in, glissandos fall,
though filled with heart, Erato’s words
-unworthy of Euterpe’s call
the sounding notes, portato shards.
The music’s there, though coarse and dimmed,
chromatic from the flat, blue notes,
the poem still enchants as hymns
within this token song I wrote.
Cling to dawning’s drape, as hails the sun’s
revealing rays, a slow ascent, night is undone.
Wringing in, as rainfall on September flowers
belongs the day, as soaking unseen bowers-
hallowed, hidden dens from branching gables,
place of passion’s secrets –Jana’s cradle.
Then, in reflecting off one lover’s eyes,
light that signal darkness’s demise
screams the sounds, if they were voiced and free,
subsume this moment – come, belong to me.
Of sounds, there seems a widow’s cruse
to knock around, to interfuse.
This rhyming dervish -so accused-
from Albany to Syracuse
or Monterey to Santa Cruz
across the water -if you choose-
but not so far as Betelgeuse.
I do not wish to disabuse
you of your preference -p’s and q’s-
but only that I’m circumfused
with words whose sounds are overused.
******************
a list of words presented themselves…and I just couldn’t stop.
Today would have been Charles Bukowski’s 93rd birthday*. Ever since I started writing poetry, I’ve had a fascination with Bukowski: His writing style, his curmudgeonly persona. He had a very rough childhood, with a strict upbringing, and episodes of bullying. Some say he suffered from dyslexia, which contributed to depression and his subsequent alcoholism. He suffered early rejection in his writing career and even gave it up for a time. Eventually, he returned to writing with a distinct style. He’s not the kind of writer that appeals to everyone…you either love or hate him. His poetry can be very blunt and crass, but at the same time, insightful to the plights and depravity of everyday urban living. I don’t want to glorify the lifestyle**, yet, his ability to condense his own issues into compelling poetry can’t be denied. He rarely made use of metaphor and subtlety, but relied solidly on direct language, anecdotes, and his own experiences.
I don’t want to run the risk of violating someone’s copywrite, so I won’t share any of his poems here. But, I’ll direct you to the Poetry Foundation website as a start if you are interested. And these really only scratch the surface. The man was an incredibly prolific author/poet***.
Because I consider Bukowski influential, I’ve been known to “attempt” mimicking his style (for better or for worse) or at least channel him. I think most poets/writers have an influential style that they sometimes attempt.
***************************
*Bukowski died in 1994 from leukemia.
**Among other things, Bukowski wrote of his numerous affairs, sex with prostitutes, violence, drinking, and gambling.
***Bukowski wrote more than forty books of poetry, prose and novels while living. There have been nine compilations of “new” poetry published since his death.
Taps and Ratamacues 