Tag Archives: poetry

accidental song

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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.

Belong to me

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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.

Azimuth

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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.

Poet in Mind: Charles Bukowski’s Birthday

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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.

A Hand to Bukowski

Short Poems

What Matters Most

***************************
*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.

late summer canon

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I see them gathered
-the yellow susans –
day after day
on the hillside;
struggling to meet the morning sun
-petals flung down
as stretched limbs-
thrusting their faces
toward heaven,
at midday
their arms raised
in praise to a merciful deity,
and in evening
– their buds nodding en masse-
attuned to the canons
of their ancestors.

Epic grounds

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The wind and the lion roared
as the blades cut a swath
in diagonal, then glory
reigned over the edging, with
pauses to reload
and storm the foundation.
Finally, after putting away
the implements of destruction,
a moment to sip iced tea
and ponder
the creation and beauty
of living things,
as the breeze perturbated
through the snowmound.

***************
a brief poem inspired by my random playlist while doing yardwork over the weekend.
The Wind and the Lion, composed by Jerry Goldsmith
Glory, composed by James Horner
Forrest Gump Suite, composed by Alan Silvestri

Potential well

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when your thoughts get rounded off,

gathering down the slope to the open plateau,
sketches get
relegated to a collection.

Each one appears then fades
-as sounds of thunder dwindles to nothing-

leaving barely enough to fill a bowl.

Maybe the scratched
glass bowl the color of cinnamon,
that you use to mix tuna and mayonnaise
-but without sweet pickles
it is not a salad-

or the majestic porcelain one –
the best bowl to mix flour, water, and yeast.
Cover with a cloth
and let the dough rise -twice its size –
on the stove counter,

or the one
fashioned
from wires
– it holds the apples and oranges,
and keeps from bruising them, but doesn’t work
for tangerines – so you store them
in the original packaging.

Then the bowls you don’t use –
you flip them over in the cabinet-
that way they don’t get dusty inside,
and you can put the spare words
away in a basket
for the day
or in a drawer
with recipe cards,
paper clips, spare buttons
and old keys.

Phosphorescent

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to those that fly by,
-the dragonflies and cranes-
it is a habitat just like another,
albeit enclosed,
lying just beyond
the cattail marsh
and beneath the mimosa branches,

shallow pond water

collects the run-off
from the adjacent country.
and with no means to drain
the scum,
-covers in-
while the incandescent sun
glows green,
and phosphorescent
blooms interwreathed,
hide the carrion
and bottom dwellers.