Archives for posts with tag: poems

Last night it was in a hallway of some institution,
maybe a high school, there were lockers along the walls.
He arrives with two people who I believe are my parents,
but they aren’t; they don’t look like them, or talk like them
but that is what I think in my dream. I walk out of an office
into the hallway, and there are my parents with Donald Trump.
I’m happy to see them, more Trump than “them,” as they’re
not really my parents, but it doesn’t seem important at the time;
Trump’s happy to see me, comes up and grabs my hand
gives me a gift box of soap, moisturizer and a hand towel
“You see? Who says I don’t bring you something? It’s for you.”
I think, that’s kind of cheap for a billionaire, but I look at it,
and at Donald J. Trump, and say, “Thanks,” and I mean it.

Another night, Trump and I are walking outdoors, maybe
behind the White House on the way to a helicopter, maybe
it is just a park, there’s no indication of where we are;
I have this great feeling walking with him, I really like him,
really, really like him. I say, “You should be yourself
more often and let people see the real you. They’d love you
if they got to know you; it’s hard not to like you, when you get
to know you.” Donald J. Trump just grins and keeps on walking.

I wake up in the morning and ask myself, did I really dream
about Trump again? It seems like I dream of him every night.
I wake up and remember Trump appearing at the oddest times,
popping out from behind a door, running past in a jogging outfit.
I’m in a store and he is pushing a shopping cart full of food,
really, really full of boxes, cans, bags, anything packaged.
Other nights, he’s just a big head that floats through whatever
is happening, obscuring everything as his smile never wavers.
Perhaps, some night, some dream, that face will continue to rise
above the far away horizon, a giant striding towards me, a mountain
shaking the earth beneath his feet, bouncing me like a pea
on a plate, “Good to see you. I brought you something.”

Or, maybe, one night, I will be the mountain, and thousands of little
Trumps will run around my feet shouting, “Don’t walk! Don’t Move!
You might kill me!!” millions of little voices amplified like a massed
choir of thousands and thousands of Alvin and the Chipmunks,
or perhaps like a drone of cicadas, or peeper frogs at night.


zoundz                                            God is listening
to his radio. Hangin oat in Space. Playing
hide and seek with hewman race. The
gobbledygooks from the planet URP.US.
Le sel de la térre. The essential hewman.
And hewomen.

                                            God is listening
hanging out in space with a wide
smile on his face. He digs the vibrations.
He is having his Zounds in His
unmotorized heavens.

Poem and illustration by Ian David Arlett

As if it were afternoon, clouds grey, pink,
magenta, radiant unfurl. Each moment pauses.
Heart skips a beat unnoticed — holds its breath
to possess the now, the beauty of the trembling
incomplete on the cusp of perfection.

Now, breathe again, life must continue.

Green sings, lawn sings, trees sing, birds sing, the bees
and flowers sing and why not? It is the end of Spring.

Last moments, last remnants, the smell of fresh mown
lawn sings of summer corn to come, echoes ripped green

husks, cling of silk, the exhale of harvest, this moment sings
counterpoint to what is to come — long nights, the wane of light.

Grand skies and golden corn cannot conceal the turn of the wheel;
Spring is for the young, and all the fruit of Summer cannot replace it.

Mountain banks of fuchsia stained thunderclouds
parade by with trumpet and lightning, grand crescendo
to accompany gardens bursting with harmony in one
ineluctable song.
                            The chorus and refrain so simple,
it began with bluster of lambs roaring like lions, and now
subtle dandelions march with lamb’s ears. The land sings.
This is the source of song. Who can resist? Not bird, or soil,
or any living thing, and certainly not the sky that joyous
resounds with promises of only good things, as you
Spring stately progress to your final coda.

<it’s very hard to find info online about Chris — he died during before the net. Chris was a collagist, artist, died in his 30’s, never given the chance to grow like he was going to — his last works were break through, he started to create sections of rooms as if you had cut them out, lamps cut at the base that worked, wallpaper, pictures in frames cut in half, etc. etc. I couldn’t find any samples of his work, but there are some images on the web, please search at your leisure — if you know of any links please add them. Here’s a couple of links:
n page 146:
 his last work:

so it begins
the cycle of drought and storm
praying for the end of both
the sky majestic, silent,
does not deign to notice
our withered crops, starving
gardens, parched lawns,
and so we pray, Christ wept,
let the clouds weep for me

then the floods
then the hail
then the storms that ripped
the roof from the house
rivers that overflowed
lakes that disappeared
then a chunk of Antarctica drops off
and the thought occurs, maybe we shouldn’t
have prayed at the gas pump

sky tranquil
colour of water
the wind favourable
warm and inviting

you struggle to fly, above
you a persistent nemesis,
strikes and strikes again

your weight encumbers you
it is all you can do to fly away
from this miniature fury

if you had time,
as you seek to climb,
you would admire your fierce
prey, willing and ready
to drive you into the ground

launch themselves fearlessly
into the void; live in a medium
where there is no solid ground,
no up or down, unless you die

death demands bravery
to take wing each day not knowing
if the feather will hold
if the wind will be cruel
will my enemies find me?
will my song woo a mate?
the heart of the bird beats
faster than ours, hotter, prouder

the bravery of birds is what
makes them fly when you
surprise them; they are not
afraid of you; they flee
to where they know
you fear to follow

There’s every crayon in the box,
every note in the scale;
the leech of colour that began in Fall,
drained through Winter, is in rout.

Every daub on the palette,
every dance complete
with grace and tragedy
and beautiful struggle.

The rainbow arch of spectrum
has reversed what has passed;
a triumphant colonnade of thunderclouds
parts to reveal an earth once again,

naked, clothed, radiant.

dark, disturbing early night
inks evening with shadow,
doubt, fear, water colour
brushstroke a stain, a wash,
a potent horizon

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