Archives for posts with tag: The World Is So Poetic

He had a blue spider web tattoo on his elbow,
a holograph of an eye on his lapel,
his complexion was smooth and uneven,
a killer and a scholar, you could tell.

No, you wouldn’t want to make his acquaintance,
and you wouldn’t want to fall under his spell,
his sweet breath both stinking and hypnotic,
a killer and a scholar, you could tell.

Oh, some men spend their lives in solid homes,
some spend their days drinking the finest wines,
some men dream to live the stories they tell,
while other men beg before dying.

His hair was black, his head clean shaven,
one eye rose, while the other eye fell.
He was ugly, but still quite appealing,
a killer and a scholar, you could tell.

He kept a little book with a list of names,
and each victim his name he would spell,
and when he crossed that name off his list—
another sinner would await him in Hell—

a killer and a scholar, you could tell.

Above me in the cloudy night,
delta winking, shine so bright,
if I may, if I might, let me fly
with you through clouds tonight.

Are you real? You twinkle so fast.
Arrive so soon, then you’re past.
What’s it like to soar above?
Does it feel like long lost love?

We who stand by gravity,
live with both innocence, depravity;
you fly into sight, promise so much more,
but then you’re gone and all we get is roar.

7 splines make a globe
7 minds twice, Niobe lost but one
7 winds of the old wristwatch
7 grinds makes pepper grate
7 lives of a coal black cat
7 lines your hexagram is a wavicle
7 times I told you, consider it fact

if the world is made
of stone and wood,
then the world grows
defiantly, as it should—
slowly, surely, the world
grows as it should.

if the world is made
of cloud and sky, then
life will pass us by, sigh
by sigh, each cloud pass
us by, as sure as the world
is made of cloud and sky.

if the world is made
of water, endless plane
that conquers all; tranquil,
eternal at rest, shattered upon
storm’s crest, then the world will
never be at rest, never be at rest.

if the world is made
of fire, then man is a candle
in a choir of flame, each name
a moment that radiant exclaims,
“the world is, as it could, for the
world IS, when should, becomes


“Just to be good, to keep life pure from degrading elements, to make it constantly helpful in little ways to those who are touched by it, to keep one’s spirit always sweet and to avoid all manner of petty anger and irritability— that is an ideal as noble as it is difficult.”
Edward Howard Griggs.

He looks like a fighter who has lost.
He stares at the camera somewhat off kilter,
somewhat dazed, somewhat prepared to pound
the bejesus out of you. His hand rests before him,
swollen, as if it had been punching all his life.
His head rests on the hospital bed iron frame
and the bed light behind him only serves to
illuminate that which radiates from him.

Bloody, but unbowed, I come from a line
that proudly claims to rise from defeat—
I see it in his eyes, they say it,
“I must be true.”

Sorting through a box of family photographs
I find a picture shot through a window—
framed within it is a river? an inlet to the sea?
I cannot say. There is a rowboat tethered
just outside. The photo is blue and green,
the red leeched out with age. Was I ever
there? Did I look out that window, wish to
take that rowboat and float with the current
to the sea, to a wide world that beckoned
beyond that distant room? I cannot say.

write poetry

to those who have never dared
write poetry

take pen and paper –

the human struggle

is this: to live
I will fight; I need love
to live

poetry promotes

poetry promotes
through hearsay

ode to Paul Sanderson

love is an ideal
— it’s not real


dreaming is like being
how water feels

social justice

we will never understand
social justice
until we make the worst
the best

it is now and we are awake
24 hours a day, the years a-trembling
tear in our panscopic eye
we cannot sleep until we feed again
there are crops, resins, fibres, boats,
chorales to be tended. To finger weave
and bind cause to event, motion to shadow;
our dangled finger tips write stories on
the surface of any medium, the harp
our palimpsest, angels’ feathers plucked
to make nibbed pens.

I start to write at the computer anything/ something new rather than the solemn build of transcribed long hand from sketchbooks— and simultaneously, I observe that when I take a handwritten poem to digital, it is really my belief that by putting the poem onto the computer that I will make it real, that it will transform into the poem; while another parallel thought states that I am taking the song out of the word every step to the printed page, that the whole cannot be reconstituted, but is rendered as it is re-manufactured again and again, as far from foot stamp, bone rattle, lung wheezed urge to make-a-word-for-it can be;

and simultaneously I ponder two more thoughts: ain’t it the fact the more restrictions you put upon your audience, the less people will listen to your poem; the poem upon the page will have one chance and one chance only— your choice, you, the reader — to sing.

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