Releasing the Animals
(the anti-haiku)
I am releasing
the animals
from their three-barred jails
the seventeen
shackles
of their confinement
the prohibition
keeping them from
seasons not their own
setting the frogs
free of the pond
that plop in water
cicadas
their
summer slavery
walking sticks
crows
beetles and geese
free to travel
any climate
any month
accepted in
comparison
not a cutting word in sight
crows allowed
a wedding in the tropics
the cemetery vacant
let the rabbit
in winter
reside in Palm Springs
let them all be
like something else
if they like
let seem
be the finale
of any line
|
A Poet is a Messy Thing
A poet is a messy thing
Dissect him and you’ll see
Discarded words, well turned phrases
Where his heart should be
A poet is not pastural,
though to pastures he may allude,
A battle rages in his bones
With weapons sharp
With weapons rude.
There is no mercy in his thoughts
There is no place he will not go
To stake his ground; to pierce the world
to defrock what we think we know
When looking in a poets eyes
If you note an impish twinkle
It isn’t love or lust or warmth
It’s that he sees a wrinkle
In the fabric that we weave
In the smoothness of the surface
He searches for the hidden flaw
And finds the wayward string
He deftly pulls it taunt until
It starts unraveling
And then he walks away from us
And finds another theme
A poet always picks a scab.
He will not get the phone.
He’s battling the blackness
On a path he takes alone
And woe to he who enters in
Amidst the mortal brawl
The coolness of the reprimand
Would reverse a glacier’s thaw
A poet is a messy thing
I think I knew one once
And I shall not forget his face
nor words that froze me in my place |
Best Intentions
I really don’t know how to tell you this –
direct, I guess, is the best way,
just come right out with it,
no beating around the bush.
I know you’ve been counting on it,
sort of had it at the back of your mind
as a context for your thinking,
for your decision making,
as a basis for your actions.
It is comforting, I know,
and it eases the fear and worry
that so plagues our human condition –
you know, the dread of something so overwhelming,
so unstoppable, so absolute.
But the fact of the matter is
there may not be a life other than this one,
nothing really to come,
certainly nothing much better,
in fact, maybe worse.
If you really want to know the size of it
we die and that’s probably about it.
The heart stops and then the brain,
or vice versa, I don’t know which,
you probably won’t be aware of it at the time anyway
other than the odd last minute fantasy directing you to a door
or in the direction of an emanating light –
an autogenic dream or flashback to wrap it all up.
But that’s not so bad, really, in light of our holy wars
and our lynchings and our betrayals and our self absorbed lives –
no, not so bad at all to have one moment to get it right,
to do what needs doing, to say what needs saying,
to climb the unending circles of light, our purgatory,
our heaven and hell, the bleak destiny of our souls
chiseled there in the stone of our best intentions.
|
The Golden Ticket
Well, Papa, I’ll tell you:
Life for you ain’t been no colorful rainbow.
We’ve not found the pot of gold,
Only stumbled on rocks,
And grasses too high to run through,
And places with no sun in the sky –
Blank.
But each day
I keep believing,
And talking of the hopeful
And thinking about life
And opening new doors
Hoping you will walk through the one with the golden ticket.
Don’t you give up now for you haven’t reached the pot of gold
‘Cause you think you are not strong.
Don’t you stop now –
For I still run, Papa,
I will always run
And life for you ain’t been no colorful rainbow |
Home Is …
When I think of home,
chaos!
Sisters running, screaming,
Love!
When I’m with my parents
I feel so special,
but it can’t happen all the time.
Food –
Smelling my mom’s home-made enchilada.
The fizz of coke,
milk spilling upon the table.
I think of football season.
Sitting down,
eating Touch Down taco dip,
dripping Dr. Pepper.
Safety –
My room dark and quiet,
sleeping.
Mom and Dad
giving hugs and kisses
goodnight. |
What is Poetry?
When rain splashed on the ground
When the sun shines in your eyes
When the chimes ring |
