Themes and Discourse

Poem

2008-11-04T09:23:00.003-05:00

Vitruvian Man

The promise of the body
at the fingertips of your lips
on the nose of your elbows, funny
bones give symmetry
to your immortality. Your body
a temple, a recess so precise
in my imagination: a sugary bear
claw, usurped and swallowed,
ursa minor and gone.

The guidelines on the palms
of your hands curve at the needs
of the mighty oak tree that lies
like a cherry tree armpit, subtle
and crimson in the small of your back
divided like hubris, humility: hu-
man and that tattooed promise: a kissed
cinnamon tongue.

Your body exposed to the elements
of my eye, of my tortured design.
The poison of speech and the mind
of my love in letters and paper hearts,
an arrow like a matchstick straight
and rubbery sulfuric tip through
the heart's Rubik's cube
rubric promise: A Light! Alight!
Alight!

the promise of the body:
a way in, a way out, a sinister
vessel, let down, lit up
desire frown smiles like a clown:
big shoe, big shoe, white face
paint, big glove, big glove,
red nose, red lips, giant plastic tulip,
polka-dot dress, lace garter belt,
lace garter belt, white stockings, black
belt and brass buckle, big love,
big tear, split person-
ality gestalt.

W.B. Yeats - The Second Coming

2008-11-03T07:48:00.002-05:00

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight; somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

2008-10-28T06:32:00.001-04:00

Remember, remember the fifth of November....

Poem

2008-10-16T08:57:00.002-04:00

Twist

Solved
poem
at the brink
of mourning light;
have a drink:
vodka,
rocks.

Ice
hisses,
slides and tinks
the glass tumbler
with lime twist,
Stoli,
crisp.

V

2008-10-06T13:53:00.000-04:00

"People should not be afraid of their governments. Governments should be afraid of their people."
--from V for Vendetta

once, I.....

2008-10-06T13:52:00.000-04:00

lyrics - XTC

2008-10-06T13:40:00.000-04:00

King for a Day

Everyone's creeping up to the money god,
Putting tongues where they didn't ought to be.
On stepping stones of human hearts and souls,
Into the land of nothing for free.

Well the way that were living,
Is all take and no giving,
There's nothing to believe in,
The loudest mouth will hail the new found way,
To be king for a day.

Everyone's licking up to the new king pin,
Trying to get way up with a smile.
Sing for your supper boy and jump to a finger click,
Aint my way of living in style.

cause the ladder gets longer,
And ambition gets stronger,
I cant satisfy the hunger,
That bad old moon has got you in its sway,
To be king for a day.

You're only here once so you got to get it right.
(no time to fuss and fight.)
cause life don't mean much if measured out with someone else's plight.
(in time you'll see the light.)

cause the way that were living,
Is all take and no giving,
There's nothing to believe in,
The loudest mouth will hail the new found way,
To be king for a day.

poem

2008-10-02T09:40:00.000-04:00

SinTax

Creme-filled expectation
sweetened and sifted onto your lollipop
tongue and bubblegum lipstick,
over time, in blocks of cold-packed
imagination and puckered thoughts
frozen for ice-age eons up
brick-layered steps, around the lazy
concrete corner, down the easy alley
of your lathered desire
as she dances, tip-toed, around
the stripped, striped maypole
and the furrowed horizon of your soul:
honey-dripping lips.

lyrics -The Clash

2008-10-01T07:43:00.000-04:00

"The Street Parade"

When I was waiting for your phone call
The one that never came
Like a man about to burst
I was dying of thirst

Though I will never fade
Or get lost in this daze
Though I will disappear
Into the street parade

It's not too hard to cry
In these crying times
I'll take a broken heart
And take it home in parts
But I will never fade

I was in this place
By the first church of the city
I saw tears on the face
The face of a visionary

Though I will disappear
To join the street parade
Disappear and fade
Into the street parade

rhyme

2008-09-24T15:49:00.000-04:00

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,

The Gunpowder Treason and Plot to surrender,

I know of no reason

Why the Gunpowder Treason

Should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent

To blow up King and Parli'ment.

Three-score barrels of powder below

To prove old England's overthrow;

By God's providence he was catch'd

With a dark lantern and burning match.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!

lyrics by Love & Rockets

2008-09-17T08:59:00.000-04:00

Haunted When the Minutes Drag

The word that would best describe this feeling
Would be haunted
I touch the clothes you left behind
That still retain your shape and lines
Still haunted
I trace the outline of your eyes
We're in the mirror hypnotized
I'm haunted
I find a solitary hair
Gone and still i remenice
I'm haunted

Haunted by your soul
Haunted by your hair
Haunted by your clothes
Haunted by your eyes
By your soul, by your hair
By your clothes, by your eyes
By your voice, by your smile
By your mouth, by your soul
By your hair, by your clothes
By your eyes, by your voice
By your smile, by your mouth
By your soul

Haunted (haunted)

So this is for when you feel happy
And this is for when you feel sad

And this is for when you feel...

Nothing

when the minutes drag
when the minutes drag

And this is for the tears that won't dry
And this is for a bright blue sky

And this is for when you feel...

Lucky

And this is for when you feel...

Lucky

when the minutes drag
when the minutes drag

So this is for when you're feeling happy again
And this is for when you're feeling sad

And this is for when you feel...

Something

when the minutes drag
when the minutes drag

Haunted (haunted)
When the minutes drag
Haunted (haunted)
When the minutes drag

Lady Writing a Letter with her Maid by Johannes Vermeer c.1670

2008-07-15T12:26:00.000-04:00

Poem

2008-07-15T12:24:00.000-04:00

Nina and Vermeer in Dublin

The elongated creaks and groans
of the varnished floor
of the National Gallery,
waxed and polished to their spit-clean
ending as grade school classes,
teenage art students and mid-day
browsers parade past
the painting hung
in the middle of section 40,
a Beit gift,
paid only stolen chance
glances, unadorned, as if to say, ‘Stop
here only if you see the value
in illumination.’

Through left over pall
from the mid-morning
shadow, after overcast days,
her eyes adjust to the painting,
to the tossed items on the white,
gray and charcoal tiles:
the purse, the wax, the seal, the letter.

The key is in her hand,
the seal on the floor.

In the painting the overflowing sun
highlights a view of despair
or air of rebuke,
heart in repair, the lady
and her maid basking in mosaic
of pearl-flecked sunlight, shadow.

The key is below the folded arms,
the letter on the floor.

Through high glazed windows
bright, washed faces, tears,
birth

of clarity: the child
in the painting within
a painting that breathes,
communicates with naked
faith and brushed hope

and where Nina sits cross-legged,
the atrium light tapers and reflects
from her white paper journal
and metallic pen.

Poem

2008-07-10T08:20:00.000-04:00

Thirsty

The cool water drips
staccato
out of
the green
garden hose
onto
her tongue.

She swallows more air

than water, her throat
a gurgle
of guttural clucks
until I thrust my thumb
in the hose opening,
a sluice. My hand
opens the valve.
Flabbergasted, she grabs
my wrist and pulls. Water falls
on her face
creating small
creeks, rivulets, tear
streaks down her cheeks,
neck, collarbone and t-shirt.

All “I’s” flushed,
I twist the spigot off. She
laughs; thirst slaked.

nice hats

2008-07-09T08:08:00.000-04:00

Poem

2008-07-02T08:12:00.000-04:00

Hitherto

the man
coming
and going
in the night
will be-
come
a pillar
of desire
or thirst
for skin
or dew
on morning
grass gone
astray.

Poem

2008-06-30T07:42:00.000-04:00

Love

is hardly a matter of fact;
is it a question
or an answer
to the new sun in your eyes
as you lay in scrunched crabgrass
and scattered small rocks
tearing the skin of your back
as she whispers again,
'pair of balls’ or ‘parable.’
You can’t tell which and either way
you would miss the point.

Morning Blue Jays sing and Red-belled
Woodpeckers beat song:
when things might be different
love makes them the same:
clouds, cobblestones, curators of dreams;
when things might be reasoned
love makes them absurd:
mountains, moments, measures of desire;
when things might be lost
love rescues the ends:
pulp, pleasure, painstaking belonging;
when things might be deemed
love at long last:
breathe, breathe, breathe.

The solitude of the clear sky,
the moment
regards your existence
like a trace of ginger, typhoid,
alchemy: we are
what we are
and are not, a question,
an answer.

Poetic Justice and the road taken.....

2008-06-10T10:31:00.000-04:00

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/24935777/

Poem

2008-05-30T07:52:00.000-04:00

Tell Your Sins

The Boeing 767 cruises at an altitude
that bumps you like that last minute of microwave
popcorn just before the ‘I’m done’ ding; descends
through the gray and white
cloud layers as her words ring
through the cabined silence:
“What’s not to love,” and “Shoot for the moon.”
You are still unsure of their meaning;
believe in the delivery, the genuflect
of your knees, her incandescent smile.

Where do you begin a moment if you have
always failed? There is no diving board at a safe
height, no pool or water deep
enough to survive the fall. You
should have taken the window seat.

Your ears begin to pop as the plane’s atmospheric pressure
increases or decreases, you forget which. Physics, no,
simple matters escape
your consideration when faced with anxiety and the stark
promontory of smiling back.

The allure of her words like sections of the plane breaks
apart in your mind: fuselage, verbs, wings,
nouns, participles, cockpit. There is nowhere
to hide; what’s not to love.

The Memos!!!

2008-05-29T14:00:00.000-04:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TtRjmY6UX5k

lyrics - by Joy Division

2008-05-28T06:17:00.000-04:00

Love Will Tear Us Apart

When routine bites hard

And ambitions are low

And resentment rides high

But emotions won't grow

And we're changing our ways, taking different roads

Then love, love will tears us apart again

Love, love will tears us apart again

Why is the bedroom so cold

You've turned away on your side

Is my timing that flawed?

Our respect run so dry

Yet there's still this appeal that we've kept through our lives

But love, love will tears us apart again

Love, love will tear us apart again

You cry out in your sleep

All my failings exposed

And there's a taste in my mouth

As desperation takes hold

Just that something so good just can't function no mor
But love, love will tear us apart again

Love, love will tear us apart again

Pistorius - Double amputee ruled eligible for Beijing

2008-05-16T10:52:00.000-04:00

http://nbcsports.msnbc.com/id/24665015/

Poem

2008-05-15T08:06:00.000-04:00

Sodom and Gomorra
Let the DJ play
`Cos I’m only gone tomorrow and here today

--from the song ‘V. Thirteen,’ by Big Audio Dynamite

The Light Rippling

away at the end of this
feral day,
my speech desecrates its strings
of dusk as it plays magenta,
bridged to hard fuchsia
and orchestrates the last sparkle
that flicks
in your eyes; rises
with the call of a gull
left alone for one last sweep
of the beach; tumbles
along the bumpy road
of your tongue. Dead ends
measured allegro for my heart
in silence.

2008-05-07T09:42:00.000-04:00

‘Moments like this/I wish that you were mine
And I find that all the tears that you have cried were mine’

-- from the song, “Perfecting the Art of Common Ground” by Ultravox

Moments Like This

Zero hour
and the back of my eyes
kisses my dream: tinted
butterfly pirouettes
and kaleidoscope tears
cartwheel my cheek. Mid-
night and darkness colors
my chalked outline
in the greasy street. Believe
the scene; taste the odor,
know the crux
of my crucifixion
knee-deep in the guttural scarlet sounds
of passing

"Les Noces de Cana" - Paolo Caliari dit Véronèse

2008-04-22T11:00:00.001-04:00

lyrics - by REM

2008-04-11T09:23:00.000-04:00

"Accelerate"

Sinking fast, the weight chained to my feet
No time to argue with belief
I'm not alone, a thousand others dropping
Faster than me
What put me here?
Nothing to hold on to
Nowhere to brake

Where is the ripcord, the trapdoor, the key?
Where is the cartoon escape-hatch for me?
No time to question the choices I make
I've got to follow another direction (although fall down is much cooler)

The last thing I remember was climbing up the stairs
I threw the window open in challenge and despair
I don't know what I needed
I needed time
I needed to escape
I saw the future turn
Upside-down and hesitate.

Where is the ripcord, the trapdoor, the key?
Where is the cartoon escape-hatch for me?
No time to question the choices I make
I've got to follow another direction
Accelerate.

The vista I see now is changing
Uncertainty is suffocating
Our hope has never felt so great and
Lit up down
A pounding pulse
To make it go
Make it slow down,
Go.

Where is the ripcord, the trapdoor, the key?
Where is the cartoon escape-hatch for me?
No time to question the choices I make
I've got to follow another direction.

The city's burning, it's like it's ready to explode
Accelerate to make it slow
Make it go
Accelerate to make it slow
Make it go
I'm incomplete
I'm incomplete
I'm incomplete.

poem by Wilfred Owen

2008-03-28T10:11:00.001-04:00

Dulce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!-An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Poem

2008-03-27T13:30:00.000-04:00

“One thousand three hundred ten and fifty years from the birth of Christ to this night and this is the second year since the coming of the plague to Ireland. I have written this in the twentieth year of my age. I am Hugh son of Conor MacEgan and whoever reads it let him offer a prayer for my soul. This is Christmas night. On this night I place myself under the protection of the King of Heaven and Earth, beseeching that he will bring me and my friends safe through this plague and restore us once more to joy and gladness.”

--- from a note in the margins of Seanchus Mór (or Great Ancient Tradition)

To This Night

Hand in hand
we sink to dirt floor,
light of the fire
leading our descent.
I count the seconds
to keep from screaming,
nudge my shoulder to your shoulder
to keep from fleeing.
Pray there is nothing
to this black night,
starless, cold, silent,
creeping horror around
every village corner.
I could laugh and echo
mindless matter to prove
my love for life and you
does not wane or give
to casual bright tidings:
I am a light, you are flower,
grow in the soil of my being
alive; this clarity doesn’t remain
fallow in each symmetrical tower
of brick and mahogany sublime
in a land with and without
instrumental design.

Joe Jackson Lyrics

2008-03-26T14:52:00.001-04:00

You Can’t Get What You Want

Sometimes you start feelin’ so lost and lonely
Then you’ll find it’s all been in your mind
Sometimes you think someone is the one and only
Can’t you see, it could be you and me?
But if there’s any doubt
Then I think I’ll leave it out

’cause I’ll tell you one thing
You can’t get what you want
Till you know what you want
Said you can’t get what you want
Till you know what you want

Sometimes you keep busy reaching out for something
You don’t care, there’s always something there
Sometimes you can’t see that all you need is one thing
If it’s right, you could sleep at night
But it can take some time
But at least I’m here in line

’cause I’ll tell you one thing
You can’t get what you want
Till you know what you want
Said you can’t get what you want
Till you know what you want

Sometimes you can’t see that all you need is one thing
If it’s right, you could sleep at night
But it can take some time
But at least I’m here in line

’cause I’ll tell you one thing
You can’t get what you want
Till you know what you want
Said you can’t get what you want
Till you know what you want

mood

2008-03-25T13:50:00.001-04:00

Poem

2008-03-20T11:48:00.001-04:00

Beatitude

Your smile begins
the dawn, a bright
vermilion sky
uncurling
and unwinding
barbed wire coiled
along the sown field,
daybreak sun
peaks and twinkles
between oaks and pines,
allows exhalation
of thorns, cones
of anxiety
and laundered thoughts,
tear ducts and mercy.

Happy St. Patrick's Day - March 17th

2008-03-14T10:03:00.000-04:00

Irish proverb (somewhere, I'm sure):

There are two versions of the two sides to every story &
(at least) twelve versions of every song.

An Irish Toast . . .
Here's to our wives and girlfriends: May they never meet!

Poem

2008-02-29T07:50:00.001-05:00

The Tower of the Winds

I use Andronicus’ Tower of the Winds
to calculate an astronomical
time in the future
in the flow
of water and air,
through friction
and Coriolis force,
and the physical workings
of the known.

now we go
to listen to
the wind blow
to and fro

My wet finger forecasts
direction; the Triton
weathervane indicates clarity.
The eight deities:
from Boreas to Euros to Lips to Zephyros,
etch the face
of my purpose, belief
and Newton’s Second Law.

here we go
listening to
the winds blow
to and fro

Nine sundials mark the day
on the face
of the tower; inside Ctesibius’ water clock,
driven by water
from the Acropolis, it marks
the time and movements of matter
across the mythological figures
of the universe.

there we go
leaning into
the wind blow
to and fro

I am not influenced by the feel of wind,
I am not influenced by the reel of wind,
the nearly same pull back
and quiet
just before it smacks
you hard in the face, the chest.
Archimedes trusted the circles
of life;
yet this is personal:
the rub is real,
the force exists on our faces,
in our eyes,
in our tears, the salt drying
to a cake.

there we go
listening to
the wind blowing
to and fro

and the sulky shadow of the fire dances
with the yellowy-orange fire of our eyes
and lips that want to press upon the skin
of others more beautiful and sensual
than us
and the light breeze of the late Spring evening
in Hartford, Connecticut,
Florianopolis,
Dublin or Athens
caresses the gray of our hair, the lines
about our mouths, our eyes, and the gear
grind and mechanical squeal
of future events etched in the
markings of the sky,
time releases newer wrinkles
and newer despair
or our hearts in repair. Gear in gear
or hand in hand, wind presses my face
constantly in place, wind marks
my place with motion
and no trace

where we go
to listen to
the wind blowing
to and fro

like a wind from Djibouti
carrying poetic songs of the Somalis
and the Afar exposed to an arid land
and the winds
that carried them here and there
across an ancient world.

The Tower of the Winds - Athens, Greece

2008-02-29T07:11:00.000-05:00

The eight directional Wind Gods of Greek mythology depicted on the tower -

Boreas: a man wearing a heavy cloak, blowing through a twisted conch shell
Kaikias: a man carrying and emptying a shield full of small, round objects, perhaps, hailstones
Apeliotes: a young man holding a cloak full of fruit and grain
Euros: an old man wrapped tightly in a cloak against the elements
Notos: a man emptying an urn and producing a shower of water
Lips: a boy pushing the stern of a ship, promising a good sailing wind
Zephyros: a youth carrying flowers into the air
Skiron: a bearded man carrying a bronze pot full of hot ashes and charcoal

Poem

2008-02-27T07:18:00.000-05:00

Open Field

“And what do we care whether there is a resurrection or not, as long as we see a living man arise immediately in the place of the dead man? Let us take up the same cause again, continuing the same work, living the same life, dying the same death.” – Vincent Van Gogh

Under the blank, gray sky,
across the open field of snow,
the dense black forest moves away
from you the longer you walk
towards it, an optical illusion
that hovers in your mind, a chalice.
Wind whips and cold forms
ice in your nostrils, crusted snow
crunches, shards and feet
falling through to powdery fluff,
you begin to feel you will lose
your breath to the frozen sward
and every step seems to say,
“There is a God,
There is no God,
There is a God,
There is no God,”
the longer you walk
towards the line of sewn trees
that mark the dark horizon
and you wish only
you could think of the words
to a song, any song,
and someone to sing to,
to make time pass less.

Lyrics -- Boomtown Rats (Bob Geldof)

2008-02-15T13:27:00.000-05:00

I Don’t Like Mondays

(When) The silicon chip inside her head
Gets switched to overload
And nobody’s gonna go to school today
She’s gonna make them stay at home
And daddy doesn’t understand it
He always said she was good as gold
And he can see no reasons
'Cos there are no reasons
What reason do you need to be show-ow-ow-ow-own?

Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
I wanna shoot the whole day down

The Telex machine is kept so clean
And it types to a waiting world
And mother feels so shocked
Father’s world is rocked
And their thoughts turn to their own little girl
Sweet 16 ain’t that peachy keen
Now that ain’t so neat to admit defeat
They can see no reasons
'Cos there are no reasons
What reasons do you need?
Oh Oh Oh Oh

Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
I wanna shoot
The whole day down, down, down, shoot it all down

And all the playing's stopped in the playground now
She wants to play with the toys a while
And school's out early and soon we'll be learning
And the lesson today is how to die
And then the bullhorn crackles
And the captain tackles
(With the problems of the how's and why's)
And he can see no reasons
'Cos there are no reasons
What reason do you need to die, die?
Oh Oh Oh

Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like
I don’t like (Tell me why)
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like
I don’t like (Tell me why)
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don't like Mondays
I wanna shoot the whole day down

Poem

2008-02-12T08:18:00.001-05:00

The Heart’s Memory

The heart’s memory
in the labyrinth of my mind, twisted
and gnarly hedges
of distinct memories obscure
the path of feeling,
unfettered, crisp.

The heart’s memory
in the labyrinth of my heart, predictable
and succulent dreams
desire a memory and
justification for anarchy,
innate, nude.

XTC - Senses Working Overtime

2008-02-12T07:49:00.000-05:00

Hey, hey,
The clouds are whey.
Theres straw for the donkeys,
And the innocents can all sleep safely,
All sleep safely.

My, my,
Sun is pie.
Theres fodder for the cannons,
And the guilty ones can all sleep safely,
All sleep safely.

And all the world is football-shaped
Its just for me to kick in space
And I can see, hear, smell, touch, taste
And Ive got one, two, three, four, five
Senses working overtime
Trying to take this all in.
Ive got one, two, three, four, five
Senses working overtime
Trying to taste the difference
tween a lemon and a lime
Pain and the pleasure
And the church bells softly chime.

Hey hey,
Night fights day.
Theres food for the thinkers,
And the innocents can all live slowly,
All live slowly.
My, my,
The sky will cry
Jewels for the thirsty,
And the guilty ones can all die slowly ,
All die slowly.

And all the world is biscuit-shaped,
Its just for me to feed my face,
And I can see, hear, smell, touch, taste,
And Ive got one, two, three, four, five,
Senses working overtime
Trying to take this all in.
Ive got one, two, three, four, five,
Senses working overtime
Trying to taste the difference,
tween a lemon and a lime,
Pain and the pleasure,
And the church bells softly chime,

And birds might fall from black skies,
And bullies might give you black eyes,
But to me its very, very beautiful
(englands glory!)
Beautiful
(a striking beauty!)

And all the world is football-shaped,
Its just for me to kick in space,
And I can see, hear, smell, touch, taste,
And Ive got one, two, three, four, five,
Senses working overtime
Trying to take this all in
Ive got one, two, three, four, five
Senses working overtime
Trying to tell the difference
tween the goods and grime
Turds and treasure
And theres one, two, three, four, five
Senses working overtime
Trying to take this all in
Ive got one, two, three, four, five
Senses working overtime
Trying to taste the difference
tween a lemon and a lime
Pain and the pleasure,
And the church bells softly chime.

poems

2008-02-05T10:27:00.000-05:00

What is a poem?

by Jane Yolen

Hard work.
Emotion surprised.
Throwing a colored shadow.
A word that doubles back on itself, not once but twice.
The exact crunch of carrots.
Precise joys.
A prayer that sounds like a curse until it is said again.
Crows punctuating a field of snow.
Hard work.

When does writing words become a poem?
- I don’t know.

When is a poem a good poem?
- I don’t know.

I’m going to stop revealing how much I don’t know now…..

Poem by Wallace Stevens

2008-01-25T08:12:00.001-05:00

ON THE ROAD HOME

It was when I said,
“There is no such thing as the truth,”
That the grapes seemed fatter.
The fox ran out of his hole.

You….You said,
“There are many truths,
But they are not parts of a truth.”
Then the tree, at night, began to change,

Smoking through green and smoking blue.
We were two figures in a wood.
We said we stood alone.

It was when I said,
“Words are not forms of a single word.
In the sum of the parts, there are only the parts.
The world must be measured by eye.”

It was when you said,
“The idols have seen lots of poverty,
Snakes and gold and lice,
But not the truth;”

It was at that time, that the silence was largest,
And longest, the night was roundest.
The fragrance of the autumn warmest,
Closest, and strongest.

Bad News

2008-01-24T10:30:00.000-05:00

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/22818963/

lyrics

2008-01-23T07:17:00.001-05:00

Kingston Advice

(The Clash)

In these days you can get no rice
No razor blades but you can get knife
In these days see the people run
They have no food but the boy have gun
In these days they don't throw the stone
Nor use the voice they use the gun alone
In these days to be an oddity
Be hunted down like a scarcity

In these days don't beg for life
Wanna take Kingston advice?
Oh please don't beg for your life

In these days the beat is militant
Must be a clash there's no alternative
In these days nations are militant
We have slavery under government
In these days in the firmament
I look for signs that are permanent

In these days with no love to give
The world will turn with no one left to live

In these days I don't know what to do
The more I see the more I'm destitute
In these days I don't know what to sing
The more I know the less my tune can swing

In these days you can get no rice
No razor blades but you can get knife
In these days see the people run
They have no food but the boy have gun

Poem

2008-01-21T08:37:00.000-05:00

Tara Found

in the cloudless,
powder-blue air,
found through
an open window,
lock or no lock,
the dream of reality
slaps like glass
or the reality of a dream.
If you need
a helpful hand
to turn the latch
to your own forgiveness
or the next day,
reach for my metallic hand
shaped like a key
or stevedore knot
or my palm-shaped heart.

Poem by Wallace Stevens

2008-01-17T07:08:00.001-05:00

MEDITATION CELESTIAL AND TERRESTRIAL

The wild warblers are warbling in the jungle
Of life and spring of the lustrous inundations,
Flood on flood, of our returning sun.

Day after day, throughout the winter,
We hardened ourselves to live by bluest reason
In a world of wind and frost,

And by will, unshaken and florid
In mornings of angular ice,
That passed beyond us through the narrow sky.

But what are radiant reason and radiant will
To warblings early in the hilarious trees
Of summer, the drunken mother?

Poem

2008-01-15T08:33:00.001-05:00

Where is Lancelot?

“There are two tragedies in life. One is to lose

your heart's desire. The other is to gain it.”

-- George Bernard Shaw

Out of the silent kingdom
the gyrfalcon soars
from the killing field,
over the allure and polished
stone walls, bleached castle towers
and merlons above the oak gates,
beyond the keep and stagnant
green moat to the dense forest,
furrowed fields and gnarled thickets
surrounding the low-lying,
copper-colored pasture
of wild barley and rye
near the Huntsman’s cabin
and rock riddled river bed where
Sir Lancelot fucks
Guinevere while thoughts
of taxes and knights at war
eat the last desire of the circular King.

my favorite painting

2008-01-14T15:00:00.000-05:00

Las Meninas (The Maids of Honor) by Diego Velazquez

why?

Ctesibius of Alexandria

2008-01-14T09:50:00.001-05:00

CTESIBIUS OF ALEXANDRIA (fl. 285-222 BC)

Life
Even though his work has not been fully studied, it is obvious that as an inventor and mathematician Ctesibius was second only to Archimedes in the world of ancient Greece. His work on the elasticity of air was extremely important, earning him the title of father of pneumatics, for the first treatises on the science of compressed air and its uses are his. Like all his other works, however, his "On pneumatics" has not survived. His "Memorabilia", a single compilation of his research, cited by Athenaeus, is also lost

Ctesibius is considered the founder of the Alexandrian school of mathematics and engineering, and was probably the first head of the Museum of Alexandria. Unfortunately, very little is known of his life and work, beyond the fact that he was the son of a barber from Aspondia, a suburb of Alexandria, and lived from about 285-222 BC.

Work
In his study "On pneumatics", he proved that air is a material substance; and he devised many mechanisms operated by compressed air, beginning with a system of adjustable mirrors in his father's barber shop. He invented the piston pump, the pressure pump and the double siphon; he perfected and multiplied the uses of the water clock in many different contexts; and he devised numerous types of catapults and other engines of war, many of which have been preserved. He also constructed mechanical figures operated by ratchet gears which he used to ornament his water clocks.

Ctesibius is best known for three major inventions:

a) the suction pump,

b) the water clock, and

c) the hydraulis, a musical instrument (the ancestor of the pipe organ), of which a single fine carved specimen has been discovered.

The suction pump is still in use today in various forms, chiefly in fire engines. Vitruvius tells us that the water clock was famous in its day, while the hydraulis was an extremely important discovery in the history of civilisation.

Modern experts have called Ctesibius the "Edison of the Alexandrian School". His other inventions include:

- Cannons operated by compressed air

- A hydraulic hoist, capable of raising very heavy weights

- A water clock, described by Athenaeus. It had a metal canister with a hole in the bottom, and a cylindrical base in which the water collected. The flow was precisely controlled by stopcocks, and the level of the water indicated the hour, which was read off a graduated scale on the outside of the vessel. The walls of the base were transparent, according to Galen, so the water level could be monitored. Vitruvius records that a cork disc floated above the base of the canister, and was connected with the system of gears, which moved slowly as the volume and therefore the pressure of water dropped.

lyrics

2008-01-10T13:55:00.000-05:00

Anyone Else But You
by The Moldy Peaches

You're a part time lover and a full time friend
The monkey on you're back is the latest trend
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

I kiss you on the brain in the shadow of a train
I kiss you all starry eyed, my body's swinging from side to side
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

Here is the church and here is the steeple
We sure are cute for two ugly people
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

The pebbles forgive me, the trees forgive me
So why can't, you forgive me?
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

I will find my nitch in your car
With my mp3 dvd rumple-packed guitar
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

Du du du du du du dudu
Du du du du du du dudu
Du du du du du du dudu du

Up up down down left right left right b a start
Just because we use cheats doesn't mean we're not smart
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

You are always trying to keep it real
I'm in love with how you feel
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

We both have shiny happy fits of rage
You want more fans, i want more stage
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

Don quixote was a steel driving man
My name is adam i'm your biggest fan
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

Squinched up your face and did a dance
You shook a little turd out of the bottom of your pants
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

Du du du du du du dudu
Du du du du du du dudu
Du du du du du du dudu du
But you

lyrics

2008-01-08T06:18:00.000-05:00

Shanghai Sky by Joe Jackson

Strange
How the world got so small
I turned around and there was nowhere left to go
So sad
The dream always dies
Each new arrival closes places in my mind
But I can dream
Until I go
Of smells that I dont recognize
And by the river
In shanghai
The colour of the sky
Is something Ive never seen
After the summer rain
Children smile
Curious and kind
And the world is big again

Poem

2008-01-03T14:31:00.003-05:00

C Moon

As rain falls on the wolf,
a baby cries
as if no air to breathe.

The crescent moon
scratches the starless sky,
screeches, manicure and chalkboard
screams in my head
and in the Bavarian forest
of my heart: limitless,
echoing deep, deep inside of me,
a hollow, metallic drum
where wolves and bears smile
holding a gun, shiny drool
in the caged, pagan moonlight.

Rain falls from the point
of the “C” of the moon
and you whisper, ‘C’est
la vie. L'amour va conquérir
quoi que ce sois.’ Is this
something that I can understand?

No air to breathe in the rainfall.
A wolf spies. A baby cries.

The moon beats a cadence
until the animals of the night
can dance no more. Pagan
eyes color the fire, birds, leaves,
smoke, clouds, hidden stars, sun.
The heart beats a cadence
until the animals of the night
can dance no more. Rain
falls. A baby cries. No air
to breathe. Could these be signs
that we should understand?
A wolf observes.

2008-01-03T14:31:00.001-05:00

Poem....Domination of Black by Wallace Stevens

2008-01-02T07:59:00.000-05:00

Domination of Black

At night, by the fire,
The colors of the bushes
And of the fallen leaves,
Repeating themselves,
Turned in the room,
Like the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind.
Yes: but the color of the heavy hemlocks
Came striding.
And I remembered the cry of the peacocks.

The colors of their tails
Were like the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind,
In the twilight wind.
They swept over the room,
Just as they flew from the boughs of the hemlocks
Down to the ground.
I heard them cry -- the peacocks.
Was it a cry against the twilight
Or against the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind,
Turning as the flames
Turned in the fire,
Turning as the tails of the peacocks
Turned in the loud fire,
Loud as the hemlocks
Full of the cry of the peacocks?
Or was it a cry against the hemlocks?

Out of the window,
I saw how the planets gathered
Like the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind.
I saw how the night came,
Came striding like the color of the heavy hemlocks
I felt afraid.
And I remembered the cry of the peacocks.

Poem....Lovers on Aran by Seamus Heaney

2008-01-02T07:44:00.000-05:00

Lovers on Aran

The timeless waves, bright, sifting, broken glass,
Came dazzling around, into the rocks,
Came glinting, sifting from the Americas

To posess Aran. Or did Aran rush
to throw wide arms of rock around a tide
That yielded with an ebb, with a soft crash?

Did sea define the land or land the sea?
Each drew new meaning from the waves' collision.
Sea broke on land to full identity.

Happy New Year........Long, Long Ago

2007-12-31T11:14:00.000-05:00

Auld Lang Syne

Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne ?

CHORUS:

For auld lang syne, my dear,

for auld lang syne,

we'll take a cup o’ kindness yet,

for auld lang syne.

And surely you’ll buy your pint cup !
And surely I’ll buy mine !
And we'll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We two have run about the slopes,
and picked the daisies fine ;
But we’ve wandered many a weary foot,
since auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We two have paddled in the stream,
from morning sun till dine^† ;
But seas between us broad have roared
since auld lang syne.

CHORUS

And there’s a hand my trusty friend !
And give us a hand o’ thine !
And we’ll take a right good-will draught,
for auld lang syne.

CHORUS

Poem

2007-12-28T16:29:00.001-05:00

Gifts in a Dark Time

“The weight we lift with the finger of a dream…”
- from An Ordinary Evening in New Haven, Wallace Stevens

the velvet
parted lips
of the sculpted woman
cool one spot
beneath my chin
in the palm
of your palm.

the silken
brown shoulder-length hair
offers itself over
and over
to be combed, to be
tossed back
and about a black
velvet gown,
a string of pearls.

the burnt
sienna tongue
draws a line in the sand
of my desire, needs
to be crossed
as much as the ‘t’
in betrayal
or fidelity,
life and love lines
of your palm crossing
to make a point.

the silken
chestnut hair offers itself
over the shoulder
and in the palm
of the man to study in
adoration
and afterthought
for times of darkness,
for times of risk
and the creation
of our heart
and imagination.

Poem

2007-12-27T06:58:00.001-05:00

Shelter

in the moss
on the backs of trees
I can always find
my way
home
and by memory
of Starry sunlight
in your sextant eyes:
North, South, West,
East. It is
a great comfort
to hear you,
your compass words,
if only in my head
where they always sound
sweet, intrinsic, full
of knowledge
of things I know
nothing of.

2007-12-21T12:44:00.000-05:00

Happy Holidays to All!!!!!

Poem

2007-12-20T08:10:00.000-05:00

my love II

my love walks with me like the lily
in her hair.
my love stays in my eyes
like the shadow of a hawk on the sand,
graceful and silent,
circling for prey.
my love dances eternally in my hands
like water or sand
as if nothing
could hold her.
my love whispers the meaning of her life
with each breath,
with each word.
my love carries my half of our heart
with her
when we are apart.

2007-12-18T08:10:00.001-05:00

Mariscal Breeze

Along the ocean
edge and beach sand
a ghost crab races
a lone white triangle
on the horizon,
the breeze firm
as it kisses waves,
a spotted dog
chasing a ball thrown too far,
the yips
and barks
coming in
and out
with the smell of her
coconut-oiled skin
browning softly
as my loose hair,
beach umbrellas,
the wings
of a passing bi-plane,
distant moriche palm trees
and book pages
dance together
en masse
as she sleeps.

Poem

2007-12-17T07:34:00.000-05:00

What Passes Between Us

What you take
for pleasure
I contemplate
in pain.
What you take
for pain
I demonstrate
disdain.
What lies between
us – pleasure,
pain – pales next to
our love, hate
in desire’s flame.

poem

2007-12-06T16:31:00.000-05:00

Cold Rain

On the last beach
of the night
the rain collects
in my heart
without teeth
or steely bite
but in a beating
puddle, small ocean,
in the concaves
of this last muscle
to enter any conversation
on a dock
where the fishing boats
smack back
at the ocean,
as pessoas vivem em
casas caverna,
and your lips
meet me
in the cold rain.

2007-12-03T14:23:00.001-05:00

To Fire a Clown

The sun is hot and low in the sky
like a spotlight or peephole in the circus tent.

The ringmaster tinkered with the earth’s
orbit to attract people through the front gate.

Spontaneous wells have dried. Tigers combust.
Skulls of ushers have horseflies for eyes.

A barker attempts to shout but can only cough,
hack. Caged turkey vultures cackle and laugh.

The report of a daredevil’s cannon is as silent
as a monkey tree’s faint in a deserted forest.

An elephant sheds its skin on a high-wire
and falls off into an oasis mirage. Trapeze

artists shrivel in the hammock of a safety net.
The Buffalo Bill impersonator sidesaddles a cactus.

The Chippewas have consulted their Sun God
and will not chant and dance to bring rain clouds.

The bearded lady dreams of a waterfall’s roar,
of the squeal of children allowed to bathe

in a smattering of raindrops pocked in the dust,
and of the eternal sucking of air from the straws

of lovers drinking from the same empty glass.
Clouds of cotton candy float past like tumbleweeds.

The moon is a visible stainless steel canteen
and all stars are giant pulsing sponges of light.

A rubber nose and giant tear are my trademarks
but now sweat streaks my mascara and whiteface.

The sweet nonsense of my patented somersault and flop
used to depend upon the darkness of the big-top.

Poem

2007-11-30T08:03:00.001-05:00

Sordid Cabana Boy

Not knowing the difference between men
and women has confused my life.

As a child the stars and moon made vulgar
motions at the earth causing quakes and

eruptions. The crosswalks of my city
were drawbridges; pavement like moats.

I shivered when the sun glared in July
and perspired in the blizzards of my mind.

The mailman kept secrets from me; garbage
men kept my nails, breath and soul.

The sinews and tendons of my appendages
pulsed to the pull of the moon and each womb.

My hair grew from my head and armpits
in braids, bows supplied by a fairy godparent.

I pledged allegiance to no country; I swore
allegiance and vehemence to you. Rain

seeped into my skin, skin flowers blooming
in the sun, and I wept from the fragrance.

I spat on paper money and fed coins to pigeons.
I lived on books, eating each page by page.

Later, my skull became as pliable as a thin shell
of aluminum; my heart pounding hard as a diamond.

Now, I dream the same dream all of the time:
I am a child and contract scarlet and rheumatic fever

and layer upon layer of skin sloughs away
and I lose my identity completely.

As an adult all of my writing and poetry
becomes untranslatable from a new language

that I know but like rain do not understand
the difference or the perception of men and women.

Bend in the Road - Paul Cézanne

2007-11-30T07:32:00.000-05:00

Paul Cézanne. (French, 1839-1906). Melting Snow, Fontainebleau

2007-11-27T08:31:00.000-05:00

Poem

2007-11-26T08:56:00.001-05:00

Snow Moon

Under the full, white
moon reflected in the lake
I dream of your brown eyes
swimming towards me
like two animals
of seminal desire
that I reach out
to pull you into my dream
with empty arms.

Under the full, white
star-laden sky
I dreamed of you
on a hill in a flowing
white gown, your profile
carnivorous
against the Hunter’s moon,
some prey stalked
in the vale of my sleep,
unknown and circled.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2007-11-21T11:45:00.000-05:00

Happy Thanksgiving!

To all those who believe in family, friends, community and religious freedom

Poem

2007-11-20T08:47:00.000-05:00

The Wading Pool

My fingertips glide
down the spine
of her back,
a breeze over
a mountain range,
to the small
of her lower back
where my hand
can rest in silence
and contentment:
a wading pool,
toes in the slight
lapping of water,
then ankles
as the coolness
travels through
my salient being
and my bony knees
tremble, deep
in the softness
to my involved waist
that invites my desire
to succumb
to her larger body
of artwork.

Poem

2007-11-16T12:51:00.000-05:00

First Kiss

1. It is the distance to

It is the total distance
between you and her lips
that moves you now,
an abyss of doubt
and fear and the desire
that it will bottom out,
and the hope
she will move
toward your magnetic core,
as if aliens do exist
and will enter
your atmosphere
to be explored,
accepted, touched.

It is important

You move without
moving with this importance:
as if veins of coal
were suddenly rivers
of diamonds, as if puppets
were suddenly children,
as if her eyes
were suddenly near.
And the weight
and extent of your feelings
validate the attempt
and the salvation
of your lips.

Poem

2007-11-15T06:41:00.001-05:00

Near

The young woman in the near green
dress contemplates
the music of Blackcaps
that she cannot see.
The young woman with the almost smile
cries into her hands
as her happiness
fills her lungs
like noisy laughter
at some small, satisfactory
word choice in a poem.
The young woman with the just cut hair
leaps across the room
to see the shadows
of her just cut, jet black hair
fly across the room.
The young woman with above average shoes
kicks them up
and off her feet
to see off-pink painted nails
sparkle as she jumps
into ravenous rain puddles.
The young woman in a near fatal collision
between her joy and sorrow
grabs hold of her self
and won’t let go
as her joy and sorrow
hover like a constant
rainbow or raven.

Poem

2007-11-13T08:49:00.001-05:00

A Goodness

There once was a goodness of morning air
and then no more.
I saw her smile: a November snowflake
and then no more.
The sun smiled too upon the earth
and then I stared
at her coming through the shadows,
kept her figure
to the corner of my eye, periphery
of my desire
and she glistened in the light and she was
then no more.

This heart must beat, must beat, must beat
and then no more.
The goodness of air at night: breathe of stars
and then daybreak.
The light touch of care weighs and wears my body
and then no more.
The goodness of air hangs on the muted night
and in her eyes
the clear moonlight knows my meaning and being
and then no more.
I am not goodness of man until less than man
and then no more.

Poem

2007-11-12T09:40:00.000-05:00

Heart-quake

black and blue blood
in my veins ripple
into the aortas
collapsing the walls
of my heart

a merry-go-round
of hope and desire
spins my world
like a gyroscope

shelves of thought
thrust away from each
other, disconcerted earth,
and the crust of my face
undulates with lust

music plays somewhere
amid the desolation,
what is the song? I know
that song? It is right on
the tip of my tongue:
an aftershock.

Poem

2007-11-09T07:42:00.000-05:00

Largesse

You cannot love me more than your eyes tell.
You cannot believe the largeness of your heart.
You cannot feel the words on your swollen tongue
or recall the word forgotten
in the silence
of the air between our
lips to measure the weight
of my intent as a plain fact.

You cannot love me more than your eyes hold.
You cannot believe more in the appetite of your soul.
You cannot hear your eyes speak,
a plain fact of beauty
and the weight of your skin
in my mouth.

Your eyes cannot love me more than your reflection
in mine.
You cannot believe in the largeness of my heart
without proof.
You cannot smile
wider than your heart
will allow, your smile a pump
in the well of my heart, a plain fact:
you in my eyes; my heart pounding forever.

Haiku

2007-11-09T06:51:00.000-05:00

Spring kisses,
tongues catch concentric rain drops;
lily floats

Poem

2007-11-06T07:34:00.000-05:00

Trust

Turn the dog-eared page,
put aside
the well-worn book,
the time and the next
thought;
put aside
the cup of oolong tea,
the warmth of the fire place,
throw off the shawl from
your body, turn
off the radio;
put aside
the pen, turn the light
switch and thermostat down,
put aside
your glasses and see
that you can grasp
her heart, the blood
as it pumps out
to the last veins in the outer
regions of her universe,
her adrenalin and desire
coupling as a vessel
in your hands,
uplifted and forgiving.

Thank her
for this gift.
Thank her for
how different you are
in her presence, in
her eyes, in the back
of her mind
where you are
human
in the feel
of her heart.

Poem

2007-10-29T08:33:00.000-04:00

Hold On

The edge
of her lips:

the edge
of her world
to hold on to
for dear life
and the rim
of uncertainty
that leads upward
to a smile
or to flesh
of tongue
and language
of feral love
and the border
of uncertainty
beyond the tropic
of Capricorn
where margin
for existence
in manna and
desire turns
ripe with certainty
upon sultry
touch and the taste
of the radiant
dew of her lips.

Poem

2007-10-26T07:53:00.000-04:00

woman love poet (part 2)

kiss
the white sunrise
with the kiss
of the moonlight

kiss
the white beach
with the kiss
of the fresh, forgiving air
beneath the wing
of the saffron finch
or the leaves
of the eucalyptus
begging me not to cry
in jealousy
or despair

kiss
the red sunset
with the fever
of the red lilyfish

kiss
me, us
with the words
of sumptuous poems,
images kissing
the imagination
of color of our desire
to read our truth
of ourselves, myself
and you

Poem

2007-10-23T07:50:00.000-04:00

woman love poet

This thing
that you are

lasts
for-
ever.
Word.
Space. Time. Memory.
Imagination. Yes.
Blackened flowers,
burnt moments.

Distance
from this thing
that you are,
desire does not relinquish.
Scrunched eyelids
in bright October sunlight –
bright flashes, stars
in the darkness – slowed
moments always come
back to me and others
who find you flowing
in and out of these
moments of desperation
on a deserted beach,
holding onto, dancing into
the imagination
of others, turning
on this thing
we want to detect,
we want to conceive
again and again
in this thing
that you are
to rise up
from the ashes
of blackened flowers, burnt
moments, lost love.

Poem

2007-10-22T08:16:00.001-04:00

The Color

The color of your lips:
a carnival
of my desires,
palette of skinned
truths of my being
and glossy red
like the blood
of my heart, my love
pounding in the veins
and vessels of my senses –
a fallen mourning
dove’s feather, a bubble
from your lilac-scented
bath, the hard-crusted
confection of crème brulee;
a kaleidoscope
of my desires
in the translucence
of her mirrored skin,
prism of connection,
sweet transfer to the light
of my essence,
a rainbow touched
at last.

Poem

2007-10-18T11:45:00.001-04:00

Se Um Lírio Está Em Seu Coração

O mundo não começa
A cair e girar até
As ondas do seu cabelo castanho
Tocar seus lábios e bochecha
Com a suavidade do ar.
O ritmo das suas linhas
Canto de poesia e trazem
Uma imagem à sua mente
Dos campos da valúpia
De lírios que ondulam
E conduzem o vento
Com o balanço elegante
Dos quadris de uma mulher
Como ela caminha no passado dele
Através do jardim tropical
De seu coração, o solo rico de palavras
De amor e paixão
Do seu lírio, Carine.

(edited by Cah Morandi)

Poem

2007-10-17T07:29:00.000-04:00

The Want

Twilight

and I begin to miss you.

I have dreamed of you
in the palms of my hands;
I have dreamed of you
lashes to lashes, lips
to lips.

A small gull floats beyond
over white beach, in Zeppelin clouds
and fuchsia sky, they melt
into your eyes, your cheeks,
my fingertips. Evening and

I dream of you when we touch
the stars and planets, the stars
and planets are points
of view. Is your moon, my moon?
Calm and

the same breath and speech,
the hollow, loose mumbling.
I wake, my love collapsed
in my eyes and throat

and the ocean’s breeze lifts
my hair, another gull.

I stand

and walk the boardwalk home.
Memory serves: I dreamed your hand
in mine, the want
of my palm, the want
of my desire, the want

of my dream.

Poem

2007-10-16T07:32:00.001-04:00

The Dead Still Air

The dead still air holds up the clouds, birds, kites
and descending orbital satellites.
The dead still air holds up
the leaves that used to sizzle in the breeze.
The earth is waiting for the sun
to click on and the moon to slide
behind Venus
then it will release the jet stream
down the Allegheny Mountains.
The earth is waiting for a sign: clap
of thunder or silent lovers. The dead
dry soil cakes around the roots of trees
by the dry riverbed. Gulls swoop and veer
to catch a few drops of rain. The boy
snaps a twig and sparks a fire. The boy
picks a snapdragon bud, swallows
it and breathes fire. The girl
jumps along hopscotch squares drawn
on the concrete sidewalk and melts
her shoes. The boy picks a lady’s-slipper
and gives the flower to his mother
to drink champagne with the Gypsies.
The young woman drinks Oktoberfest beer
and speaks into a cell phone
that has no memory. The girl
jumps rope and starts a tornado
that carries her to Oz. The young woman
lives as a butterfly and dreams of nothing
but not being alone in a house where nothing
happens. The boy somersaults
into winter. The girl somersaults
into a handstand and into a pool
of lemonade. The young woman somersaults
into a cartwheel and later that night
dreams of silent lovers.

my niece and her horse

2007-10-15T11:41:00.001-04:00

2007-10-15T08:43:00.001-04:00

Then

in one motion –
my arm and cupped hand in the stream
scoop water like a copper ladle
through a school of minnows,
catches one, others cascade between
my thumb and forefinger
or over the edge of my hand
back into their salvation.
Tadpoles scatter and dart
through the rippled image
of my head and eyes;
my shins itch from wet, cuffed jeans
and clinging grass;
green shallots on the opposite bank
tingle my nasal membrane; the emptiness
of my stomach aches.
A monarch butterfly
jitters past, slow motion, like a leaf
sent speeding by a gust of wind
but caught now, caught now, caught now
as the lone minnow circles
the sea of my open palm.

Poem

2007-10-12T07:58:00.001-04:00

The Big Sleep

Before closure:
on the slope of the hill,
soft, clumps of mowed grass
pillow my head with meshed cuttings
and the fresh smell

my eyes read the dusk sky
for first winks of stars and the cusps
of the smiling crescent moon, the one who lays
snug against me, shoulder to shoulder,
does not disturb the gathering cricket song
or my mind – a night latch without a key –
a slap at a mosquito curbs the cricket chirp stream

her chest heaves steady, deep,
I know she dreams of “esta um dia
tão bonito lá fora…”

two birds on a telephone line are
identical as the last sinews of day drag
across my sky’s ceiling of cover; a wild
Canadian goose, no, a flock in a ‘V’ honks heading
south, the sound far-off along some natural map
marker, the echoing hangs
on the slipping light
a tribute, taps. Sunset.
And a first kiss of star light:
I wish I may, I wish I might, live forever.

Had a very nice dinner in a railway car....

2007-10-12T07:03:00.001-04:00

at the Glenlo Abbey, which is just outside of Galway.

My new friend on Inisheer, Aran Islands, Ireland

2007-10-11T08:42:00.000-04:00

Nothing is better than an apple in the morning!

Poem

2007-10-10T07:25:00.001-04:00

In the Garden

In the garden of my heart
I care for all the flowers
I tend evenly.
Grace of sun
and rain feeds the tulip
seed in the same way as
the lady slipper, lily,
yellow rose. Most
flourish in my coarse hands
but one grows
toward me not
the sun inexplicably.
In the garden
of my heart insects
pollinate iris and
orchid equally.
Color, pattern, taste,
scent, shape attract me
to each plant,
yet one pleases
me more favorably.
Daisy petals in
my hand fly away
with the wind
but one flower clings
to me in the garden
of my heart.
In the garden of my heart
one flower grows
into the filament.

Woodstock Estate - Inistioge, Ireland

2007-10-10T07:08:00.001-04:00

Poem

2007-10-09T07:44:00.000-04:00

Autumn

The ‘where to’
is your last stop. A night’s
drive and home before sunrise.
All the road unknowns
soon will ease away into sleep,
your mind tracing white and yellow
lines through all of your thoughts.
What guides you easier
than the North Star, compass,
parents, friends? Engine
tuned, gas tank full, wheels straight;
it is the geometry of travel.
“All worry,” you say out loud, “is removed
out here on the road.” With no moon
or streetlights, your vision is limited
even with high beam headlamps: you
can only see 40 to 50 feet ahead of you
in an ellipse
that hides all angles
of vulnerability. You open
a window to stop the slip,
the nod, the drowse. The cool air
fills your nostrils and lungs,
tears your eyes and parts
your hair. You smell autumn,
fall: an old sweater
you wear once a year, kept in a cedar chest,
the fading perfume of a her sex
from a full night lying
in an apple orchard. Cores
of your appetite brown
in the dark, scattered with dried leaves
and the backs of your heads damp
and pillowed on roots and clumps
of meadow. The air is musky and prickly
with yarn, sweet
and tart as warm cider and cinnamon
and cold as a brook’s stone plucked
from coursing black water. It is the air
of cyclical death on your face,
everything seems to fall
into place within the commingling
of white and yellow lines,
have reason.

Poem

2007-10-08T07:30:00.001-04:00

' Above Vitebsk,' Marc Chagall

Illumination

My breath
cannot expand my exterior
so you attach the hose of your Think-Tank
to my mouth, block all exit holes,
smooth loose skin and turn on
the illuminating gas.
You fill me completely – fingernails
pop off – and you free my ties to the Earth.
Light-headed and giddy
I inch away from the experimental
platform and begin to see things in ways
that you do. Tops of trees are eye-level. Baby birds
smile, are fed in nests of twigs, grass, hair.
The ends of oak branches are caught in the web
of caterpillar silk and a lone Peregrine hawk clings to one
branch blinking some teary-eyed message in the wind
to me. I look down, a small pond tattoos
an open field near a dairy farm, the twin blue
silos like a pair of child’s eyes. Chimneys
of a mill town exhale soot into storm
clouds, hanging over the brick homes
and tarred roads that connect in blocks
and ovals like a massive fishing net,
ripped and frayed, restrung
and stitched. Nothing can hold
me, I drift higher
and float along a map
of rivers and lakes. Everything
is microscopic and demands my attention;
objects miles away appear to rest in my hands
when I hold them out before me. Lightning pricks
the ground like injections. Satellites glide and orbit in homage
to the stars. I trust the Man on the Moon when he winks
to me. Clouds shadow my flight, try to learn the way
to the ocean which suddenly lies before me
like a blue Easter egg
in my palms.

Poem

2007-10-05T08:05:00.001-04:00

my love

my love has two eyes to see my smile
and my eyes reflect unconditional love.
my love has one heart to record
and exhibit the truth of my being.
my love has one soul to know
the depth and trials of my soul.
my love has two lips to kiss
me to feel the passion of my blood.
my love has one body to cry
from in pleasure or pain.
my love has two ears to hear
my pledges of fidelity and eternity.
my love has one sense of mystery
to torture me with her sensuality.
my love has one mind to create
the world in which I exist.

Poem

2007-10-05T07:35:00.001-04:00

The Sky in Ireland
(climbing Croagh Patrick)

By the statue of St. Patrick
the old man sleeps, head back, mouth
open, swallowing the sky. Soundless.
Ewes graze or sleep in the open fields
in the beginnings of Croagh Patrick.
A crow rests in the last tree
to the summit. Soundless. You recognize
the shape of sanity against the pale
backdrop of your friend the sky:
the fullness of joy and agony
waiting for roadkill.

Do not open any letter
that will break your heart. Offer your blue
friend salt with her Blue Curaçao
margarita. A beautiful woman once said,
‘A drunk is a better lover than the poet’ –
it is why the sky drinks
and I exist.

Rivers and oceans always reflect the sky
but the sky reveals all color
in rainbows and the spiritual remains
of water in clouds. Expect nothing
from clouds, though, or crows
except to pick the remains of your existence
and your soul.

Croagh Patrick

2007-10-05T07:20:00.001-04:00

Poem

2007-10-04T13:57:00.001-04:00

The Gaol

In the chambers
of my heart
I imprison my desire
to take part in the execution
of the moon.
It’s only crime
relates to the passage
of time and the length
to heal and how I became
a guard to the prison
of my heart,
awaiting the pardon
and release delivered by
my new love.

Kilmainham Gaol - Dublin

2007-10-04T13:44:00.000-04:00

Poem

2007-10-04T07:40:00.001-04:00

The Cliffs of More

The ocean wind
unleashes a torrent of tears
from my eyes
that fall beyond the edge
of the cliff
and are caught up in the currents
of the air,
up into the currents of the sky
where the clouds
possess them for their own

and many days
from now as thunder and lightning
clouds collect,
you will run outside to spin and dance
beneath darkened
skies and catch my September tears
with your tongue.

Cliffs of Moher

2007-10-04T07:35:00.000-04:00

Poem

2007-10-03T07:31:00.001-04:00

Clifden

Right now is night
and a deep black night along Clifden,
beneath a full moon: a fortune in silver
clouds and linings within blackened water.

Small village doesn’t speak nor do I,
the air speaks:
a rustle of sycamore leaves,
clanging bells from sailboats
in the harbor, a hard gust
that warns of the coming silence.

Any word from me and the small village
would float away
as the horizon does as you fall away
from it on a hillside

onto your back and meet the moon
and a zillion stars with your eyes,
and thoughts of them meaning less than
those stars right now
if you were here with me.

The village of Clifden and harbor in Connemara

2007-10-03T07:27:00.000-04:00