Posts Tagged ‘poem’

Froggy Talks

December 28, 2019

As always ‘The Blaze in the Haze’ arrives with bad
Commensurability, like comparing blood oranges
And magic mushrooms; they kind of make
You think your legs and arms have gone spastic.
If you eat them—but whoa, wait, we don’t
Eat them. What do you think this is Lewis Carroll?
We’re not hallucinogenic. Tall toad tales,
Maybe, but that’s as far as I will go.

We are all drawn to him. The child seems so
Precious—like you are chuckling the little baby,
Everyman, and he for once doesn’t need his
Diapers changed. Mazy, he says. I love you.
You can be in the magic poteen this time
And I will do the scent markings. Very cool.
We will fit like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle,
Not making sense until the end, if then.

Hallelujah

November 12, 2019

Falcon Falls

September 3, 2019

Fall you will, but rise you must.

        —James Joyce

The falcons form as a circle, as a gift
Equal to what the gray, gay glasses beckoned to:
The empty stretches of the empty lots, clue
To the damage done by poetry left to drift,

As it scatted in resplendent high spec gloss,
His desk, more moan than groan, was sewn
And gathered into the artifice of eternity—as if a poem
The sun was in, could no longer be a source

For truth. It doesn’t matter, man, the good
Phoebus is the moonlight too, and among
the forms it forms nothing that it couldn’t outgun
Or out-glow where it was.
Nothing could.

An Echo, eh?

July 3, 2019

All echolalias can be real–
a cheese, say, a nice smelly Brie—
the smell repeated endlessly
as to a hungry moon
hunger that must be
repeatable and repeated,
sieved and saved,
until the moon makes it true,
not only  echoed once,
but again by two.

One for the Road

June 22, 2019

The mystery of rain: it falls alike
on dirt and grass, on concrete and macadam;
it falls until it stops, for the love of Mike,
and it leaves the soil besotted, Madam.

The Garden Butterfly

June 1, 2019

 

The antenna-edged ants attack first. They attach
a butterfly to a memory deep in our hearts.
They turn to a transparent lie, as they try to match
their skin with ours. That these ants get their smarts
From bells and ringing shells, chords that detach
to ply a misericordia of all the parts
too partisan, is palatial. To patch
the inside of insects while reminding monarchs
that while rhyme may be the porcelain of poetry;
‘to be’ can only be a poet’s mimicry.

Silent Tsunami

May 6, 2019

Explain this to me. Hamlet has been here
for two months now, shuffling around in
the gloomy recesses of Elsinore—dreaming of
a giant wave in a sea of troubles—and now,
all he wants to do is get the swords out and duel
in the surf. It seems he’s been taking lessons—
The better to smite you with, my dear—
and he will practice with Satan himself
if it will make his mind congenial to ghosts.
He wants to become a force majeure , my silent friend,
the waves of which might blow the sea into an eerie calm,
the gulls of which might fly far overhead in patterns
known only to themselves—flying lonely,
in a chariot of salts, pirouetting night
and day and backwards from day to night.

*

The sea withdraws its breath. The sand becomes
a dry protracted grave. All the living creature
flee back into the mountains—birds and dogs,
butterflies and bees. Those that remain

are lost in a single, silent perception.

 

A Dumb Show

April 3, 2019

Horatio is braggadocio
Personified. It’s hard to believe.
One minute, he’s cool as a mule,
The next it’s like he has invented silence—
But it’s a good silence, a probing silence
A void devoid of what Claudius needs—
A good cheerleader. When All the King’s Men,
Get together again to play the play,
The Murder of Gonzago—a play proforma—
When they come to castle—yes, you could say
It was like a chess move—they find
A king, lost in a world of choices, open to love
Open to time, to history, whatever.
Horatio, don’t brag, this brave new world
Could be a beautiful place if we could
Let it become a dumb show. Let it be
The quest itself. Let it be linked to a certain
detour.  Let it be like a troop of drooping
Crusaders marching back to England
Just in time for a new Crusade. \

This Jolly Rogue (A Dream Language)

March 23, 2019

Just as sleep can become a rock, only
A jolly rogue can become a dream language
large enough for what a nightmare stands for.
For what are dreams if not the ground
We stand and fight for, eh Horatio?\
And what a stone is, is what a rock can be
When divided too many times—pebbles, sand,
Infinity’s poundage, even a sea of waves—
To make no man a man, or at least to make
A man ground, porous and abiding.

 Horatio, our voyage is poised by the sea.
Its purpose is to provide a resting place

For me (that is, as secure as Claudius’ wife.)
We shall not be allowed a whip or whale
For a while…Besides it’s only pirates who can
cbh
Save us both from the pirated souls of
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. So, stand
Abaft the stern, Horatio. This Jolly Rogue
Will sink all of Denmark; it will let me bury and\
Beguile
redream a kingdom yet to come. 

.

The Weariness of the Spider

February 25, 2019

1.

Like hunters shooting at stars too far
from earth, the weariness of the spider
is like a dying panther caught
in a trap at the edge of the savanna
as morning surrenders
to the anger of the sun.

2.

As you burn your brand into
the vastness of the savanna.
I will burn my brand into your skin.
My eminence will trap you
and you will be caught
like I was  caught.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

3.

The spider is a weary lioness
who sits at the fringes of the savana
and thinks, despite the sun’s acuity
she will wait until night to eat.
The stars  will be visible then
And  the hunters  will think
their light is the same light
that shines in her  eyes.