Poem Untitled

Night Song
Sing Well
Under Moon Golden
A lime light in a night sky
Square Corner in Round Peg
Tide moves under Golden Moon
Ebbs its Song to Starry Way
Sing Well Square Corner
A day arrives again till eternal Night

Been Awhile

I haven't posted for awhile. Dust and silence. A story to be told. Stolen out of truth and fiction. Concocted from rusty words. Created and discarded. Pixel rhythms: peck, peck, peck, like a hen's teeth pecking. Tap, tap, tap, like a poet's melded words. A blogger's anonymity, I guess it's said. I haven't posted for awhile. Dust and silence. Nobility and aspiration. The mnemonic study of memories past. What ever I recall. Why the silence? Dust to Dust, perhaps. Most likely time to stay still. Think some thoughts. Move on to tomorrow's memory. Then blog to life so question and answer become the same under September sky, fall and winter's Resurrection on a windy plain. A blogger hasn't posted for awhile. What more is to be said?

Street Scene, Street Sense

I stood at the corner of Bank St. and Despair and watched a homeless man with nicotine fingers jabber senselessly under the illuminant flicker of an old street lamp. He didn't have much going for him. A broken heart. A broken head. The ass-end of a used-up cigarette on flapping lips.

"Here's some change," I said, as I dropped a silver dime and a sliver of hope into his outstretched hand.

Then they started yapping in my respective ears. The ideologues. The absolutists. The true believers all-knowing of the root cause of human nature. "You're encouraging laziness and indolence."I hear in my right ear. Then opposite words are funneled noisily around my waxy left lobe: "It's the fault of the international corporatists who exact human suffering to line their exploitative Egyptian cotton pockets."

"No. You don't understand," I say in a smoky rasp. "When you stand on the north pole the only direction is south."

At the time I didn't know what I meant, and I still don't. But whenever I see the homeless man with his nicotine fingers, he smiles and says in a perfect Jack Nicholson pitch: "Gotta to make it to the North Pole some day and get me a good sled dog."

Yeah, I think. And have the wild husky piss on both the right and the left.

Before Bukowski was a Ghost

Dox, Thanks for the Poem. Here is one I rather like.

The Laughing Heart

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

Charles Bukowski