Friday, December 30, 2011

She's never young and always looks as if she has no home. I don't know if there is a God, but I pray she gets warm; has a soft towel to dry her troubles away. It's on those cold and wet days I think of her most. I know I should ask her name. I know I should offer her something:
money to fill her hands
a cup of coffee to bring life to her eyes
a street corner away from the cold, cold rain
But I don't.
See, her anonymity is her life.
And what is this to me? A blogger's post.

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

A friend of mine is a smoker. When I visit him at his place, there is cigarette haze everywhere. I see him through an acrid shroud and wonder why he does what he does. Why he smokes so much, and drinks every night till he's drunk. Sometimes I want to ask about his pain inside, but there is a bitterness in his words when the questions get too close. I visit him and enjoy his company as best as I can, till things get too sad. When I leave his place, I wonder often about his mysterious youth, if he comes from pain and sorrow since he never talks about those days. So he takes a last drag and turns a bottle one last time. Good-bye my friend, I'll see you soon.
She was a New York girl who told me mid-town lies
I spoke of foreign truths
Our lives collided
We made promises
She told fables and rubbed her falsehoods against my skin
Our lives collided
We stayed together till I walked away and she never said goodbye
If there is tranquility inside of me, like a stillness on a tropical sea,
I'll rest for moments, for minutes, till a hard rain like shark's teeth covers me; till a heavy wind blows its cold wind. But for the time the sea is mine, I'll breathe calmly and take in the warm breeze. Grow strong for what always comes.

You showed up at my door. It was 3am and I hadn't seen you in years. Your hair had become thin and gray just like mine. Your belly grew rounder and your shoulders were sloped. The fire in your eyes dimmed with time, but you still had that old friend's smile. "Come, on," you said. "I just left my wife and I haven't seen you in years. Let's go out like the old days." I rubbed my tired face, and thought: Why not? It's for old time's sake. The next morning our heads hurt, there was booze on our breath...but the man left his wife, and I hadn't seen him since so long ago.

Monday, December 26, 2011

I've been hustled by beautiful losers and empty psychopaths
Sometimes I want to write poems about what they've taken:
Mostly my heart,
my wits,
sometimes my will to exist
But I'll take a walk through old streets and awaken inside:
I'm not the only man with preciousness hustled out of his hands
No big deal. Get over it. The clue is the foolishness inside.
I've got these jumping shoes
I put them on and they take on a life of their own
Higher and higher I jump
Sometimes I think I'll reach all the beauty in the sky above
Touch it with my human fingertips
Then when I land, I'll touch the heavy world below
But this is a dream, for these shoes don't jump nearly that high
Once I knew a girl in a beautiful dress
She wore it in the summer breeze, through tall fields of grass
I"d kiss her young lips under a soft moonlight
Now in evening woe I remember this true love of mine:
The girl I wooed in her summer dress;
and that slow August breeze like a long lost caress

Friday, December 23, 2011

I listened to a singer on a wooden stage
Her arms were crossed
There was a nonchalance in her manner
She swung slightly side-to-side
Her voice was the same. Swinging within a narrow range
Not great.
But it did the trick
Her voice wasn't bad on that wooden stage
It did the trick
I left her song behind
I heard one man say her looks weren't great
But they were all the same
What I remember most: the wooden stage
The girl with her arms crossed
The nonchalance in her voice
Me feeling this song, swinging slightly side-to-side
Some young people like to dance.
Others like to stand on the sidelines; play a tune inside their heads.
Others, yet, wish they had dancing shoes; a tune to play.
For me, my wish was for someplace and some person I'd rather be.
Can't you see this heart is sinking?
Can't you hear it drowning?
Save me,
The fear inside
Revive me
Resuscitate me
Give up your hand
Lift this sinking heart
Or perhaps it written that together we drown
But I've never seen your heart sink as low as this
Then it is a cold truth: the revival of one is the demise of the other

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

You wore your long hair all tied up
Then you let it flow easily to uncover a lonely poem
I touched it with my fingertips, and we wrote the rest
You wont see. But I wear dark clothes to blend with the night
Then as the sun shines, you'll imagine me at my best.
I've got a brother in pain
A sister whose tears wash away our name
These were not the days of our youth, the days we loved best
But as we grow older and settle restlessly into our age
We know time as unforgiving for what was best

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Oh, I've cuffed words of gold. Tailored them to reflect the brilliant light from a burning sun. This brightness is what frees me of darkness that is my heart. It shines upon others in well kept prose, words I value as they fall with a setting sun.
I've said a million times I'm voiceless. No one has responded to this desire to speak. Is it their deafness or words that have no meaning in sound?

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

For me, I don't know. For me, I have doubts. I am in blindness, but for sad visions of that old love of mine. When it comes to these sightless eyes, I touch my spirit soul. I stare. I cry meekly to a lonesomeness that is forever mine.

We'll meet again. Me and a poem. A prisoner of despair and want, I'll release its chains and welcome it in rhyme and prose to a new home.

I got friends of mine. They walk through a valley of whiskey. Oh my, they fall out of their minds. The whiskey does that, and it worries me. But they're friends, and when they fall I kick the bottle aside and carry what's unsteady away.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

They are old now
Once I was a child in their arms
One was gentle
My father was strong
That's what I'll always be from the day they are gone
One memory gentle, the other strong

I'll see if she remembers me. The photos have faded. I wonder if she is gone. There is no way of knowing if she remembers me, or if she has photos that have faded in time.

Monday, December 12, 2011

Late in the evening I'll write to music. Sometimes I hear a word which I'll make mine. Mostly, my friend, I'm covered in things I can't find. It confuses me, as it does you, these feelings of loss, but I remind myself that music is a mystery, just like late evenings touched by sound.
I've made up my mind to put all into my art. Like a baker puts what's best into what she makes. The sweet smell of her morning bread inspires my senses, and lifts me so high.

I've always been well fed. But I've felt hunger and starvation like no one I've ever known. Till I met a man hungrier than I've ever been; so I handed him a poem. He tasted the words and stanzas, and became a good friend.
If I walked into silence, what would I hear? Gentle thoughts whispering--where there's love is your lonesome girl somewhere.

A heavy wind blew back her hair. I'd never seen her before. Nor had I known a wind to please so much a dark, wandering soul

If I filled my pockets with the places I've been and the people I've known, I'd wear these old jeans till they frayed with time. Till the places were all gone. Till the people were mine no more.

I've decided what to do. I've decided what to do with this poem. Fold it gently along delicate lines, then place it into drawer and let it repose in gentle rhyme.

Thursday, December 8, 2011

I met a woman with sad eyes. I placed in her hand a Humbucker poem and said: "A tired monk gave it to me, now it is yours." If true happiness came to her, I'm not sure. But her small smile told me a weariness was rising from her soul. This city, this Square Corner is my home
I fell into a rabbit hole and watched foxes devour great works of art. With panic in my heart, my feet quickly scurried away. The lupines might have eaten me had Picasso not tasted so fine.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

For me I can't say. But for others I will say this: Nothing, Nothing, Nothing. Tomorrow may be a day left for a true love's rest.

Monday, December 5, 2011

I see an artist inside your eyes. Or is it your eyes I see inside this art? Paint me a poem as you wish me to be, and I'll always be there.
I wrote some of a poem I placed on a hardwood floor. I got on my knees and finished it. Then I left the poem behind.

After I shut the door, I heard a cold wind knocking. I wanted to open it a crack and invite it inside. But I was tired, and not in the mood for company, especially a cold wind.
I've never sat in front of a dressing room mirror. It's soft lights bordering it's square lines. My mirror is old, dusty and worn. But I see myself as I think I truly am, and it suits me fine.
I was sitting on a park bench eating salt peanuts when a squirrel jumped to my side. He stood on his hind legs and stared at me with misty brown eyes. I handed him a peanut. He handed me a business card and scurried away. Foolish squirrel, I thought. Can't he see I'm as poor as a church mouse? We were different. But I knew his happiness. I hoped he knew mine.

Sunday, December 4, 2011

I've got strands of memory like long, flowing hair.
If I cut them, will they all be be gone?

Music of this globe streams into my head.
So with a reluctant hand, I cover the song.

I tapped on my forehead till a dark beauty called.
We spoke a bit, then I went home.
Winter birds fly above me
I watch them through my balcony window
They swoop and glide as if they belong together
I wonder if they feel free inside,
and if their weary wings ever touch icy ground
Or perhaps like me, they wish for an early spring

I think I saw a Western years ago
A rattlesnake kills a coyote
With venomous fangs he bites the animal's skin
He draws back and sees him die,
I think I saw this Western before, but I'm not sure
Something bit me days ago
The poisoned blood killed my heart; now my mind is next to die

Thursday, December 1, 2011

I am alone
But for the stars in my empty hands
I won't succumb
I wont give in to these tired steps
These starry eyes in empty hands
I walk some more, not so alone