Today is a day to marvel over the courage of our forefathers. Nobody can argue that we've fucked a lot of things up over the years, but on the fourth of July, 1776, the intentions were noble and unbelievably brave. So toast your next drink to the family men that loaded their muskets so that we could one day have the right to bitch about everything...Created 2010-07-04 19:28:05
Mood: The Usual
true, it's been years since I have written a poem, but I am still a poet, living a poetic life and many of you are to blame (or to take credit or whatever is due such a thing). Some major forces on this site are frustrated with me, and I don't blame you/them, but I have always been a captive of my muse, and my muse has had other plans for me. I do however miss you all.
If anyone has a good subject for a poem to jumpstart me I will try and write something, but no promises. My life is infinitely occupied with other things, poetic but not exactly poetry ...Created 2010-05-27 23:12:53
Mood: The Usualtrue, it's been years since I have written a poem, but I am still a poet, living a poetic life and many of you are to blame (or to take credit or whatever is due such a thing). Some major forces on this site are frustrated with me, and I don't blame you/them, but I have always been a captive of my muse, and my muse has had other plans for me. I do however miss you all....Created 2010-05-27 23:09:34
Mood: The Usualhugs to the Friday night bar closers. Tomorrow be damned
penitent (part I)
we are all such fragile little messes
each of us broken in our own special way
un-glue-able pieces of a once-whole entity,
we bury these frac ture d frac tion s of us
but they lurk just beneath the surface
like a festering zit, threatening to break through
and expose the ugliness within
the more we try to hide
the more we are uncovered
our guilt bath-ass-naked
to the flash-popping paparazzi of inquiring minds
the bloodhounds on our scent-trail —
detectives, searching for forensic proof
of our heretofore undetected decadence—
each fingerprint might as well be
a genetic autobiography of dysfunction
a papertrail of spilled milk and penitent fucks
disfigured dna we stash in our finger-thunked veins
broken bones that clatter around
in cosmic closets we can close
but never seal
penitent (part II)
each day we wake
a freshly-dewed anything-can-happen new-day, but yet
the same shit-eating-grin-ing sun greets us
with a mocking wink
delighted to shed light
on these high-noon-stretched-shadow-darkened corners
where mudpuddles never evaporate or encrust
but only coagulate into a quicksand effect.
we hope that each passing day
creates a sandbag-stacked levee
that we can hide behind til we can eventually rise above
but we know we'll never get beyond
all the gym class crass scraps of childhood —
the awkward adversities of adolescence —
the massive mistakes of maturity
(where we shoulda known better
but did the damn thing anyway)
(to be continued, again)...Created 2009-02-21 07:35:13
Mood: ProudMy fellow Americans: With all the humiliation and shame we've had to endure over the past 8 years, we deserve this day! Take pride Yanks! We got one right! Let it inspire you to reach a little farther than you might have felt possible.
This was also a great day for poets. Barack handpicked a poet to compose a poem for the occasion. Elizabeth Alexander delivered her poem within minutes of President Obama being sworn in. I read in Time magazine that she was very nervous about it, and that she would labor over every word. The work paid off. It was a beautiful moment. If you missed it, or even if you witnessed it, it is well worth a second look. Enjoy, fellow poets, Americans, humans of all kinds, this is a day of days, perfectly captured by one of our own (I hope Ms. Alexander forgives me for my interpretation as far as line breaks and such. The copy I got of this was in essay form):
Praise song for the day.
Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other,
catching each others eyes
about to speak or speaking.
All about us is noise.
All about us is noise and bramble,
thorn and din,
each one of our ancestors on our tongues.
Someone is stitching up a hem,
darning a hole in a uniform,
patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.
Someone is trying to make music somewhere
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum
with cello, boom box, harmonica,
A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky;
A teacher says, "Take out your pencils.
We encounter each other in words,
Words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed;
Words to consider, reconsider.
We cross dirt roads and highways
that mark the will of someone
and then others who said,
"I need to see what's on the other side;
I know there's something better down the road."
We need to find a place where we are safe;
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.
Say it plain, that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks,
raised the bridges,
picked the cotton and the lettuce,
built brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.
Praise song for struggle;
praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign;
The figuring it out at kitchen tables.
Some live by "Love thy neighbor as thy self."
Others by first do no harm,
or take no more than you need.
What if the mightiest word is love,
love beyond marital, filial, national.
Love that casts a widening pool of light.
Love with no need to preempt grievance.
In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air,
anything can be made,
any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp
-- praise song for walking forward
in that light....Created 2009-01-20 16:44:13