The stream (all workshops)
pin hinge
tin ridge
rain drums
sweet air
wild hair
outside the house
lair
twist pretty stars
no stares
thoughts and being
no analyze the feeling
no Ju Ju dream stealing
got all the bits and peices
memories
folded full of creases
love in a box
left open
no breaking the locks
I could go get the pencil but
it really seems I've hit a rut
and kegs of ale I want to quaff
to stop the world, and then get off
I sit here on my lounge-room chair
and think on things like life and stuff
and hope in vain I'll be inspired
one day to wake up just enough
to write words of my own wisdom
if only I could think of some
but it is hard, one cannot bluff
and I am just too doggone tired
'cause sometimes it is just too tough
to think up clever things to share
I wanted you to turn around
but you walked away,
you turned the corner
and disappeared before
I knew your face--the
lines wrinkling your brows
adjacent to
the steel hammer of your eyes
as you broke into laughter
yawning into the rain.
I wanted to feel
the way you wrote your poems
with the left side of your heart
I wanted to hear them all
but the wind wrapped them
up with total darkness,
it was all more than
a dream.
I await autumn
as I sit among the green
and sweat drips from nose
Metered summer days quick-dry the fresh mirage
so just because, we'd ring the bell,
and opened every door no matter where we'd been!
Except for in my den
but, things all ended up well;
I'm the sincere poet.
Magic muse that abuses my every suffering
leave me be in silence, from my cell;
be honest, tell me should I "post"?
I'm really, just the host;
be too dark, and your poems may not sell;
I'm the tortured poet.
Summer is too darned bloody hot
scorching killing
Rains by gosh
one gets drenched
weathers weather away
Spring, oh I forgot it comes much earlier
hope it brings…
Autumn is deadly it erodes
leaves trees nude and exposed
my entire roses die too
hardly any survive,
the way i wish them to.
Winter comes and the heating is on,
it’s not so much as the cold that kills,
But the meter reading,
my, the electricity bill
how I wish there weren’t any seasons
the sun stayed beneath the horizon
older
I can now dabble
even dibble a little
if I choose
what can anyone say?
"he's just a dabbler!"
that's ok
I'm old
and have no purpose
for my dabbledee-do's
beyond the do'sing
do you?
if so, you must be young
that's ok
can't really hold that against anyone
but heed these words
too much purpose
can bend you in strange ways
look out!
genuine integrity counts
you'll know what I mean
eventually
Upstream.
We could try it,
pretend we're salmon
going back to the place of
our birth, make love
(in human terms)
and die.
Nah, I'd rather live for awhile
longer
still
meditating on the sand mandala
of life
before an unseen hand
sweeps it all away as if nothing
ever happened, as if the way
night falls can be forgotten
and the moon in her drunkenness,
falls from perpetual grace.
folds of crisp paper
puzzles till the end
within each small fold, a story
imagine
sitting silently folding
a meditation
creation
pure paper figures
surround the artist
frail and sharply bright
delighting a child
pleasing the old man
~
both at play
~
Feign
rush rush
dance pinhead spider
lush
through the hollows of the drain
down the octagon of pain
zig zag
sweet madness
sucked in
and swinging like
a weathervane
the winds that
race inside my brawny
quick
the mantle of my brain
crackle hiss
a pipe hot rich
I was born
by a bad ass bitch
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