I've been writing poetry for most of my life. When I was a freshman at Clarion State College (it's now Clarion University of Pennsylvania), I thought I was going to be a professional writer and even looked into doing an MFA in Creative Writing.
Yup. Another example of just how useless a college education can be.
As I unearth my old material, I'll post the stuff that I like here. Same with anything new that I happen to come up with.
Poems that don't have titles will have bolded first lines. I've tried to arrange individual poems to make everything on the page as easy to read as possible. I'm probably going to continue tweaking this page for the rest of the year (maybe longer?) to try to get things more the way I want them. (HTML isn't the easiest critter to work with, when it comes to some of the typography that I like to muddle about with when I'm writing verse.)
Updated 2/17/2008
Interlude
The sun had set long ago, stumbling wearily down the hills to his rest, drawing the clouds slowly across the evening sky behind him. Silence fell upon the trees like a shadow, wrapping them in darkness disturbed only the whispered numbers of the dead leaves dancing on a crust of snow and an old barn owl floating like a silent, gray spectre on the winter wind.
She lifted gracefully to her perch, a barren limb jutting from the trunk of a broken oak-top. The tree had fallen prey to a summer thunderstorm after termites and dry rot had weakened it. The owl scoured the area carefully for mice, searching vainly for the slightest sign of life. With a quiet squawk of irritation, she settled in against the trunk of the tree to wait.
The wind blew in fitful gusts. Now still; now fretful; now still again, as if anticipating some long-awaited event. Reaching into the eastern horizon, he parted the clouds and then retired for a moment. The leaves, their dancing stilled, waited breathlessly. The trees and shadows too grew still with anticipation. In slow, stately cadence, the moon rose into the narrow swath of blue-black, velvet sky. Her full light touched the treetops but briefly as the wind again shifted to smother the sky with cloud.
Bathed in the spectral light of a late-rising moon burning coldly through a sea of cloud, the forest assumed a surreal appearance. As the wind continued to shift, the leaves resumed their dance. The trees joined the wild careening, swaying in time to the windsong as the leaves wove ever madder circles through the shadows. Oaks, maples and beeches interlaced bare-branched fingertips as they bowed, exchanging pleasantries and partners. The pines and firs added their harmony to the night, the dancers rustling and creaking in tune with their sighs.
He stepped out from between the roots of a gnarled maple: Six inches tall, with delicate, gossamer wings; black hair falling gracefully to his shoulders; protected from the chill by scarlet jacket and hose, he looked out upon the merrymaking. From a crevice the tree's bark, he drew forth a silver horn. Setting it to his lips, he winded a single clear note. Soon a dozen or more faeries joined him, bring with them harps, viols, flutes and horns. Their music rose to blend with the wind's moaning, the sighing of the firs and the other trees' creaking as leaf and faerie danced, weaving in, around between and through the trees and shadows. . .
A small brown mouse peeked timidly from beneath a leaf. The owl disappeared from her perch, only to return a moment later with a mouse clutched in her left talon. In the east, the clouds reddened as the sun prepared to rise. As if upon some silent, unspoken signal, the dancers stilled their madcap: the faeries slipping quietly away, the shadows hiding behind the trees, the leaves falling in exhausted heaps. The owl, her repast finished, preened herself, stretched luxuriously and flew towards the small barn in the distance in which she had taken up her residence.
The barn was a small, two-story building with high, arched mows over a low, dirt-floored shed. During the haying and Autumn harvest, she usually preferred to roost in the eves of the mows above, sleeping quietly through the day until evening brought out the mice and rats she feasted upon. However, in the bitter north wind, she preferred the warm, close comfort of the animals in the shed. Flying through the hole in the wall the farmer left open for ventilation, she was greeted by the comfortable darkness, the moist heat and smell of cattle and horses, the fragrance of last summer's hay and the familiar sound of seven sets of jaws busily chewing down breakfast.
As the sun climbed slowly higher, the owl could feel the breeze as it freshened, moving through the now barren apple and pear trees which stood between the house and barn. She could hear the rattle of wooden plates, the splitting song of a silver-bitted axe as it drove through chunks of red oak. Cattle tended, wood split and stacked, she could hear the farmhouse door creak cheerfully open and shut. As her great yellow eyes drowsed, the last thing she heard the burping of the cattle and a woman's song lilting on the air.
The sun was sitting just on the edge of the sky when she awakened. A draft of cool, early evening air had rushed in through the closing door. The horses and cattle were again downing their hay. The evening's milking done, they lay leisurely enjoying their meal. Wide awake now, the barn owl lightly scanned the shed floor, but the mice had long ago to avoid her winter roost. After carefully preening herself, she set out to her favorite hunting spot in the forest. Coming to rest upon the barren limb of a broken oak tree, she scoured the area carefully for mice, her great yellow eyes glowing dimly, sweeping the snow on the forest floor, searching vainly for the slightest sign of life. With a quiet squawk of irritation, she settled in against the trunk of the tree to wait.
For Joan
I touched the tears from your blue, blue eyes.
They were sooty black;
Water and make-up mingled.
You laughed when I said women shouldn't cry
Because they look like chimneys in the rain.
I looked through your tears into your blue, blue eyes.
My eyes are brown;
And yet I too have seen the same ache,
The same pain that darkens all joy,
The same wound that denies all healing
Deep within my eyes.
Oh my child, my child, my precious child.
I am no god to heal,
No physician to cure,
No nurse to bind your wounds
But all that I am yearns to be.
Two Studies
At Twilight
Clouds hung above the sea,
Painted in long sweeping strokes
By the red-gold sunset;
The sea begins the evensong overture,
And the wind joins her,
Sighing softly in harmony;
Stars, carefully positioned overhead,
Slowly brighten
To gently illuminate the stage;
The rocks gather along the shore,
Patiently anticipating the evening's performance,
Climbing atop one another for better seats.
And against the backdrop of sea and sky,
Night enters and assumes her stance.
At Dawn
The evening draws to a close.
The sun, who, because of his heavy schedule
Missed last night's performance,
Now climbs slowly from bed.
As he stumbles into the morning,
He sees his own image mirrored in a pool,
And blushes.
The red hue fills the sky.
A solitary cloud blushes in sympathy.
Below, the breeze yawns and drifts
Into a nearby wood,
Breathing through the trees,
Shaking them gently awake.
Sighing, the world leaves behind its dreaming,
And begins another day.
Thankyou Note
Crowded room.
Making carefully calculated steps
I pick my way through.
Hurried greetings
As friends discover my presence
And, just as quickly,
Forget it.
Alone again,
I find myself pressed into the corner of the wall
Like a dandelion between the pages of a book.
The evening lengthens, and I,
Pondering to myself some snatch of Sophocles,
Or Eliot,
Arouse to overhear some bit of conversation:
"Well I wouldn't be seen dead with him. . . "
Or something like that,
It doesn't matter, I'm not 'him'
And 'he'
Probably wouldn't be seen dead with her either.
It's time to go.
Of course, it has been,
Ever since I got here.
Thanks for a lovely evening.
The Morning After
Arising from a dream-infested sleep,
I tumble groggily to my feet
Out onto the hard-cold floor.
I wipe the muddling sleep from my eyes
And peer out into a gray, barren morning.
Stumbling into the kitchen, I set the kettle on,
Hoping against hope that the magic of caffeine
Will reanimate my sleep-sodden mind.
Pouring out the steaming water,
I watch as it blackens in the cup.
The first sip is terrifying, as objects
Once comfortingly vague and smooth
Suddenly assume sharp, clear lines,
And I realize that I'm standing barefoot,
In purple-dotted, baggy pajama pants,
Badly in need of a shave.
With this clear truth,
Another day begins.
On that day when I taste Death's bitter cup I shall seize it by both handles
And drain it at one draught
And coming before God
And looking back upon my life
I shall say,
'Thank God that's over with.'
Lost again in dark brown eyes An endless depth to fall
A well of passion springing
A tender woman's soul
Her honeyed lips I long to kiss
Her skin to touch, caress
Her arms entwined around me
Complete my happiness
But can I ever win her heart
And truly call her mine
As well might I command the stars
And bid the sun to shine
Beyond my grasp the stars and sun
Are fated now to lie
But heart's completeness is near to hand
I'll have her or I'll die
She eats tacos for breakfast I never knew angels even liked tacos
But they must
At least the only one that I know does
She likes tomatoes, too
Strange,
The nymphs of Ancient Greece
The naiads and dryads
Whose supple bodies tempted men of yore
Never tasted a tomato
But the nymph who has captured my heart
Feasts not upon the air, nor aether, nor ambrosia, nor nectar
But tomatoes
Perhaps no nymph nor angel she
No creature of mythology
I am persuaded myth is true
To this my heart attests
She walks in beauty. As the night unfolds Her inky wings across the world and wide,
My love, a spirit kind and true, who holds
My heart, my soul steadfast against the tide
Of bitter, ancient, aching memories past.
A man beguiled can live from day to day
And never know the pit of hell in which he's cast
To stumble lonely, bloodied, lost and fey.
Such a man, I, wandered lost, with heart
Half dead, and spirit broken yet unbowed.
Deceived, I thought I lived, but only part
Had breath, had life; the rest was wrapped in shroud,
Until her words, her eyes, her smile, her grace
Restored, returned me to my rightful place.
For Lisa
Cold.
A dank, seeping cold.
A damp, creeping cold
That clings to hard, smooth walls
Or slithers through shadowed halls
In silence.
Feeble
rays of
yellow
light
slant
through
darkness.
These cells and bars,
My prisonrefuge,
I built to keep you out.
I have no need of visitors.
For Doris Cooper
(In the midst of my Spring,
I realized within myself
The bitter frost of winter.)
Spring was her time.
When Winter shouted
And chilled our souls,
She walked clothed in Spring.
And where she walked
Was warmth;
And where she sang
(softly, slowly, sweetly)
was light.
She was Spring:
She nurtured,
She tended,
She grew
But Spring has passed;
And I am left wandering
Across this green grass,
Beneath this blue sky,
Among these birds and trees
Searching for Spring.
Briefly lit
disconnected moments when pain and fear are covered by
alcoholic haze, submerged in bursts of short lived laughter,
transient freedom from our lives, ourselves.
We cling
to those brightly lit bubbles
trying to rise upon them above our grey morass,
clutching them to breast with fervor no lovers know.
But they break . . .
Falling
we crash to earth again and bury ever deeper into the gray.
Tomorrow we'll ride again. . . and fall. . .
again
again
again. . .
And the air reverberates with our silent scream.
Distraction--A Dialog
"More potatos?"
'Her hair is black, like a midnight winter sky in deep December when the clouds are so thick you could walk on them; black like a raven's wing; black like the devil's thoughts on a bad day.'
"Did you watch the game Sunday?"
'Her eyes are pools even darker than her hair; interstellar night with a single star that shines in each. I lost myself in her eyes once and found myself a lifetime later.'
"I loved watching T.O. fumble."
'Her lips are full and red; soft, sweet, luscious; her smile burns through me like a laser, piercing my heart, burning my soul, welding everything that I am to her.'
"Coffee?"
'I'm sorry; were you talking to me?'
Still
In the depths of a woman's eyes
There's a shadow that lingers still
The tracks of her bitter tears
A void that she cannot fill
In the depths of a woman's soul
There's a heartache that lingers still
A hurt that defies all cures
A pain, a fear, a chill
In the depths of her true love's heart
There's a peace that's calm and still
A devotion to her healing
And a pledge he will fulfill
Five Impossible Tasks
If I could catch the sun
And tie a cord to it
And fly it like a kite;
If I could weld
A silver chain to the moon
And place it 'round your pretty neck;
If I could capture the bright blue sky
Pour it into a crystal flask
To set upon your table;
If I could gather seven bright stars
Blue-white, orange, green and red
And bind them to your brow;
These silly words of mine might frame
The beauty of your eyes, your face, your name.
Daughter of the Noonday Sun and Midnight Sky With her father's hair and her mother's eyes.
Bright gold her hair gleams.
Fathomless blue, her eye seems
By fires lit from deep within her heart.
Her soul, a single captured star, to chart
A lover's course thereby, is free,
Yet searches over land and sea
For her own, her mate, her lover true.
All the words of poets down through
The ages, so much idle wind,
Cannot frame her beauty within
A couplet, sonnet or rhyme.
These foolish words of mine
Whirl wildly, like moths at a flame,
Yet were I to give Beauty a name,
Her name is known, when all is said and done:
The daughter of the Midnight Sky and Noonday Sun.
Rolling hills and soft green fields, The woodlands and the streams,
These are the hallmarks of my home,
The comfort of my dreams.
I've walked the fertile, broken fields
Beneath the sun and stars,
And broke my back with labors hard
Before I went to wars.
But now at night the stars are strange,
No comfort do they bring.
My distant home calls out to me
In every song I sing.
I am a warrior born and bred,
And fighting is my way.
No worry cowers in my heart,
No fear of bloody day.
My hands are steady, hard and sure,
My eye is bright and keen,
And yet I long to walk in peace
The hillsides fair and green.
But now at night the stars are strange,
No comfort do they bring.
My distant home calls out to me
In every song I sing.
Oh, comrades, brothers, warriors all,
Our blood beats in our veins.
The battle joined, we sweat and fight
Till victory be gained.
The guns erupt and shake the ground
Like demons roaring, crazed,
While pulsing, throbbing walls of sound
Pound soldiers bruised and dazed.
O warriors, comrades, brothers all,
Our blood now stains the soil,
But others will enjoy the peace
Bought by our deadly toil.
And now at night the stars are strange,
No comfort do they bring.
My distant home calls out to me
In every song I sing.
The struggle won, my limbs grow cold,
I battle for each breath.
My sight grows dim, but I can see
The gray, grim shade of Death.
Don't leave my broken body here
Beneath a foreign sky.
Bear back my ashes to my home,
Swear this before I die.
But now at night the stars are strange,
No comfort do they bring.
My distant home calls out to me
In every song I sing.
Orphan of War
Upon the fragments of life you sit.
The rubble was once a house, which,
But for the intervening hate of two peoples,
And the bombs which are the offspring of that hate,
Might have stood long after you had fallen.
In your terror, you cry.
And those screams are echoed
By the mounds which surround you,
Reverberating through time;
Mingling with those other screams
Which came before you,
And shall follow after.
Perhaps, someday, Man will learn Peace.
Until then, the glory and justice of the war
Your parents died of,
Must be your comfort;
And the hate which bred the war,
Your sustenance.
Internet Interruptus
I miss you so goddam much I can't sleep, can't eat. Don't want anything but you.
You're not real:
You're just an electron dance over copper wire;
You're just a string of binary data, magnetically encoded on an aluminum platter whirling at 7,800 rpm inside a metal case setting at my feet;
You're just electro-chemical reactions in soft tissue encased in bone.
Missing you isn't real either:
The ache in my chest is just stress from days without sleep;
The pain in my guts comes from not eating;
The tears I'm crying are from the smoke from my cigar.
I don't know how I lost you;
How can you lose what you never had?
I still hear your voice, static and all.
I miss you so goddam much I can't sleep, can't eat. Don't want anything but you.
Midnight's deepest blue Pierced by two
Bright-shining diamond stars:
My lady's eyes
