Archive for the 'Poetry' Category

No Flowers On Sunday

Aug 05 2018 Published by under Poetry

The Mass has come upon me by surprise.
To God, again? We had one, just last week.
The Highest walks among us in disguise
on sale from an invisible boutique.
“No flowers sold on Sunday.” I have missed
appointments never made, so never kept.
Although the ringing’s stopped, my ears persist
to hear all of Creation’s call, except.
A flower in a pot commits no sin;
restraint absolves the captive of her cage.
We go without, and hide away within,
and concentrate remembrance as we age.
The willow weeps until its sorrows cease;
a rose arose; a lily grew for peace.

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Jan 29 2018 Published by under Poetry

I could not tell you
from my deaf imagining
if I heard its voice.

Our ears are played on daily.
Shadows disappear at night.

So long, I have lived
unsure of me, in the dark.
I saw you, and knew.

One thing, to see another,
must open its eyes and look.

I saw someone I knew.
I quietly heard her speak.
The jokes made sense, after.

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Without Right

Jan 24 2018 Published by under Poetry

I study Her form
for my snow white angles,
cold, blunt thievery.

This weather is farcical.
You should hear it on the news.

It’s not that the globe
isn’t on fire, today,
nor haven’t I smoked.

It is not my time to blow
rings in the face of my death.

I’ve never listened
to those who have insisted
it’s time to give up.

In a moment of weakness,
I would hide from your power.

Formalities exchanged,
sympathies given back,
Your absence would remain.

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Inappropiate Dress

Jan 24 2018 Published by under Poetry

One rainy morning,
lying beneath the cool sheets,
no one will hear me.

It is not your fault, in truth,
that I have damaged my voice.

Some rain has to fall;
sunny days are not enough
for flowers to grow.

At black January’s end,
we should expect two cold months.

I know the T-shirts
bother my peers as much as
me wearing a coat.

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Aug 13 2017 Published by under Poetry

Armies of crickets
advance, retreat, and regroup,
but won’t surrender.

Heat relents. The first leaves fall.
I will yield when the sun dies.

You said, “I cannot,”
your back turned to the sunset.
Then, you were silent.

I stared til my eyes burned out.
Blind, I threw rocks at the sun.

I did not expect
to upend Heaven’s order;
it’s a chance in Hell.

Tell me God decrees winter;
tell me seasons cannot change!

Tides change direction,
on the Normandy beaches.
It couldn’t happen.

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One Too Many

May 23 2017 Published by under Poetry

I counted to a hundred, just to stop,
and then wrote one unnecessary word.
I sent a metered pun, to have it flop
upon a hundred ears that hadn’t heard,
that didn’t know the back end from the front,
who thought a sonnet had to come with rings,
and thought that Cyrano should bear the brunt
of words betrothed to forth-and-backward kings.
I’m sorry, but I’m running out of rhymes.
This never worked, and now it’s time to quit.
I gave the form my head a hundred times;
I have to either swallow, now, or spit.
You caught me on the day I dumped the sonnet.
To be or not, not one bee missed her bonnet.

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Whether You Want To

May 21 2017 Published by under Poetry

The sun stays up late,
listening to the birds’ songs,
like a teen dressed black.

Isn’t it past your bedtime?
How old do I have to be?

Even the robins
chide the “old boy” to grow up.
Master your tongue, first.

I am unsure, like wading
headfirst in the Lethe’s head.

I have two tokens.
I don’t know if I earned them;
Charon doesn’t care.

Where is the ferry destined?
Can a friend take my silver?

Two cents for your eyes
are your first, most basic right,
but keep them open!

One cannot choose their own birth,
nor ask the unborn, “To be?”

The father of life
leaves us without light or heat.
Mother, where are you?

I do not hear your children,
just their toys speeding away.

too fast down a slow, dark road,
we’re easy to miss.

It’s true: the greater our speed,
the less our perfect clocks tick.

A young, naive heart
sees one too many sunsets
and ceases beating.

This is not how it all ends,
a false light in the tunnel.

The morning after,
you might rise, with wounds stitched shut,
whether you want to.

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Taking it Easy

May 20 2017 Published by under Poetry

Avoid the topic,
dear God, whatever you do.
Your demons are cool.

It’s not self-serve death, served chilled,
but the hard warmth of whiskey.

Sit in a cool room,
and just try to speak softly.
Drink steels poets’ lips.

Take in a goddamned movie.
Sit still, and count your blessings.

One more cigarette,
too few reasons to quit it,
and three drags, I leave.

Number the stars in Heaven.
Hell houses more dead virgins.

It’s not that hard, man.
You tell a woman you love
tacos, and you screw.

What season is this, again?
Never let on. No, not once.

One hot night’s reprieve
from sweating “ev’ry” detail–
“Dude, you got no chill.”

I don’t know if it’s summer
or when gentle spring gave up.

The way the world ends
doesn’t matter to the man
beginning to end.

I compose my daughter’s dirge.
I am a verse to the sun.

Delay a poem,
and have no more vexation
til the bill comes due.

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Original Sin

May 18 2017 Published by under Poetry

Like throwing a switch
into the sun–no “off,” now–
at least my beer’s cold.

The lights go out; I get “lit”
and grieve spring’s perfect shapes, pitch.

Bullfrogs cry, “Fuck me!”
innocent as teenagers.
I cling to her form.

This is original sin.
Ignorant, I transgress god.

The moon looks away.
My crime shines high in the stars.
There is no body.

Lightning flashes a photo.
I anticipate thunder.

Light without a voice
split the black night gone quiet
into seen and heard.

Silence speaks to either side.
I listen in the middle.

A tentative bull
demands love after winter.
May is not summer.

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May 13 2017 Published by under Poetry

Not turning in the out within, without
a flying bird, and then a branch for peace,
there’s doubt of self, and then there’s doubt of doubt,
then Socrates’ fart trumpets under Greece.
I’m not the better man; neither was He.
He would not raise himself above your nose.
He’d feel his size, about the same as thee,
and spindle in his nepotistic hose.
Perhaps he wouldn’t drink, or smoke, or swear,
the oversight from here to Heaven’s gate—
not unaware—so painfully aware
“Big Daddy” would enslave his name to hate.
It is not for one’s name, nor one man’s sake,
a Buddhist burns, and lights us in his wake.

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