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My Poetry and Commentary on Life

  • This Writer’s Beginnings: EarlyYears
  • Bread Loaf Influence
  • Rock and Roll High School
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  • silence and sound

    by

    attention, chant, definition, poetry, social construction, ways of knowing
    listen
                to the drip
                of language
                as it puddles
    across the space
    in our conversations
    listen within
                the quiddity
                to what
                coagulates
    like blood
    to our margins
    listen within
                the presence
                for the essence
                of the word
    which defines
    our limits
    listen           
                for the moment
                when silence
                and sound
    fold into one
    and become who we are
    (November 29, 2015)

                

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  • Dream Journal # 26: Form

    by

    doubt, dream, lost, poetry, process
    He filled out forms in triplicate,
    sitting on a small ledge in the wind.
    The forms had been erased previously
    and were torn, someone else’s name
    had leaked through. The man who could
    help was leaving early and was visibly
    reticent to help. “It’s on-line, you know,”
    the man said as he locked the door.
    Around him at a long cafeteria table
    a meeting, he was not a part of, swirled
    loudly between officious blonde women
    in white blouses and commanding men.
    His computer screen was not loading
    the correct screen, as they discussed
    where they should be and what would
    happen  when they arrived, as if they
    were a corporation of seers who had
    no need of industry conventions, just
    old agendas to document what was
    going to happen later in their absence.
    When his computer screen finally opened,
    he could not remember his name, nor where
    he was, and everyone was gone. He looked
    through the glass wall of the building.
    Outside it was raining and the city streets
    were empty. Three doves sat stoically on
    the leafless branch of an old oak tree,
    oblivious to his formulaic dilemma.

    (November 28, 2015)

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  • Not All Choices Are Mine

    by

    alone, doubt, erato, fate, loss, poetry, sonnets, time
    I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become.
    –Carl Jung
    I want to withdraw
    pull silence close
    a tight cloak against
    longing’s pervasive rain
    I cannot articulate desire
    instead the vowels howl
    along a distant ridge
    where echoes stand mute
    a constant drone berates
    each stumbled misstep
    each falter in concentration
    until doubt bleeds truth
    and a throb of fear lingers
    like an unhealed wound

    (November 27, 2015)

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  • November Moon Haiku

    by

    fate, poetry, transition
    a frost moon rises:
    winter’s still a month away;
    my bones ache with cold.

    (November 26, 2015)

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  • synchronicity

    by

    abstract, attention, poetry, ways of knowing
    “your song, what does it know?”
                –Paul Celan
    nothing’s to know
    singer and song are one
    as long as the song’s sung
    then there’s nothing
    to know before
    or after come
    questions redundant
    unnecessary as asked
    to know’s to know
    time’s unaware
    each action’s noun
    and verb united
    a cat purrs
    we breathe
    (November 2, 2015)

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  • dissipate

    by

    aging, alone, erato, muse, poetry
    in oblique gestures
    open undefined
    with a Burmese
    dancer’s grace
    her hands fluttered
    as she spoke
    into our conversations
    of love
    and her desires
    like a comet’s tail
    I trailed behind
    her voice
    laced with insinuations
    my edges slowly
    expanding
    behind a wave
    rolling onward
    toward a darker shore
    I stood within
    my guilt
    like a sea swell
    rises lifting
    my feet
    from the sea bed
    before falling back
    into obscurity
    and despair
    (November 23, 2015)

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  • hieroglyph

    by

    life, lists, poetry
    thought scraps
    ripped and snipped
    I’m a collage
    of others’ words
    a decoupage
    like old skin
    a sarcophagus
    carved from stone
    a scarab’s
    carapace
    cracking
    into sand

    (November 21, 2015)

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  • Frames

    by

    attention, interpretation, interrelationships, oblivious, poetry, ways of knowing
    a squirrel waits outside
    my window his head bobs
    to the left to the right
    to a rhythm buried deep
    in the tumultuous sky
    Pippin our cat purrs
    as if one can wait tense
    and unaware of everything
    except the trees waving
    nonchalantly in the breeze
    three magi wait together
    one oblivious to two
    one desires the other
    one writes it all down
    to frame a world

    (November 18, 2015)

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  • attend

    by

    abstract, attention, poetry, ways of knowing
    between distraction
    life’s ooze and pulse
    persists
    ubiquitous
    attend
    in silence
    to silence
    too

    (November 16, 2015)

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  • palette

    by

    abstract, life, poetry

    the sweet
    the marrow’s fat
    is not in
    the broken bone
    but the citrus pith
    the bitter spit
    inscribed
    in the rind
    after the tart
    fruit is eaten
    the savor
    as in the slow
    violin bow’s
    slide along
    a note’s turn
    twists between
    tongue and tooth
    as words slur
    syllable
    into sense
    (November 16, 2015)

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  • weary

    by

    attention, life, memory, ways of knowing
    Time bleeds memory
    into refracted pools
    making us smaller
    with each iteration.
    My attention frays.
    Distraction wears
    like river stone
    pounding shirt cuffs
    and hems, or whetstones
    honing  a knife’s edge
    clean before slipping
    through pliant skin.
    I find small solace
    in what is left to do.

    (November 13, 2015)

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  • Nutrition

    by

    eros, metaphor, poetry

    hunger’s curse desires
    another on which to feed
    a peach’s tart flesh
    slick on a lover’s tongue
    a baguette’s hot crust
    draped in churned butter
    her hand leading you
    to the folds of her bed

    (November 11, 2015)

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  • cliff’s edge

    by

    abstract, change, hubris, humility, metaphor, paradigm shifts, poetry, sonnets, transition
    hold this now
    for there is only
    but the moment
    arms outspread
    as if in sacrifice
    I hang abstract
    my life’s skin unfurls
    a fire’s last wisp
    like song into air
    the driven urge
    to escape to run
    toward then or when
    always on the verge
    of a fall

    (November 11, 2015)

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  • story

    by

    poetry, storytelling, ways of knowing
    Story

    Few have time for the stories
    of the old, too much exposition,
    too many tangential tales,
    too much context to include
    before a life can unfold.
    The tendency’s to explain it all:
    to become lost in the slights,
    to recall the narrative so all
    can believe the way it happened
    to have happened is the way you believe.
    I know I know I-know-nothing-
    matters matters to me, I know.
    I know the darkness is the darkness,
    not a badge to pin to a green sash,
    not a medal to intrigue a crow;
    but I can’t accept the belief
    I must believe in my death
    to believe I will be happy, not now,
    but later, when I no longer matter.
    Yet this is the story I’m told.
    This is the story I too often tell:
    what I say matters if only to me.
    I’ve listened to my blather for years,
    traced each line like veins in my arm
    in search of the next dull pulse,
    as if some message is telegraphed
    slightly ahead of my next word,
    my next breath, warning my next
    manifestation at the moment
    all my stories have bled out.
    (November 7, 2015)

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  • as if I knew

    by

    poetry, ways of knowing

    wisdom cannot come
    from without
    slipped
    into a pocket
    like rain
    a reservoir to swallow
    all sadness
    all fears
    trite perhaps
    but wisdom’s within
    stripped from distraction
    a crisp vision
    to breed
    a cleaner line

    (November 7, 2015)

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