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My Poetry and Commentary on Life

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

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  • Two Poems from My Book Of Changes

    by

    early work, life, poetry



    55.  The Unfolding
    June 9, 1995
    Like a vision of a rose – –
    petal by petal a moving form: 
    bud to full flower, my life,
    right now, unfolds into a clarity
    seemingly still – – my happiness
    tempered – – this too shall change.

    38.  Outside
    June 10, 1995
    Again, I lock myself in.
    Who is on the outside?  Like a 
    turtle tucked tight in her shell,
    I worry myself with the wind.
    If I want to find someone,
    I must go out and look.

    (1994-1995, from My Book of Changes)

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  • Time to Say It

    by

    communication, conversation, life, poetry, social construction

    So, what are you
    trying to say?
    Inside these stories
    you tell today?
    In which context-
    In what time-
    in what order-
    You laid the chain?
    Should I take them
    all and watch
    for patterns
    in the stars?
    Or should I take
    just one and see
    the link it forms
    with you today?
    (June 23 ,2013)

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  • becoming old

    by

    desire, dream, identity formation, life, poetry, thinking

    it was as if
    he didn’t exist
    to fold himself
    into himself
    in a frantic
    self-obsessed
    origami he
    pressed himself
    he had to pretend
    he wasn’t who
    he thought he was
    during the day
    instead he had
    to tuck another
    corner of paper
    under what he felt
    he thought was true
    then bend it back
    to disguise all
    which he desired
    of what was left
    of what he knew
    from the dream
    the night before
    (June 23, 2013)

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  • Blake’s Angels Walk the Street

    by

    dream, early work, life, mythic, poetry, thinking

    who am i
    i am you and 
    you are what is
    allowed by 
    my mind and yours 
    the strands of our 
    past knot a future
    in patterns like frost
    how can i separate
    vision and dream
    waking dulls thoughts
    slows transition
    clogs the mind
    with corporeal matters
    solidifies the world
    in which we live
    as i walk the street i see 
    angels and demons dancing 
    in people’s faces twisted in 
    threads of their thoughts
    like tangled nets in dreams
    which in turn 
    dance my life 
    in turn again

    (circa 1990-1994, from If This is a Comedy, Then Why Aren’t We Laughing)

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  • The Meat of the Matter

    by

    conversation, language, life, literacy, poetry, storytelling

    The chief use of the “meaning” of a poem, in the ordinary sense, may be … to satisfy one habit of the reader, to keep his mind diverted and quiet, while the poem does its work upon him: much as the imaginary burglar is always provided with a bit of nice meat for the house-dog.
                            __T.S.Eliot
    here’s a bit of marrow
    dripping from this broken bone
    suck from it what life you can:
    (for those
    who listen
    such exegesis
    turns stale;
    fresh meat
    has no time
    to grow old:
    eat well
    eat well)
    the story as always
    compressed to lines
    like fingerprints upon
    a dagger’s hard shaft:
    enough traces of some explanation
    hang upon each of our lips as we speak
    each word trails the blood of its past
    just as each person we causally meet
    as we walk down our tangled streets
    drags her chains into a present grace
    so much arrives foreshadowed
    as if we perpetually stroll
    along the curve of our world
    moments before an eternal sunrise
    our shapes await us
    fully formed and clothed
    then wait until a final tale
    clicks shut our coffin’s lid
    we pack our selves
    tightly into our molds
    each fragment of a story
    folded neatly within another:

    to fit curved spaces
    large swathes of meaning’s
    clipped off

    the hearer’s assumed
    to know those parts
    best left alone on the floor
    best left alone in the dark
    to listen for taps on the wall
    for those whispered codes
    which echo without a key

    (June 22, 2013)

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  • from sleep

    by

    early work, love, poetry

    a warmth
    awakens us
    leg on leg
    breast on chest
    hand on waist
    hand on neck
    lip on lip
    wave upon wave
    upon wave upon 
    you upon me
    upon you until
    sleep regathers us
    tangled
    in sheets

    (circa 1990-1994, from If This is a Comedy, Then Why Aren’t We Laughing)

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  • At the End of a Rainbow

    by

    early work, family, god, life, poetry, ways of knowing

    Ezra and Quinn, starved
    for attention, dance 
    on chairs huddled near
    the counter where
    I slice carrots 
    into crisp circles.
    The knife cuts quickly
    through the tense tissue.
    Ezra snatches a carrot 
    and pops it into his mouth.
    I snap like a bear trap.
    Quinn laughs and grabs
    his own carrot.
    I growl.
    A bear rises through me.
    Ezra and Quinn scatter
    like butterflies in a storm.
    I scowl and chew the leg
    mangled in my trap.
    Sunlight splashes
    through the bay window
    washing the walls 
    with the edge of day.
    The crystal prisms, 
    hanging in the window,
    have been dark all winter.
    Suddenly, they catch bits of light
    like hands lifting water
    from a well, and scatter
    them; a priest casting 
    a blessing across the kitchen walls.
    Ezra dances back,
    hands held high,
    his face covered in delight.
    “Daddy, look!
    Rainbows in my hands.”
    I kneel, take his hands in mine;
    red, yellow and blue shimmer
    our palms washing the mundane
    momentarily from my life.

    (circa 1990-1994, probably closer to 94, from If This is a Comedy, Then Why Aren’t I Laughing)

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  • lighthouse

    by

    acceptance, desire, irony, life, metaphor, poetry, sonnets

    from shadow and fog
    she rose along an edge
    of thought to taunt
    him toward desire
    no more aware of fog
    than the song she sang
    she waded along her silent coast
    oblivious to his troubled rocks
    each moment he held tight
    to a time he once called home
    between a song he heard at night
    and a wave crashing upon the shore
    until all that could not occur
    fell back into his darker sea
    (June 20, 2013)

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  • The Story

    by

    communication, hope, life, poetry, social construction, storytelling

    And when the story ends the song is over
                                                                Evan Boland
    The story never ends;
    the song never stops.
    Radiation glows all
    its fingers touch; glasses
    sing in tune with sound.
    The ecstatic wail of sex
    connects, compliments,
    the contrapuntal keening
    of a mother lost in 
    stillbirth’s lament.
    “The noise of myth”
    is a white noise,
    like fluorescent lights’ hum,
    or the universe exploding
    into infinite suns.
    The echoes wrap our speech
    in the way we stand in a doorway,
    in the way we look to the sky:
    the story contains us
    comfortable as our skin.
    (circa 1990-1994, from:  If This is a Comedy, Then Why aren’t we Laughing)

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  • where to begin an end

    by

    life, meaning, obsessions, poetry, relationships, thinking

    within
    the confines
    of my skin
    my mind
    swirls and twirls
    a turmoil
    of my
    reaction
    to my
    dissatisfaction
    (June 18, 2013)

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  • choice

    by

    borders, liminal, poetry

    either/or
    never
    the slash
    between
    never 
    the membrane
    nor 
    the moment
    the transition
    before the after
    after the before
    neither
    the one
    nor
    the other
    there
    nor
    here
    choices
    open
    elsewhere
    (June 17, 2013)

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  • the ecstatic life

    by

    borders, life, obsessions, poetry, ways of knowing

    a day shimmers
                like the hum of cicadas
                            and frogs through the night:
    one moment
                at a stoplight
                            about to change;
    one conversation,
                of a sort,
                            with the local grocer;
    one book you read
                 years ago rising
                            past memory into now;
    a patterned resonance,
                which shifts
                            as I walk down this street.
    (June 16, 2013)

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  • memory corrupts the day

    by

    acceptance, life, memory, poetry

    yes it is another new morning
    but all our yesterdays
    pull from the grave
    of my regret snatching
    bits of the present like wolves
    tearing flesh from a fresh kill
    so I rise each day and attempt
    to steal my bones from the lock box
    of expectations clamped about
    each of the decisions I must make
    (June 15, 2013)

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  • From a Full Glottal Stop

    by

    communication, early work, language, poetics, poetry

         
    1
    unencumbered
    between words 
    its arbitrary nature breaks 
    like synapse 
    spitting bits of information 
    from finger tip 
    to brain   move 
    or die      in pain
    words reflect traces
    like pictures 
    of bubble chamber’s particles
    a silent passage 
    ion’s life spans split
    to form from quarks of sound
    to trail definition
    no longer found 
    at word’s end
    2
    the vagary of intervocalic r’s ululations
    slip like glaciers across the geography
    mountains ground into valleys 
    standards set by the sounds 
    of a stuttering elite
    from tight interdental vibrations 
    to the wet chokes of distant glottal stops
    a race emerges gurgling 
    a baby slides from the womb 
    one lone wail 
    widens the world 
    with nascent definition
    3
    the widening arms of galactic spirals 
    embrace space
    a tongue surrounds sounds
    a nest sits tight in tessellating trees 
    balanced between branches 
    bending like water over rocks 
    or air fired by lungs 
    tempered by throat 
    molded then refined
    to fit soft lips 
    to pull the helix 
    into meaning
    warmly around the body 
    quivering between sounds 
    uttered by all
    4
    breath catches on sound 
    stumbles through phoneme 
    an epic of history–
    clotted blood and laws for meaning
    yet
    the written word 
    the spoken word
    shore nothing 
    no grammar no syntax no links 
    between lines scratched in bone
    and the vibrations released 
    closed off  by throats– 
    clogged with sand 
    eyes cannot read 
    the parched symbols 
    on the crumbling page
    5
    the pen tip dips ink across paper
    calligraphic swathes of black
    direct us 
    inward 
    outward
    the spiral descent 
    the twisted ascent
    information crosses 
    detaches reforms
    performs its duty 
    with change 
    arbitrary regulation 
    ink blood genes words 
    control blurs
    vision fluxes 
    about the pen’s nib
    6
    somnambulant 
    we weave on
    an undulant path
    rocks are water 
    trees birds blur 
    into buildings blur 
    into rubble 
    so we pray 
    mumble words 
    recite words 
    cite formulas  
    a prescription
    a description 
    of a world we want 
    only when without
    so we chant
    chant syllables past consonants
    vowels change into truer vowels
    to change the word  
    to change the world


    (circa 1990-1994, from If This is a Comedy, Then Why Aren’t We Laughing)

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  • Early Spring

    by

    early work, family, literacy, love, poetry, ritual

    to Quinn, age 1
    Light dawns slowly across the whole.
    Ludwig Wittgenstien
    The apple tree blossoms again;
    the pink and white blooms grace
    the bare branches like birds.
    Snow bells drip from the shock
    of lily leaves that huddles near
    the base of the house out back.
    Quinn toddles to the couch,
    eyes crisp with laughter, 
    cradling a book he wants to read.

    (circa 1993, from If This is a Comedy, Why Aren’t We Laughing)

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