Stuck On The Prairie
They mouth freedom,
So livid at the majesty,
Not seen in the garden.
They want to imagine a brilliant time
When their enterprise
Brings to fruition
Years of hard work.
Until then,
The are like immigrants
In a covered wagon
Stuck on the prairie,
Putting the comfort
Of their opinions away
April 11, 2008
I am Captivated
I
hear words play,
condensed, distilled,
large, rich and
full.
Over and over,
new scenes unfold.
The clock
ticks,
midnight looms.
The calendar page
Is tipping while I
hurry.
Robert Pinksy speaks,
Stanley Kunitz presents,
Louise
Glück and others
I never met
hold my attention.
Recordings
of poems
echo still, even
after my iPod stopped.
Flight to Chicago
I
had to get to the airport,
to catch a flight to Chicago.
I
thought it best
to get to the airport by bicycle.
I could not
get the over-sized suitcase
onto the small bike rack,
that
hangs over the back tire.
At
the last minute had to catch a cab,
and somehow arrived at the
airport
nine hours early for my flight to Chicago.
I camped out
in a tent city
at the airport, my stuff strewn about
everywhere,
with all the other nomads.
The
airport white phone,
kept calling my name,
interfering with my
airport camp out.
Each time I got back from the
white courtesy
phone, my campsite
became larger, more dispersed.
After
hitting the snooze,
maybe a dozen times
I cancelled my
flight,
packed up my suitcase,
moved out of the tent city,
And got dressed for work.
Routines
Trash,
who needs it anyway.
You have to always,
Go out and dump
it,
it smells and is messy.
Then you have to remember
to put
it out to the curb,
on the right night,
with the right combo of
cans,
“Is it green waste or
is it recycling this week?”
Mail,
now that’s another exciting topic.
Our mail man loves
us,
Always having to stuff our mail
into our box.
It’s
his guilty pleasure.
One
time he cut us off.
My wife had to go down and pick it up,
And
he caught her there:
“I know you, “ he said,
startling
and embarrassing her as
he handed the huge stack to
her.
We love to let it pile up on the counter….
Verdana Gray
I’m
writing poems by hand, on the back
Of
my Verdana grey resumes,
That
were in my dresser,
That
used to belong to my Aunt Ada.
Poems
Resumes
Expressions
captured in words,
Employment
captured in words.
Both
are pieces of paper,
That
are pieces of me.
Headings
Summary,
My Experience, My Education, Language and Interest,
Captured
in a page and half.
I
put my shingle out there.
Resumes
and poems, both words
Arranged
for a certain reader, audience.
Capture
Ideas,
Capture
my past.
One
my outside.
And
the other my inside.
Both
reflect a different piece of me.
Purple Flowers
I remember
The
purple flowers in the vase,
my eleven-year-old daughter gave to
me
for Christmas when she was three.
Bought at the dollar
store,
the love in them is priceless.
I remember
Her
standing on the toy box
at less than 2 with zest and
zeal,
declaring herself, “Captain Savannah, the Story
Teller!!”
I see her clapping in a silly motion,
getting
us both to join in.
Now I see
The
days of soccer t-shirts everyday
have moved onto the shelf,
making
room for more
fashionable clothes from Limited Too.
She’s
growing now, a tween,
Hannah Montana and other
Disney shows are
the soundtrack
that plays in our house. Her Netflix
queue
always has something new
to send out. Soon she’s off to Jr.
High
and high school not long after that.
Later, I will look
back to
Her Hannah Montana days,
with fondness, when she’s
left her behind,
for someone new.
I will remember
One
day my little girl
Leaving home for college,
then walking her
down the aisle,
and giving her away.
Right
now
I
just want to remember
the purple flowers that say
“I
love you Daddy”
Arthur
Arthur
the basset
Slow, they say he was,
Training he did need,
he
just couldn’t read.
Really was just stubborn,
Or dumb as
a shorn horn.
Take him home,
Just leave him alone.
Let him
dream his visions,
Not long division,
He’s stuck in
so
much indecision.
Just
leave him alone,
Thinking deep thoughts
Of dog bones and
sticks,
Hydrants and tricks,
He only wants
to eat his bone.
When
Ginny leaves,
Then Arthur achieves,
Great depths of thought,
No
longer distraught.
Arthur pulls out his books,
Einstein,
Newton, Aristotle,
He steps on the throttle,
to invent and
create,
one day he’ll be great.
Arthur
will laugh
with great glee,
while on the Aegean sea,
As he
pilots his ship,
and he takes a sip
of his Italian
wine,
doubting his blood line!
The
obedience school
will regret the day,
with great dismay,
no
mental capacity,
such audacity.
Beginning of the end,
they
must contend,
With the wrath of Arthur!
American Sentences
American sentences are seventeen syllables long, like this one.
They are Allen Ginsberg’s version of haiku, but in one long sentence.
This forces one to be succinct in writing, with discipline and brevity.
Thoughtfulness, care, and less chaos in the process may bring surprising results.
Thoughts distilled, packed tight, are concentrated- frozen orange juice.
American sentences bring me another new tool for my poetry toolbox.
Siren’s Calling
Starbucks’ cup logo is changing to brown, what a travesty upon us!
The green mermaid calls as I circumnavigate the globe, to my office cubicle.
Like a beacon of light she guides through the waves of cars, I hear her voice.
I hear the siren calling out to me. No, it’s a police car chasing!
What's that officer? You don't care about mermaids….I ran a red light.
Don't worry about brown, he says, yellow is your color today, your Ticket!
April 3, 2008
Written for the 2008 National Poetry Writing Month. This poem is a made up of multiple American Sentences, developed as an alternative to Haiku by Allen Ginsberg. An American sentence is line of 17 syllables in one line.
Aunt Ada came to live us
when she was 70, not able
to live on her own anymore.
I remember the long drive to Clear Lake
to bring the small, thin woman
back to our home.
Her house was dark and had a musty smell to it,
with lots of nick knacks
collected through the years.
Early on we found out she had cancer,
after a lifetime of smoking.
At Christmastime I went to Macy’s
to find a gift for her with
a friend from school. We asked
the salesperson for a teacup,
but it had to be “very light,
since she’s not in good health.”
What a funny sight,
two young guys
in the China section.
Aunt Ada was a feisty old woman,
defiant to the end.
She sneaked the harsh Chinese cigarettes
my step dad brought from China,
that were too strong for him.
We found the empty boxes in her dresser
when sorting through her things,
after she passed away.
My mom passed on her dresser
to me, when I married 15 years ago.
It still sits in my room today.
