Archive for June, 2005

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I Sit and Think and Wonder

June 24, 2005

1/1982


I sit and think and wonder
about life’s fantasies
and how they compare
with life’s realities.


And how I would love to be
a pirate on an open sea,
a warrior back in days of yore
fighting a dragon for his hoard.


I pity those who never have
fantasies like you and I have
for they never know imagination
and with it the realization
that the world is not concrete.


I sit and think and wonder…

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Yellow as the Sands

June 23, 2005

Yellow as the sands
that fall and measure time,
Old as the hills
and lovely as the Rhine.


Dignified beauty
that has but run its course,
Signifies age –
that lonely, silent voice


which calms and soothes
all worries, cares and fears.
That silent, comforting partner,
ever-present through the years.

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Gene Overthrow

June 22, 2005

July 18, 1986


The bow bends, the wood complains,
The sawdust sighs, “The Pain! The Pain!”
The singing bell, once of the knell,
Is screaming soft and screeching well.
The lonely Jean — oppressed, unseen —
Is blue with worry (I can’t be mean
And
……take…..side…a
………..one…….in…..Gene
…………………………………Overthrow!)


Revolution!  Clear the streets!
Animation!  Pulsing beats!


Baa………..Baa………….My………..A
……Boom,……..Boom!……..Heart,….Tomb.


Big chair, a stair:
Both beat with passing feet (feat)


A……………..revolution…..unconscious
….conscious…………….of………………..objects.


Now:
Blue genes police the new oppressed,
All their gains have been second-guessed,


Lost in a jean overthrow.

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Democracy

June 17, 2005

6/17/2005


Democracy should be —
Carried through the winds —
To every home and hovel —
Scattered, in the sands.


I wonder how it would be —
If every one was free —
Our souls at liberty —
To follow every star —


Democracy is not —
Your fellow man in chains —
For pursuit of aims —
In a place forgot.


Can we speak of freedom —
When people are enslaved?
For being the wrong “kind” —
Our democracy’s betrayed.


“Forsooth was it fair —
For white-man three — 
To equal black-man five” —
Inequity to me.


Democracy should be —
Dispersed throughout the winds —
To every poem and story —
Scrambled, in the sands —

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Anne

June 16, 2005

7/1983


Anne,
A baby in her mother’s eyes,
A child that she sees,
A bird that tries to fly away,
Longing to be free.


Anne,
A mixed emotion type of girl,
Some love, some hate she shows.
She lives the life a player should,
An actress no one knows.


Anne,
A spirit that is locked and caged,
A passage with no openings.
Running down a shadowed street,
Flying without wings.


“In spite of everything, I still believe that people are basically good at heart…”

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Like Algae on the Water

June 13, 2005

2/13/1986


I feel a certain tugging ’round my feet,
And tiny rivulets of water lead
Me to the place where land and water meet,
And there I see those who on water feed.


I feel a stronger pulling toward the land
As though these creatures pull me with a string
And, yet, I feel my death is close at hand
Since what I see so close — no earthly thing.


Like algae on the water, I am taken
In, and travel deeply down a gaping hole
And now within this body I am shaken
‘Bout, and ne’er to live again as one made whole.


For I am like an algae in the sea,
Like bodies, all these things envelop me.

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Untitled

June 12, 2005

2/11/1990


My mind flows,
vividly erupting in signs so picturesque and meaningful.
Signs I’ve only seen before in dreams.


And you return them,
simmering in candle-beauty as you share with me the words.
Neither of us speak, we stare at . . .


Our hands meet between us,
moving independently of our bodies and each other.
Together making words no one knows, but feeling radiant.


You lift your hands in grace,
I lift mine in return.
The air a shimmering trace,
Into the night you turn.




One of the few poems from my in-between period.  An expression of love for the woman who opened a new world to me, where poetry is expressed in the hands, and meaning is a question of movement, not word-choice.

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The Quick and the Dead

June 11, 2005

n.d.


We are the quick and the dead,
the leeched and the bled.
Until, on that day,
HE’ll take us away.


HE is alive and well and living in San Francisco


We are the old and the weak,
the strong and the meek,
wasting away
until Judgment Day


“Thank you.”  “You’re welcome.”
”Thank you for saying ‘You’re welcome!’”
”You’re welcome for saying ‘You’re welcome!’”


We are rude and polite.
We are black, we are white,
We are red, yellow, brown
Awaiting the sound.


“Oops,” said the flea, “there’s a horsey on me.”


We are the quick and the dead.
By HIM we are led
through the end of all days
by forgotten ways.


For thine is the freedom, and the flower, and the story,
for ever and ever.




A bit of whimsy, playing on the idea of the “quick” and the dead.  I never understood the juxtaposition of those thoughts — what’s fast about the dead?  Kind of a “Lord’s Prayer” after the fact.

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The Four Seasons

June 4, 2005

11/27/1985 (edited and revised 6/4/05)


As God created seasons, such is life
And now I see that winter comes, my end
But yet, I still can see the spring, the life,
Beginning of my youth, the picture sends
A warming comfort that must now grow cold.
I also see the summer, ripen’ng years
And yellow clouds that as I’ve grown old
Have hid the summer, all my hopes and fears.
Then fall comes next, and night comes after day
And yearly end draws nigh, as does my life
And blooming now in me, I see the way
To death, a change, and finally to life.
     And through it all, I see my love for you
     It grows and ends and grows, begins anew.