Thursday, September 20, 2018

Island House, Moving.



Island House, Moving

I live in Island House.
We move around a lot.
I tried to explain it to my grown up
daughter,
who was so bored, she complained.
I don't know about all the problems
in the world,
but there are many.

I try to write them down in lists,
but the lists keep getting lost.
I don't know why they are lost,
they just are.

Sometimes, my problems arise out of
the concern for the fact that I have
to eat in a couple of hours,
and when the night falls,
I will be alone.

My innermost thoughts and secrets
make me feel the most alone,
and as I dwell alone in the house,
my footsteps across the linoleum,
time transcends,
and the Island House is my own
home,
where I dwell within.

THE GARDEN.



THE GARDEN

I am the garden where all time grows.
I am the river in which the water flows.

Time is broken like a hand,
that is swallowed up by sand.

Change is a promise that removes the heart;
in it, lies break apart.

Whatever moves, the light will wan;
time growls like a train.

What is burdened cannot be made whole,
the veil overcomes us all.

STARS.


STARS

Your eyes shine like midnight stars.
The darkness is a blank wall.
All around me, the shadows mourn;
a lone sea gull's call.

The sun spins with the rain.
I am powerless.
The hearts of man are a withered vine.
Nothing can withstand the pain.

I do not know what you are doing,
or where I am going.
Only that the light shines in outer space,
and all I see is your shining face.


Tuesday, September 18, 2018

WITHERED FLOWER.


Withered Flower

The light is gone like a withered flower.
Shadows fade and bend like lions.
I am a withered rose on the back of prose,
that does not mourn the darkness.
Take me, and take my baby,
and the light throws me outside of myself,
shadows whisper on the end of all things,
and night is calm again.

The baby cries, and wails, and the wind sings;
the storm is coming, a tornado is coming,
a wail wakes us up in the night.
We are ancient, we are kind, the monsters cannot
sustain us.

Destiny bends. Nothing is forsaken as the lost lamb;
shadows fade and control the light.
All is lost in the world, the rain will fall,
and the beauty dips and swells.

Burdened by proof, I don't know anything;
light will bend and all is lost.
The night withers and I go home.

JUDGE.


JUDGE

Don't judge the person judge
the reason.
Think outside the box.
This box is made of stones.
Everything is tempermental.
I casually throw out my linen paper,
and make a lot of noise.
I am simple with my dreams.
Casually I talk to you, casually I am here.
I dwell on the hope and joy of truth.
Truth is not superficial.
Truth is oval. Truth is large.
Truth is like the begging lamb,
looking for a way to make its dreams.
I hope I can find the reason within myself,
to grasp the reality of this,
and know now, however I become,
I will behave like a bitter storm that waxes
and wanes,
and the moon shines down,
and the light is bitter.
I am the moon.
I am gone.


Wednesday, August 29, 2018

AFTER ALL OF THIS.


AFTER ALL OF THIS

After all of this, the clouds form and take
shape in the darkening day.
The lobsters play on the beach
walking back and forth up
and down the sand dunes.
The waves pick up, and
bounce on the sharp rocks.
The night is blessed. My love
is bitter and angry that I am
not with him; that he is
far away. The beach house
is around the corner but I am
sitting on my towel,
looking out at the ocean and
watching the tides come in,
watching the ocean.
The wind is an angry monster,
trying to take hold of the ocean
and seize it as if it were in battle,
and I see a ship out on the water,
bouncing on the waves.
Up and down it goes, and no one
knows where it will stop,
and then the wind dies down,
and the ocean is like a mirror now,
calm in its wake.


The Mother.


The woman who was my mother
claimed she never really loved me
and stole my clock one night to
get back at me.
She said it was for reasoning only,
and getting the clock was a way
of showing the passage of time.
Clocks tick for a reason;
and tock for always.
Sometimes we do not know what that
reason is,
or if it is even worth it.
At night, when I am laying in my bed,
I realize I am alone,
like a great auk on the bright blue water,
dipping its neck towards the obsidian
sky,
howling at the blank sun.
She said she cared about me at one point,
and the feeling went away soon after
I was born.
And nothing is more or less a miracle
than something,
and one day moves on to the next.
Some people are always alone,
like great, winged things that take flight
in the sky,
and the darkness is vast and we are vast also.
I feel a cold shadow of dread moving through
me,
and one day fades to the next and I am
by myself again,
and everything is the same as it was before
the light came.


SILENCE.


Silence

What's that noise in my head?
It is the silence.
It reverberates throughout
my brain.
I try to catch hold if it but
it will not stay.
I try to let it go but
it will not fade.
I told my brother and my uncle
that nothing is more satisfying
than change;
and all is not lost with change.
Some people claim that change
cannot be had,
but it is like a wildflower,
growing strong against the wind.
It is like the growth of a backhand,
as strong as the grass.
The sun shines high in the sky,
and the clouds are white and puffy.
The night comes and a calmness
settles over the city.
The silence is prominent.
It is there.

MOTH.


MOTH

The moth is fluttering
in the cold river.

She tries to swim upriver
but she can't quite make it.
All in all, she is a fighter.

All in all, she does not move
into a dark web.

Some things are better left
without words to mourn them;
the bread is better left in the
bread box.

I have found that sandwiches
taste better when they are not
moldy and bitter,
and things go from the inside
to the outside.

In my mind, the river flows
backwards;
just like bloodflow.
The system moves and changes
and bends,
and the water always flows.


Tuesday, August 28, 2018

THE STORM.


The Storm

The trees emulate
against the storm.
They bend with the wind
and ride with the rain.
The storm is cursed with freedom.
Everything is short of freedom.
Hope is divided by one thing.
That the end is a beginning and
the beginning will end.
The road is blocked with water;
a man is trying to get out of the water,
he swims and swims and does not
stop swimming.
Some things cannot be changed,
like tires or rocket shuttles;
some new beginnings turn to
endings,
and things aren't broken.
The river is not flooded or
destined to be flooded.
The stream is not a stream;
hope is not shattered.
I have not lost my will to survive
the storm,
I have not lost my will to end
the surviving dream.
Take what you will and follow
the stream;
the heartache is not in your hand.
I do not beat a steady thrum.
Shadows flock a will of its own.


Wednesday, August 15, 2018

TREES.


The trees
stand tall
in the storm that is
mourning
an old tune from
an old accordion.
Nothing comes out of
the darkness by my old
hands,
shaking like a leaf,
as I batten down the hatches
and make sure the
shed is secure.
I walk like a lotus
to the back door
and open the front door
to my house
and go in.
I pause a moment
reveling in the storm
as nature reveals
its innermost fury
shaking
sobbing
trying to catch hold
of its prey.
Its mouth is its only savior.


NATURE STANDS.


Nature Stands

Nature stands on its own
in all of its glory
surrounded by golden rods
and wildflowers dancing.
All these maids turn
fast like missing time,
and puffy clouds are high
in the sky whispering away
at nothing.
In the shadows,
a small light shines,
blinding me,
a coin in the grass.
I pick it up
place it in my pocket
and look around at the
large world
that is full of promise
and there are animals
sitting in their barns
far off in the distance.
I ride my motorcycle
far down the broken road,
thinking about
what I want to have for breakfast.


Thursday, August 09, 2018

BEAUTIFUL GREECE.


Beautiful Greece circa 1987

The window overlooks a balcony.
It is morning.
I go outside still in my pajamas and stare
up at the skyline,
a light shines through my window
in warm rays.
Everything happens in its own time,
I guess,
but that doesn't mean I can't be
impatient.
The solitude staggers me.
I try not to be bitter because that just isn't
like me but it's hard to explain
something like that to a two-year-old,
who is always asking “Why? Why?”
and tagging along behind her dog,
a Saint Bernard,
who is kind as he is large.
There isn't anything better than a child
with chubby cheeks and sweet hair,
and a dangling booger now and then.
It is the best life there is.
It is like no other.
I can't tell what I'm doing anymore.
I don't know the way down the path.


Tuesday, August 07, 2018

WHY DADDY HAS TO EXPLAIN TO ME ABOUT MONEY.


Why Daddy Has To Explain To Me About Money

Daddy,” I says, “what is it about you that makes
you want to go out and achieve your dreams?”
Persistence,” he replies, “and eggs.” He laughs.
Eggs?” I say in surprise.
Yes, everyone has to eat, pumpkin.”
I try to wrap my brain around what he has
just said to me.
What do you mean?” I asks. “Don't we all
get to eat? You and Mommy buy
food at Walmart every week.”
Don't forget we go to Kroger sometimes,”
he adds.
What about the people in Africa?”
All around the world,” he explains,
taking me on his lap, “people are starving.”
What does starving mean?”
It means you don't have enough money
to buy food.”
Where do you get that money?”
You have to get a job,” he explains.
Like the place where you and Mommy
work?”
Yes,” he answered. “Exactly like that.”
I'm not sure what he meant by money,
but he was too tired to explain any more
and lay down to go to sleep.