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Category: Audio Poems

stone #1

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Like so many good ideas these days, I got this one from my friend Carolee Sherwood. Further explanation of the idea of stones can be foudn at a river of stones.

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Richard Hawley’s “Last Orders”

shimmers through my basement apartment

I wait for my friend to come

drink peppermint tea

this time when Janus beckons

I’ll follow him through the door

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POEM: The Angel and the Eye of God

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When I was in New York last week, I went to the American Folk Art Museum. One of the pieces that caught my eye was this woodcarving of Matthew the Evangelist by the artist John Perates. He was born in Greece but lived much of his life in Portland, Maine. I’m not a religious person, but I tried to capture what it might be like to create art while feeling divinely inspired. You can click the image to see a larger version.

The Angel and the Eye of God

John makes furniture —
finely cut cabinets,
stout and purposeful bedposts,
tables to hold a family.
He is seeking refuge in this city by the sea,
so much colder than his island home.

Alone in his workshop,
after the orders are shipped,
John puts down the patterns
and turns inward, carving
the wood in the shape of the Word.

He has seen the angel who points
to the eye of God. He has heard
the song of Matthew the Evangelist.
He is not afraid.

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POEM: icicle

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icicle

At first, one drop freezes, so small
you wouldn’t notice it. Then
another drop attaches itself to
the first, freezes. Over time,
slowly as regret, the icicle
forms, its weight pulling
the branch toward the
cold ground.
Eventually
the only
question
is which
will break
first,
branch
or
ice.

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POEM: half

Technically, my sister and I are half-siblings. But that’s only true in DNA terms. I wrote this poem for her as her Christmas present. The picture below is of us, just after I read it to her on Christmas morning. I love you, Sis.

half
(for my sister)

that word has no meaning
Watson and Crick might say half
but I love you completely
love isn’t based on a sequence
of nucleotides, on the order of
adenine, cytosine, guanine and thymine
love has to account for history
has to factor in changing tables
and wide smiles in baby seats
remember when —
but of course you do, your memory
is better than mine
I’ve been away much longer
than we were together
I’ve missed too much of your life
I don’t know the stories
don’t recognize the names
if it weren’t for photographs
I’d remember even less
and yet you’ve never wavered
never had a harsh word
you’re what everyone hopes for
what I hope for
you’re a gift I’m still unwrapping
a mirror in which a better man is reflected

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POEM: tell the story when the ball is in the air

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The title of this poem comes from a surprising place — 3:03 into this episode of The Basketball Jones. Tas Melas says it, and based on J.E. Skeets’ reaction, I think it may be something originally said by Stan Van Gundy. In any case, as soon as Tas yelled the line, I paused the show and wrote the poem. It just about wrote itself. This is not, of course, a poem about basketball. Like much of what I write, it took a turn into Relationshipland.

On a side note, if you’re a basketball fan, The Basketball Jones is a must-see show.

tell the story when the ball is in the air

not after she’s left and the crowd goes home
tell it when he can still be the last-second hero
a hometown Jesus on the shoulders of adoring men
tell the story before she cried, before he made her
tell it while the boy in the nosebleeds
clutches a program to his chest and yells because
this is what men do
tell the story so we can all cheer and buy the jersey
so we can tell the guys at the bar that we were there
tell the story when the ball is in the air

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POEM: longevity

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longevity

an expectation of longevity
as if the glaciers don’t melt
given enough time and a tireless sun

on a human scale they’re eternal,
you might say, having no other
scale on which to measure them

everything is eternal, just
not in some magical way
that fits you with harp and sandals

there is still all the matter
there ever was, “every atom
belonging to me as good belongs to you”

where will you be in one million years?
spread out among the stars
or covering the back of a dog?

there are still dinosaurs, they’re just
shaped like toasters and raccoons and
a little girl eating her ice cream before it melts

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POEM: Ah, Basho, who were you really?

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I first lived in Japan from 1991-92. During that time I picked up a Penguin edition of Japanese haiku master Matsuo Basho’s book Narrow Road To The Deep North. I’ve loved him ever since. Not just his work, but the very idea of him.

Ah, Basho, who were you really?

My friend the Japanese literature scholar —
by which I mean to say he is a scholar
of Japanese literature and a literature scholar
who is Japanese — thinks you were a ninja.
Or a famous warrior of some sort.
I can’t quite remember. But his point
is that no mere poet could have passed through
all those military checkpoints.
And no old-man poet could have covered
all that ground as fast as you say you did.
Were you lying? Is all poetry fiction?

Perhaps you started out from Tokyo —
they called it Edo then —
with every intention of completing the journey
along that famous narrow road.
Perhaps you packed your paper and brushes
to write those glorious verses.
Perhaps you set out upon the path,
made it as far as the first resting place
before your old bones got the better
of your young heart.
Poets invent whole worlds —
all you needed to do was describe
the world that already existed. Even a mortal
could do that.

Me, I like the ninja idea.
Poets are thought of as many things —
deadly is rarely one of them.
We need more poet ninjas, creeping about
on moonless nights, stealing
into the rooms of young lovers, leaving
a verse or two on the pillow.
Gone as silently as the break
in this line.

Then again, maybe I’d rather
you were just a poet.
Not a liar. Not a ninja.
Not a warrior traveling in disguise.
Just a man who wished to see the mountains
of Japan’s interior with his own eyes.
A man who used his paper and his brushes
to let us see those same mountains,
thousands of miles away,
all these many years later.

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POEM: romcoms

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“Romcom” is short for “romantic comedy,” my favorite kind of movie. This ended up being another relationship poem. Just about the only kind I write these days.

romcoms

like a glimpse over the wall
into the neighbor’s much nicer yard
the one with a new grill
and a pool and a picnic table
where there’s plenty of cold lemonade
condensation on a glass pitcher
endless afternoons of happiness
with someone who looks into your eyes
like they were the whole world
there are friends around the table, laughing
telling stories and eating
you laugh with them, delighted
to find that these people are real
sometimes she reaches over
squeezes your hand
or puts her fingers on the back of your neck
as if to say, “I’m real, too”
when you get up to take your plate
into the house, she follows
you kiss in the kitchen, one hand
still holding the plate, the other
brushing her hair back over one ear
later someone lights a fire in the stone circle
and everyone gathers around it, dreaming aloud
she is close beside you
if this is the last night ever
if they never make a sequel
it will have been enough

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POEM: pulled pork

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pulled pork

we ate Elgie Stover’s unlicensed pulled pork
on the back porch of the Blue Nite Cafe

talked about the future and what we imagined
it might look like

I can’t speak for anyone else, but I never
imagined it would look like this

even though that first conversation
contained the seeds of everything that was to follow

Elgie served his pulled pork on a single piece of white bread
in a styrofoam container

we could always tell when he arrived because smoke
would drift in through the back doors of the club

from that moment on, every song
rushed toward the back porch

we played music like men whose minds
were already eating

if my parents hadn’t had friends on the island
I never would have known about the club

if I hadn’t known about the club, I never would have been
on the porch, eating pulled pork and talking with you

I think a lot of this would have happened anyway
it probably would have been easier

but I wouldn’t trade those conversations
or this pain for all the pulled pork in the world

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POEM: writer’s song

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I’m not sure whether this is a poem or a credo or a mission statement or a manifesto or all those things at once.

writer’s song

to write is to stand against despair
each stroke of the pen an affirmation
as ink flows into the paper like a transfusion
the arteries of the world are filled once more

to write is to acknowledge dreaming
caressing the soft flesh of possibility
it is a gentle kiss, like an afterthought
or the smell of cookies baking

to write is to assert the self
one human being in a fragmented age
it is a hand-brake on the spinning world
an extra moment to bring life into focus

to write is to say “I love you”
and to let “you” be all the world
six billion diamond-bright minds
flowing over the earth like water

to write is to throw a rope to a drowning man
to be on shore and in the water simultaneously
it is oxygen in the lungs so sorely needed
to power the dreaming blood, to sing this song

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POEM: Apple

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Apple
(for my mom)

They say the apple
doesn’t fall far
from the tree.

Sometimes
it doesn’t fall
at all.

I am suspended
in the sun,
depending on you.

My skin,
in your image,
reddens.

Inside me
are the seeds
you planted.

The worm seeks an entrance
but I am strong,
as you taught me to be.

My sweetest days
are yet to come.

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POEM: Hindsight is 20/20, and so is foresight (November Poem-A-Day 30)

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This is it. The 30th and final poem for the November Poem-A-Day challenge. I’m glad I participated. I think I’ve got a few poems out of it that will stick around for a while. Today’s prompt was to write a “lessons learned” poem.

Hindsight is 20/20, and so is foresight

They should have sealed it with a kiss
and left together. Never looked back.
They should have known there might not be
another chance.
Except, and here’s the lesson:
There’s always another chance.

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POEM: Romeo & Juliet

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Romeo & Juliet

my therapist thinks we’re tragic
so tragic, in fact,
that when I told him our story, he laughed
not standard therapist behavior, perhaps
but it’s hard to fault the man
when you lay out the facts, line them up neatly
anyone would be incredulous, would doubt our veracity
wonder how the hell something like this could happen
I told him I don’t believe in God
but this whole situation makes me think
there may be a Devil
my mom thinks things happen for a reason
what’s the reason for this?
Shakespeare already wrote Romeo and Juliet
who are we to try to one-up the Bard?

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POEM: a lost man… (November Poem-A-Day 29)

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This is poem #29 for the November Poem-A-Day challenge. Today’s prompt was to write a “next steps” poem.


“Lost Man” by Michel Rajkovic

a lost man wonders what to do next,
decides to gamble it all on one throw of the dice

Hell with it, he thinks
putting down the last of his money
on the airline ticket counter

nothing ventured, nothing gained
no guts, no glory
know Jesus, know peace

that last one doesn’t fit
so many things don’t fit
the timing isn’t quite right

in fact, it’s wrong in a tragic
Hollywood or Shakespeare
sense, the kind of wrong

that is worse because it’s so
close to right
it’s almost there, it’s Maxwell Smart

missing it by “that much”
fingers held close together
the width of a telephone line

the ticket agent looks up
asks him where he’s going
a fine question, that

go west, young man
pack up your troubles
in your old kit bag

search the desert for treasure
scale the mountains
plumb the valleys

find the other half of your heart-
shaped locket, the one made
from an actual human heart

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POEM: Villawood (November Poem-A-Day 28)

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This is poem #28 for the November Poem-A-Day challenge. Today’s prompt was to write a “what really happened” poem. This poem is about the Villawood Immigration Detention Centre near Sidney, Australia. What happens there is horrifying. I learned about it through the work of Dan Burke (twitter.com/proudreader) via his appearances on the indispensable Citizen Radio.

Villawood

We told them to come and it would be safe.
They were running away. Escaping.
We were a return trip, back across the Styx
toward the stairway that leads to the living.
By the thousands they came. Pleading.
It’s just over this way, we said, through this gate.
And we shut it behind them, locked them in.
Of all people to imprison refugees, doing it here
has a special irony. Here in a land born in prison.
On ground we stole from an ancient people.
Our blood baptism brought forth a new religion.
And now we sacrifice their children — refugee
children — on the altar of our merciless god.
In truth, we’re grateful when they sew
their mouths shut, because their screams
pierce the night and steal from us our dreams
of beer and song and beautiful women.
And when they hang themselves or jump
they spare us the expense of the slow death
we were always planning to give them.
There is a boat across the Styx, and a staircase.
And at the top of the stairs, a gate.
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.
And welcome to Villawood.

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