Category: Audio Poems

Listen to this poem using the player above.

Tennessee Horizon

I am a little bit in love with everyone, including you
and this Tennessee horizon will no let me go.

Who is the giver of names for the things we most cherish?
In the dawn light I can’t see you clearly enough

to know whether you are crying or maybe that’s the rain.
It’s raining in everything I write.

I could take shelter in you, if only time is a circle
and I’ll have this all to do again.

Tennessee is a terrible beauty and you are a fleeting gift.
Whosoever has cause why this couple should not be joined,

let him speak now. I loved you in the dim and bright,
in the thick silences and the sticky-sweet mornings.

Sailors always knew the world was round
because ships disappeared over the horizon.

That’s how I knew it was time to go.
I’m still a little bit in love with you and with Tennessee

and with this dawn light and with this rain.
If you let me go, I’ll come back to you

because time is a circle
and the world is round.

Listen to this poem using the player above.

dust to dust

ours is not to wonder why
though of course we do wonder
why?
because we like you
and when we say we, we are speaking royally
as in screwed blued tattooed
an indelible mark that reminds one —
or more —
of who one is and what one was and why
are such pretensions necessary?
it’s OK to say “me” and “I”
and to cry for spilt milk
ours is both to do AND die
I never understood the “or”
as if the doing could avoid the dying
when all light collapses into the black hole
in the center of it all
nothing can escape
all lights falls as night falls the light falls
as falls Wichita so falls Wichita Falls
and Niagara Falls and Sue falls
if she’s not careful
ours is to do and to die and to wonder
to stumble over coffee tables
on the way to the bathroom
when the rest of the house is sleeping
even our mouse
even the king’s mouse
and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men
will return to ash when their chips are cashed in

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Umbrella

I’m bringing my umbrella in case it rains
I’m writing this poem in case it doesn’t

Last night you were out when I called
You’re often out these days, somewhere

I’d never noticed how empty a room could sound
Never wondered where these pans go

Sometimes I stand in the kitchen waiting for your voice
To tell me what to do next, who to be

Then the phone rings, full of hope, but it’s a bill collector
Looking for me to pay what’s owed

Everyone is looking for their due
But my cupboards are bare, my reserves are empty

And most of the time it’s raining
And I’ve forgotten my umbrella

Listen to this poem using the player above.

This poem was inspired by Normanskill poet Alan Casline’s poem “My Navajo Butterfly Song.”

Seeing Eye
(for Alan Casline)

The Navajo sign said “no photos” —
I prefer to think of it as advice, not warning,

encouraging us to capture images with the lenses of our eyes,
to store them on our natural hard drives.

“Doesn’t anybody ever just remember anything anymore?”
George Carlin asked. He was right.

We’ve become victims of instant nostalgia,
our minds grown lazy, our brains soft.

It’s so bad that I’ve forgotten the first line of this very poem,
and the way my sons looked when they were born.

My therapist said chronic depression impairs
the memory centers of the brain, causes

gaps

in the remembered narrative. That was a relief to hear.
I always wondered why my life was a highlight reel,

the entire three-plus decades condensed into three-plus minutes,
like always seeing the bus but never being hit by it.

The Navajo sign said “no photos.”
Pretty smart, those Navajo.

Listen to this poem using the player above.

Based on a recent New York City experience.

dead pigeon

dead pigeon on a gray sedan
gray sedan under a dead pigeon
dead gray pigeon sedan
gray dead sedan pigeon

heads turn, shake, pass
passing heads, shaking, turn
shaken heads pass, turning
shaken heads, turning, pass

soft feet slap pavement
soft pavement feet slap
slapping pavement, soft feet
slapping, soft, feet, pavement

head bleeding slow trickle
bleeding head trickle slow
slow bleeding head trickle
trickle bleeding head slow

gray dead sedan pigeon
dead gray pigeon sedan
gray sedan under a dead pigeon
dead pigeon on a gray sedan

Listen to this poem using the player above.

This poem was inspired by a tweet by trombonist Jeff Albert. His message became the first line of the poem.

Separation

The MacBook Pro’s headphone out does
not have clean stereo separation.

It cannot effectively separate the
left from                  the right.

Nor can it color-code cull the allowed from
the illegal.

Or sit at the base of the wall in the cold
desert night, waiting for what the coyotes bring.

The MacBook Pro’s headphone out sends
a steady stream of sound

straight to the bones inside your ears,
causing tiny vibrations that your

brain magnifies then translates into
language you can understand.

And yet, left                  and right
will not be properly separated. Will mix

inappropriately, causing some in the room
to murmur their disapproval.

Are you murmuring your disapproval? Casting
a sidelong glance, perhaps

catching the eye of another partygoer, who
responds with raised brow or a

cluck

of the tongue?

Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.

Can you separate
left                  from right?

Do you know where you bread is buttered?

Do you want to wash the dishes?

Listen to this poem using the player above.

McLemore, Fabricatore & Buttonwood

started out across the grassy plain

ate buffalo meat on the shores of Lake Erie

learned new languages & wooed exotic birds down from the trees

were of sound mind & body, were of sound body & mind

encountered the Kraken & debated the pronunciation of his name,
only to discover that he was a she, & really quite wonderful at chess

were undaunted in the face of adversity

sat beside the wine-dark sea, telling lies & braiding hempen ropes

signed their names in the guestbook at a hotel on the edge of an active volcano,
the ash settling slowly about their shoulders

could see the valley below, but could not state its true name

sailed across the ocean blue in a hastily built marshmallow canoe

were rescued from certain death by a one-legged man who knew whereof he spoke

are as real as you or I

exist purely for our amusement
do not exist at all

McLemore, Fabricatore & Buttonwood
will be back soon, will demand answers, will show slides of their trip
to an uninterested audience in the local library

will realize that the road is better than the rest stop & will start out again
across the grassy plain