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Category: My poems

POEM: Birdsong

Birdsong

Listen to Ray Bryant (Prestige 7098)
while the kitten sleeps
on his high perch in the sun
between two Palestinian flags
we’re using as curtains
because fuck landlords that’s why.

Ray’s piano is clearly audible
over the sound of no bombs.
Ike Isaacs’ bass is right there, too,
unobscured by drones or gunfire.
Nobody’s screaming interferes
with Specs Wright’s brushwork.

Every note of John Lewis’s “Django”
floats over the comfortable silence
like birdsong.

/ / /

18 January 2025
Charlottesville VA

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POEM: Fast Fashion & The Guillotine

Fast Fashion & The Guillotine

David Gahan was 21 when he sang
“the grabbing hands grab all they can.”
He turns 63 in May and that sentence
is even more true.
I’m reminded of the song because
I watched the video tonight,
projected onto my wall and pouring
out of my stereo speakers.
I watched it while eating
peanut-butter-filled pretzels
and drinking a Hank’s root beer.
It’s the very availability
of what passes for contentment
in our modern world
that prevents us from solving
the problem David sang about.

/ / /

17 January 2025
Charlottesville VA

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POEM: Building The Box That Holds Everything

Building The Box That Holds Everything

First you build the box, then you fit inside the box all the things you can think of. All your hopes and dreams and fears and rages, all the things you’ve told someone and all the things you’ll never tell. / Put these inside the box. It doesn’t matter how many there are. The box can hold them. / The next step is to put the lid firmly on the box. / THIS STEP IS CRUCIAL. / This is the step where many fail. They place the lid too gently or are not careful to ensure it is sealed tightly, holding all the things inside. Do not become another statistic. Press down on the lid until you hear the faint, almost whispering sound of the last little bit of air escaping. / The final step requires the most creativity. Where can you hide the box to ensure that no one will find it? This is simpler if you live alone, but even then you yourself may be tempted to open it, which of course cannot be allowed. Ask yourself, how do I keep the box safe from everyone, including myself? / Once you discover this place, put the box there and erase it from your mind. There. You’re safe.

/ / /

16 January 2025
Charlottesville VA

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POEM: Gravity & Equilibrium

Gravity & Equilibrium

The trick to swinging
across an open trestle bridge
is knowing how long a rope you’ve got
and whether, on the other side,
someone will be there to catch you.
/ / /
15 January 2025
Charlottesville VA

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POEM: Life Coach

Life Coach

I try to start the day
with rage
because I could die
at any moment
and I wouldn’t want
to go out happy.

/ / /

14 January 2025
Charlottesville VA

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POEM: Reflections

Reflections

1.

When I was a child I saw a ghost
down at the end of the hall.
Just a face, floating beside a bookshelf
in front of the workshop door.
It faded as I approached.
I never mentioned it to anyone.

2.

My grandpa took me to my first concert:
two musicians from New Orleans.
That makes Grandpa sound pretty hip,
but really he liked the clarinet player
because the guy had been on Lawrence Welk,
the squarest show on TV.
Still, my grandpa seemed pretty hip to me.
For years I carried a picture
of Grandpa’s saxophones in my wallet.
Like so many other things,
I lost it.

3.

You hold up a mirror to me.
I hold up a mirror to you.
With that one act we create
Infinite universes in the glass.
Uncountable possibilities
for love and connection,
using nothing but photons
and angles of incidence.

/ / /

12 January 2025
Charlottesville VA

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POEM: Food Not Bombs

Food Not Bombs

There was no school for a few days
so families ran out of food.
Read that again.
Bombs to drop on Palestinians?
Here’s a blank check.
But five inches of snow
means our children go to sleep hungry.
This isn’t a poem, it’s a scream.

/ / /

11 January 2025
Charlottesville VA

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POEM: It’s Probably A Metaphor For Something

It’s Probably A Metaphor For Something

Midway through the whistling solo
the dog knocked over something in the kitchen;
that was the best take,
so now the clatter has become
part of the song.

/ / /

10 January 2025
Charlottesville VA

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POEM: Montreal

Montreal

The year I turned 39
I traveled North America
by Greyhound bus,
sleeping on the couches
of strangers,
reading my poems,
interviewing musicians.

The day I turned 39
I decided to treat myself.
I was in Montreal,
so I bought a ticket
for a boat ride
on the St. Lawrence River.

The night I turned 39
I found my way
to a singer’s apartment.
She brought out a little cake.
Somehow she’d learned
it was my birthday.

I left the next day.

/ / /

9 January 2025
Charlottesville VA

My tour diary from the day described in this poem.

A poem I wrote that day.

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POEM: Left On The Side Of The Road, Within Sight Of The GE Plant

Left On The Side Of The Road,
Within Sight Of The GE Plant

The lesson was learned young:
You have no inherent value,
and love can be taken away.
What child has the strength to resist?
Half a century of therapy and meds,
meditation and distance,
and still each morning brings
a renewal of doubt.
The winter sun is indifferent.
It shines on the worth and the lost alike.

/ / /

8 January 2025
Charlottesville VA

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POEM: Plot Twist

Plot Twist

Twenty minutes into a Bergman film,
the projector went dark.
I heard a faint buzzing, like a distant bee
describing a flower to friends.
No loud pop, no smell of smoke.
Just darkness. And silence.

This was going to be a serious poem,
but as I was writing that last line
the kitten fell onto my head
from the bookshelf above me.
Science is wrong:
They don’t always land on their feet.

/ / /

7 January 2025
Charlottesville VA

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POEM: The Ice Storm Of ‘91

The Ice Storm Of ‘91

Morning meditation to the soft tapping of sleet.
Snowfall in the night birthed a new world.
My partner is asleep. A wet-footed kitten
stalks the living room, leaving tracks.

I’m carried back to March 1991:
stepping onto the porch in a crystalline world,
the gunshots of snapping branches
echoing through the woods.

The electricity was out all over upstate New York.
We heated with wood, but no power meant
no water from our well. Dad was away,
so Mom and Gretchen and I

piled into the Escort to fill up water jugs
at the tiny volunteer fire department.
The hilly drive was a nightmare
of slipping and skidding and sliding.

For decades after the scars of the storm
were visible in the area;
whole swathes of felled trees,
the clearings where they once stood.

And for several days, everything stopped:
industry, education, commerce,
all subservient to ice.

/ / /

6 January 2025
Charlottesville VA

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POEM: Weather Forecasting In Late-Stage Capitalism

Weather Forecasting In Late-Stage Capitalism

Labi Siffre morphs into Marshall Mathers.
The kitten keeps watch from a high perch.
They say a storm is coming tonight.
We’re deciding if one egg will be enough.
My tea is already lukewarm.
Now Labi is singing a ballad.
He’s queer, so I feel like he’s singing to me.
Perhaps in the morning there’ll be snow.
A soft blanket on a hard world.

/ / /

5 January 2025
Charlottesville VA

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POEM: Four Rooms

Four Rooms

Each month I pay nearly half my income
to a rich person I’ve never met
for the privilege of four rooms:
a living room/kitchen, a bathroom,
a laundry closet, a bedroom.
We evolved in a garden.
We built a concrete box.

/ / /

4 January 2025
Charlottesville VA

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