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Category: My poems

POEM: Lark Definitions

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A poem for the Lark Tavern in Albany, NY, which was destroyed by fire in May 2010 and which will return.

Lark Definitions

it’s a bird noted for its singing
it’s a verb meaning to play
it can denote a certain lack of care
but that is itself a trick
a surface appearance that masks
desperate attention to detail
for we do care, each of us
we’ve stood naked under lights
that show blood red on film
we’ve bared all, opened our bone cages
to let fly the nightingales
(also noted for their singing)
we’ve confessed lovers, told
strangers truths no one else knows
all under the watchful eyes
of attentive servers who
notice yet don’t let on
a man in a bookstore asked me
how it feels to be the last
featured poet at the Lark
“I won’t be the last,” I said

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POEM: Stand up, Moses

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A poem for Albany-based writer and poet Moses Kash III. The first line is from a poem Moses read at Dan Wilcox’s Third Thursday Poetry Reading on May 20, 2010.

Photo of Moses Kash III by Keith J. Spencer

Stand up, Moses

white people have got hold of all the cash
except Americus Moses Kash the third
he remains independent of their influence
standing tall on bad knees and black sneakers
proclaiming … this word … and … this word … and …
the word, born of life lived with tall vision
he does not shirk his duty, tells it like it is
as he has seen it, felt its sting
captured its image in his lens
boxes and boxes and stacks and stacks
stacks and stacks and boxes and boxes
he still uses the word “mimeograph”
as if time stopped in the 1960s
and maybe it did
can you prove that your heart is beating​?

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Baiku

Those of us in the bicycling community who have way to much free time are known to write “baiku” (bicycle haiku) from time to time. My latest is over at RocBike.com. There are more on that site by various members of Team RocBike. Just type “baiku” in the search box.

Enjoy!

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POEM: 91

Listen to this poem using the player above.

I wasn’t going to write about the passing of jazz pianist Hank Jones until I saw this article in the New York Times.

UPDATE: Hank Jones’ manager, Jean-Pierre Leduc, posted this in response to the NYT article:

Hank had a huge farm up in Hartwick, NY, and he had most things he needed. He was not unhappy or hermit-like. I wish he had treated himself to a bigger space (he could have lived anywhere), but it was clean and right where he wanted to be — Upper West Side. On tour he had the best suite in the best 5-star hotels, and he was on tour a lot, even very recently. The article in The Times was a clear invasion of privacy.

I considered making revisions to the poem based on this, but I don’t think that’s necessary.

(Rafa Rivas/AFP/Getty Images)

91

“On the cluttered night-table was a book of Sherlock Holmes stories.”
— From a New York Times article on what was found in jazz pianist Hank Jones’ tiny one-room apartment after his death.

the detective used the violin
as a tool to sharpen his thoughts
the pianist practiced on an electric keyboard
using headphones so he wouldn’t disturb the neighbors

91 years is a long time
to be good at something so few understand
unlike Holmes, Hank never got a chance to stand in the parlor
to explain how he’d figured it all out
how he’d arrived at the real answer

he had to depend on ears and brains and beating hearts
to understand the messages pushed into ivory
by two hands, ten fingers, a billion synapses firing

when he died they broke into his room with a hammer
it was locked from the inside
a detail the detective would have appreciated
they found rumpled sheets, accolades
long ago forgotten and newly given
manifestations of his talent not sufficient
to encapsulate the world-altering beauty of it

there is nothing elementary
about 91 years of a black man playing the piano
no sidekick to remark on just how heavily
the odds had been stacked in opposition

could even the most talented sleuth
have pieced together the long road from Detroit?
inspected the dust of a thousand thousand footsteps
and traced the route from segregated hotels
to the grandest stages in the world?

91 years is a long time to breathe in and out,
to push down on the keys, to bear the weight of memory
the memory of waiting for his time in the spotlight

yet he could have walked down any street in America
and no one would have looked twice
he was a king, an 88-keyed deity who could
swing you into the ground and could pass
completely unnoticed among the multitudes
more concerned with the camera flash

in the end he went out playing
in a world that was richer for his footsteps across the stage,
his particular selection of notes
his attention to detail, elegance
and the long slow curve of 91 years of history

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POEM: This is the end

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This is the end

this is the end, so settle in

grab a bottled water

recline in your easy chair

do people still have easy chairs?

from the east-facing window

you should be able to see it coming

sweeping across the hills like

an angry sunrise, devouring

even now, when it’s far too late

many people insist it’s not real

a chimera created from the plots

of summer blockbusters by the

pocket protector crowd

because they can’t get dates

how could something so innocuous –

something that dimpled Dave

on Channel 11 uses smiley-faced suns

to explain to Ma and Pa Kettle –

possibly cause us any harm?

are we not men? have we not

mastered the universe, or at least

our small outpost within it?

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POEM: convenience store sushi

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The first two lines of this poem (and thus, the title) were suggested by my friend Kim, to whom the poem is dedicated. Thanks, Kim.

convenience store sushi
(for Kim S.)

convenience store sushi
and vegetable chips
that’s what’s left
the kind of lunch you bring
when you’ve got no ideas
when all you can think to do is listen
looking down at the clear plastic container
with its fake lawn, greener than the one
on either side of your fence
time was you would have shared
the warm pieces of tuna and salmon
offered each other the last piece of
California roll, but today
she’s not hungry, sits with her hands
folded in her lap, talks in a low voice
so the people on the next bench over
don’t hear the world break
she’s done you that courtesy, at least
when it’s over – really over –
the sushi looks like modeling clay
you can’t even think of eating it
later a bird will pick the contents
of the package out of a wire trash basket
stuck to the top of the container
a note reading: we need to talk

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POEM: Red Truck Elegy

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My assistant helps me repair the truck.

Red Truck Elegy

Dozer, the beefy black lab, wants into the car
he sniffs the air, scenting my son’s watermelon lollipop

just a few feet away sits our red truck, silent, flashers on
a gift from my dad, it’s different from the red truck

my wife and her baseball team would cram into the bed of
back in Oregon, after the game, going to get ice cream

this red truck is smaller, though it’s hauled its share of wood
the bottom is rusted, looking like something you should

discover with a submarine while searching the ocean floor
I performed my only successful automotive surgery on this truck

using the last wire coat hanger in the world to wire up
the muffler and tailpipe, which were grinding against the axle

my dad couldn’t have done much better, because he
doesn’t know anything about cars or trucks either, despite

being much better versed in practical things than I am
and more comfortable with getting his hands dirty

John flits around the garage, moving from mechanic to Dozer
to the two lazy German shepherds who lie at the feet

of an elderly couple on the garage’s only two chairs
eating submarine sandwiches and adding to the local flavor

if the truck is dead, we’ve decided not to resuscitate it
we’ll just cut the cord that anchors it to us and let it sink into memory

captured in the occasional photograph, just like its bigger brother
with my father-in-law’s head poking into the flower-packed bed

I’ve heard enough stories about that truck that it looms in my created past
almost as large as he does, gone just after I met him, gone too soon

this truck, though, was here just long enough to carry us to the top of the hill
and now we’ll walk down the other side on our own

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POEM: Ingredients

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Ingredients

making this cake is neither good nor bad
all things are equal in the back-and-forth
I mix in the eggs, whisk them foamy
so many broken, so many cracked
it’s easy, she says, you just read
you just follow the directions
that’s always been my problem, though
I’m a bad follower, I can’t be folded in
I’m the shell fragment that you find later with your teeth
the little mistake that crunches and unsettles

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Two days of poetry (part 3): Monroe Community College

(Read part 1 and part 2.)

Sure, reading poetry to a room full of people is fun, and I’ll do it whenever the opportunity presents itself. But on Thursday, May 6, I had a chance to experience poetry in a totally different way – by talking about it in two classes at Monroe Community College (MCC) in Rochester.

My friend Julie White (to whom “It Isn’t Merely The Fashioning” is dedicated) works in the Student Life office at MCC’s Damon Campus, located in downtown Rochester. When I booked the Rochester Poets reading, I asked Julie whether there were any opportunities for me to talk with students at MCC about poetry. Julie reached out to several faculty members, and I ended up scheduling two classes with Julie Damerell, an MCC professor who is herself a poet.

I showed up in Julie’s first class at 9:30 a.m. on Thursday. She warned me that attendance wasn’t always stellar, and that the previous class had seen one student attend. The class was a transitional class, for students who needed some extra guidance in English as they began their college careers. On this day, four students came, and it turned into one of the most incredible experiences I’ve ever had with poetry.

I have to be honest – I had absolutely no plan whatsoever when the class began. I’d given some thought to what I might say, and Julie Damerell had also suggested some topics. But when the four students were seated around the table and it was my turn to talk, I hadn’t decided on anything other than, “Hi. My name is Jason Crane.” Once that was said, I was winging it all the way.

The first thing I did was read them a poem from Unexpected Sunlight called “The Soft Friction Of Sliding Glass.” After I read the poem, I explained that it’s about my first serious girlfriend. This was all Lawrence, one of the students, needed to hear to begin a conversation. We talked about including a poem about an old girlfriend in a book dedicated to my wife. Lawrence thought that was a crazy thing to do, and he was sure that it would cause some kind of problem. I told him that my wife and I have been together 15 years, and that I want my memories to be close to the surface because I believe that makes me a better husband. Samantha, another of the students, chimed in to say that people don’t have to forget what happened to them just because they aren’t with that person anymore. The discussion carried on for several minutes, and I knew we were going to have no problem filling up the class time.

Next I asked the students to read “Gene Ludwig” and then tell me about the man described in the poem. I asked them to describe him physically and tell me what he did for a living and what he was like. They made their guesses, some closer than others, and then I told them about Gene and his career as a jazz organist. Julie looked up Gene online and showed the students his picture, and Lawrence talked about how Gene “is true to himself when he plays music. He can show people who he really is.”

Laura, another student, had been reading my poem “For Henry Grimes” during the latter part of this discussion, and she said she wanted to know about Henry next. I asked her to read the poem, and then asked the class to describe Henry. Lawrence said Henry reminded him of the old men who sit on the stoop on his street and watch the neighborhood. I described Henry’s incredible story of success, disappearance and rediscovery and asked Laura to read the poem again with this new knowledge.

We read more poems and talked about them, with the conversation veering into general discussions about life and art and creativity. Laura told us about her grandfather and her siblings and Samantha talked about the poems she’d written. They read more of my work aloud, and I decided partway through the class to give them each a copy of Unexpected Sunlight.

These four students opened my eyes to a new way to hear my own work, and their intelligent, often surprising observations were a joy to hear. I’m truly grateful for the experience. After the class, I wrote a poem called “Attention” in tribute to them.

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POEM: Attention

Listen to this poem using the player above.

A tribute to four college students who helped me appreciate poetry in a new way.

Attention

Laura calls her teacher “Miss”
when they meet after class
she’s grown up in a family
that understands the weight of respect

Lawrence laughs flashing gold
his experience etched on the surface of his skin
he navigates with no need of a compass
gives nicknames to the old street-guardians

Samantha hooks her long brown hair
over her right ear, the better to hear you with
she’s already a swimmer
wet from the ocean of words

Jeff is the quiet one, taking it in
but he reaches for the book
leafs through the pages
asks what needs to be asked

Laura’s grandfather calls his daughter
by the wrong name, always hard to understand
but he’s had to learn two languages
breathing this air with his heart in other soil

Samantha writes poems, too
she knows what it means to love
can discern the crucial differences
can hold on to what’s real

Lawrence’s car has a fancy muffler
misnamed, in fact, because muffling
is not its purpose, it is a trumpet
heralding his presence

these four cast wide nets
infuse old words with new meaning
give a precious gift with no expectation of return
these four make the words worth the writing

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POEM: The Last Piece Of Ice Under The Sky

The Last Piece Of Ice Under The Sky

There would be no point in climbing this mountain,
not even to speak to the wise man at its summit.
He has no answers, no solutions. He is merely old,
and that’s no achievement when you live on a mountaintop.

There are two men trapped at the bottom of a deep well.
Were they to assist one another, it is possible they could escape.
Instead they choose to urinate on one another, destroying
their supply of drinkable water and ensuring they remain trapped.

The wise man can see the mouth of the well from where he sits,
because years ago a climber with no money gave him, as payment,
a powerful set of Zeiss Classic 20×60 binoculars, strong enough
to turn a busy colony of ants into a whirling dervish of people.

By the time the climber had reached the base of the mountain,
he’d realized that the binoculars were more valuable than
anything the old man had said, but the thought of re-scaling the peak
turned his stomach to ash and filled his mouth with regret.

Turning northward, the old man can see the last piece of ice under the sky.
Upon it sit two polar bears, and between them on the ice is
the last fish from the water, their final sustenance. Inevitably,
they tear one another in two, rather than the fish, their blood staining the ice.

None of that really happened, did it? asks the filmmaker on the summit.
He’s come to make a documentary about the old man, to record his wisdom
for a decadent, unenlightened age. But the filmmaker is an unbeliever,
refusing to accept what he can see through the camera’s unblinking eye.

The old man smiles and extends the binoculars, offering
the filmmaker a closer look at the world-as-it-is, as it, in fact, must be.
The filmmaker shakes his head sadly, packs his camera back into its case,
and begins the slow climb back to the foot of the mountain.

He reaches the bottom and passes the well where the two men are still trapped,
their lack of drinking water also meaning a lack of urine for their battle.
The filmmaker thinks he hears moaning from the bottom of the well and almost
goes to look. But refusing to believe his ears, he turns and walks away.

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POEM: Insane Clown Posse

Big Tent Poetry

I don’t usually post two poems on the same day, but here goes. This is in response to the first-ever prompt from the new Big Tent Poetry. Click on the image below to enlarge. In many browsers. you can click on the bigger image, too, to make it EVEN BIGGER. Crazy!

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POEM: all the world

all the world

in the hazy moments before sleep
I turn toward the window, think of you
my cheek resting on the cool pillow
I wonder where you are, what you’re doing
is your head cradled by soft down?
are you looking at the same moonless sky?
do you hold my face in your eyes,
imagine my warmth beside you?
once we walked along village streets
making plans for the future
now I sleep alone, think often of the past
memory is a vast theater of empty seats
the curtain removed years ago, the ushers released
I sit on the edge of the stage, swinging my feet
the echo of my heels hitting the wood
accentuates the exquisite loneliness of this room
a jolt as my body falls and I am awake again
face turned toward the window
cheek resting on the warm pillow
thinking, as always, of you

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POEM: the chase

the chase

300,000 madcap monks
line up in rows

myopics who cannot follow
the treeing of the raccoon
by a pack of wiseacre hounds

the raccoon’s claws draw
molasses from the trunk

a dark glob balancing on its
nose like a circus trick

the monks follow the smell
to the base of the tree

where sits a Spanish violinist
who plays a jaunty reel

the monks begin dancing
the raccoon begins dancing
the tree begins dancing

the hounds circle round
find soft spots in the sticky grass
and settle down to sleep

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POEM: Red is…

Mark Rothko, No. 301 (Red and Blue over Red), 1959 – Moca Permanent Collection

Red is…

the color of the rush
the sound of the audience
the flame behind your eyes
the tingle in the fingertips
the vibration inside
the salt on the tongue
the cast of the rain
the taste of need
the washing over of the past
the end of the tunnel
the soft touch of skin
the hard echo of calling
the turn of the key
the clatter of footsteps
the remains of ashes
the promise unspoken
the thought unvoiced
the blush of truth
the cry of a hawk
the whisper in the hallway

Red is the ringing phone
that is never answered.

Red is the back that turns
to the pounding on the door.

Red is the question that
no answer ever rises to meet.

Red is the waning
of the moon.

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