Poems, and “sorta poems” that poured out in the places where other words might have belonged…
December 30, 2009
Rising and falling like the tide
And yet they are surprised when their stocks don’t rise and rise and rise
One October they fell
A negative low-tide
The panic that followed scorched a thousand cigarettes
And left ‘em where they lie
While their shaking hands still burned with fear
We tip-toed past the madness as the tide slowly filled back in
March 1, 2009
She loved it here beneath these colder mountains
But now she is gone
And even now, after all this time
I’m still struggling to say goodbye
December 20, 2008
Some things are easy to overlook⠀
Others take a little more work⠀
Natural beauty⠀
Simple love⠀
So often get left where they lie⠀
While the headlines print bold⠀
On our aching flesh⠀
These haunts where our demons lurk⠀
⠀
Crashing stocks upon the shore⠀
Homes condemned to their blight⠀
The need to eat⠀
A will to survive⠀
We’ll do what we must to get by⠀
Sell our daylight for leprechaun’s gold⠀
That will vanish⠀
In the dark of the night⠀
⠀
We wake to a frozen sunrise⠀
Empty and cold and ruined⠀
It’s easily missed⠀
But always there⠀
The lift in our hearts at the sight⠀
Of these earthen glories before us⠀
By which we know⠀
That we are nowhere near the end⠀
⠀
So we’ll use our bodies for kindling⠀
To build this blaze bright and warm⠀
Our skin burns hot⠀
This smoky font⠀
A poetry of ash in the wind⠀
As we soak in the beauty around us⠀
We are fire⠀
Just in a different form⠀
⠀
Some things are hard to overlook⠀
Others take a little less effort⠀
The pressing needs⠀
The desperate pain⠀
Can grow louder till all else recedes⠀
While the light within and around us⠀
Steadily burns and waits⠀
To bring joy in the midst of the hurt
November 16, 2008
A fine line
Divides the pursuit
Of overwhelming joy
From sheer
And loathsome
Irresponsibility
The high tide line
Divides
The rest
Consider us divided
And
Conquered
Even the Spaniards
On the tall ships
Know…
Both victory
And defeat
Taste better
With a dash of salt
And lime
August 3, 2004
What day is it now?
How long has it been?
I miss my lover and my friend
And while it’s not quite really a sin
I’ve now fallen in love
With a very light wind
Someone to speak with
This breeze she is mine
We’ll speak with each other
And we’ll speak in rhyme
While my body’s become
A negative space
Where flesh used to be
And what once had a face
I’m beginning to wonder
If I’ll ever return?
Is this absence forever
Or just a lesson to learn?
A fire to cook with
Or just something to burn?
I’m losing track of my thoughts
Like ash from the urn
But the wind she has born
On her wings my concern
What day is it now?
Has it been long, or rather tall?
What does it mean to be a day?
Or to even have a name at all?
Are they still keeping track?
Still going to, and still going fro?
Is there a go to be there now
Or is there another name to go?
Another long to be this day?
A who to speak when time won’t show?
A hot beneath when would it be?
They say it’s high, but feels quite low
It won’t be then, but it could have been
Blue sky within these hungers grow
Wars could be fought
And we’d still know not
Who lit the fire beneath the pot?
And where is the fish that wasn’t caught?
And what is the point of all this talk?
The wind is quiet, there’s not a lot
To say, and again, what’s the point?
This
This is the point
And the afternoon inside it
Where all things end
Like the sea upon the shore beside it
Our time, it nears
We’ll be leaving soon
Back to the minutes, hours, and years
Because our food is gone and we can’t hide it
Just how long have we really been gone?
Its better not to speak, or even write it
With lead or ink or flame or blood
But we’ve seen the mid-day low
Become the noon high flood
And the moon that was halved
Now both halves show
And that’s it
And that is that
And that is all we need to know
August 1, 2004
Rising up with the sun
Oh how we are blessed
We’ll get it all done
Right after breakfast
A lonely spigot
Sweet water from rust
We’ll refill our jugs
Right after breakfast
We’ll hang our food high
Or else bury it we must
We’ll hide it from bears
Right after breakfast
We’ll commit our damp gear
To the morning sun’s trust
It’ll warm us up too
Right after breakfast
Our coffee rings true
In shining blue metal cups
We’ll drink it down slowly
Right after breakfast
Excuse me for a minute
There’s something I just…
…
…
Urgent business buried
Where the tide last blushed
And I’ll burn the paper trail
Right after breakfast
Rising up with the sun
Indeed we are blessed
We’ll get everything done
Right after breakfast
There’s so much to do
But we aren’t feeling rushed
Think I’ll paint this instead
Right after breakfast
September 2, 2003
After two straight days of rain and a not so inspiring view from inside the tent, I broke down and attempted to paint on this masonite panel even though it was still drizzling. Luckily it never became a downpour. The thought of painting in the rain has resonated with me ever since though…
She cooks an extra portion of every meal
Delivers it to the kids
Whose father is sick and maybe dying
And whose mother travels with him
To doctors far away
Because nothing can be done
Here
She leaves their dinner on the porch
And feels their fear and pain
Seeping up through the floorboards
She’s trying to paint in the rain
The storm is upon us
The paints drip and run
Their colors are true
But we’ll never be done
Though we cannot see clearly
The vision is plain
We wish we could do more
Than just paint in the rain
He asks the waitress what she’d recommend
He’s an artist passing through
Looking for something in this town
Anything to catch his eye
She looks at the table
At the tacos and beers
At the floor below
Her own worn out shoes
And explains to him that
There really isn’t anything interesting
Here
He plants his easel across the corner
And paints the taqueria in her name
It’s just after lunch under a desert sun
But he’s trying to paint in the rain
To make things better
To right the wrongs
To speak the truth
To sing the songs
But the words fall flat
The notes ring in vain
And this song is nothing
But paint in the rain
September 1, 2003
I’ve been in a storm
That seems like it will never end
And it still howls and hammers to this very day
I’m learning to accept
The shivering soaking that follows
Whenever I step out of the shelter
I’ve built in this old heart
It’s walls are made of driftwood
Branches and limbs
From long dead trees
Discarded ideas of the future
That this storm ripped from their roots
And sent into the raging sea
To be worn smooth
And returned to land again
It’s roof is made of a cheap vinyl tarp
A matter of convenience
And lightness
And bang for the buck
It’s all that keeps me dry
But for warmth
Oh for warmth
For warmth a man must step out
And endure the fury of the skies
Crashing upon the earth
He must find something to burn
Like a dead branch on a living pine tree
Heartwood full of pitch that burns hot
Even in this driving rain
I’ve been in a storm
That seemed like it would never end
Until the tender touch of my lover
Calmed the seas
And tamed the wind
Until the hopeful look in my child’s eyes
Pierced the clouds
And sent the darkness back into the light
Until my words built a shelter
In your very heart
And you thanked me
And for me the rain finally stopped
No storm lasts forever
I cannot stop the rain for you
It is enough to know you’ve found shelter
Beneath these weathered lines
But for warmth
Oh for warmth
For warmth you’ll need to venture out
And endure what you must
To find the living tree
And burn it’s dead branches
Heartwood full of pitch that burns hot
Even in this driving rain
