Uncategorized

  • Poem of a memory

    Choir Trip, Washington DC, 1992

    We are lost. Three college girls with tired legs. We are lost. There is more than one mall in the city and there is no more grass to tread. We are lost. The van did not come. A woman with shit dried to her pants asks us for money we don’t have to give. The van did not come. A guy with a part down the middle stops his car and flashes a wad of cash through his window. The van did not come. It is getting dark and the man on a park bench bends back his neck as a teen girl’s head hovers and pulses rhythmically. It is getting dark. We go into a building marked Technology Solutions. The van did not come. A security guard is kind and lets us sit down. It is dark and the police are called. The van did not come and we are lost for five hours. We sit on the lobby floor as our quadriceps shake and we split the security guard’s lunch. She has a kind face, it is so dark. Red and blue lights flicker. A woman with two teeth asks the cop for a light. The flame glows in the dark. We are lost and calm now. The guard makes us laugh, tells us to hide fish in the van. The officer talks to dispatch and garbled voices say that we are not lost, the van is coming. You are not lost when people know to look for you. We will sing tomorrow. Dawn cracks the dark.

  • Mother’s Day Poem

    Memory-Stream

    We enter the water together
    my mother and I as the waves
    wash over each of us,
    either in ripples or in torrents.

    The color of the water too
    changes, green entering
    into blue, receding then to
    brown, mottled with leaves

    and other debris like
    discarded matches from
    long-ago fires. We do not talk
    about the dead flies and
    withered branches,

    but instead, the shimmering flit
    of a dragonfly, melodious
    spring peepers echoing a
    cadenza over the
    water-song.

  • A first draft from today

    Marina

    I am walking over the water
    river calm beneath me
    wild wind tossing
    my dress in the air
    sunlight stinging my eyes
    with rust and too much brilliance
    I am surrounded by music
    above the Allegheny
    still as a sheet
    of brown stained glass.

  • Come Find Me

    Some Sunday stream of consciousness. I dedicate this to my friend Craig, a college chum who’s sharing of a memory got the words flowing today.

    Come Find Me
    (For Craig)

    Come find me
    I am sitting in the back
    My head tipped down
    over a book.

    Come find me
    I am at my table alone
    The salsa I am eating
    is too spicy

    Come find me
    I am looking for
    a face with creases
    still furrowed from the night.

    Come find me
    I am not in need
    but my falafel
    is enormous.

    Come find me
    I am in samsara
    A new cycle
    is beginning to turn

    Come find me
    I am drinking coffee
    and gazing at a poster
    of noir classics

    Come find me
    I am below the speakers
    they are playing The Beatles
    and I think of Italy.

    Come find me
    I am near the brochures
    There will be art classes
    coming this spring

  • New Poem

    Lounge Lizards

     

     

    I spilled the iced tea you bought me

    fiddling with the watch on your wrist,

    thought of how you were one surprise after another.

    We listened to the chicken sizzling

    on the grill, the fleshy smell

    wafting in from the open patio door.

     

    You told me stories of the steel mills,

    the rock bands you didn’t like in the 70’s,

    the girl you dumped in high school

    because a wrestler mauled her tits

    inside a darkened movie house.

     

    I let you know why my heart was hard,

    that in the grunge era I showered once a week,

    a girl named Lori broke my confused heart in college,

    how I almost lost my virginity on prom night

    but then didn’t because I started to cry.

     

    Later on in bed as you grazed my navel

    I realized that I had fallen

    harder than you could ever know

    and your eyes of gunmetal blue

    blazed like a neon sign

    in the middle of the night.

  • Poem for March 28

    Out Like a Lamb

    Standing outside in Pittsburgh
    the air is too frigid
    for the first week in spring.
    The wind smells of
    rotting hydrangeas,
    growth stifled by
    the late falling snow,
    their kindness spent
    on a heart that was too small.

    This is a season of death.

    Some springs are infertile
    when the ground is hard and cold,
    the firmament is laid open
    and the distant Sun closes its eye,
    the cracked earth breaks open
    with a cavernous tomb mouth.
    I slug down an ancient cup
    of coal black coffee,
    its warmth used up too quickly
    as I snuff out
    my last organic cigarette.

  • On the occasion of spying your technology

    I was sorry to see the headphones
    hiding artfully beneath your hair.
    When they were invisible,
    you were damaged by your own music
    head bobbing and swaying
    to phantom songs only
    and ever heard in that vacuum
    of thoughts and illusions.
    Hallucinations are the best
    when they belong to someone else
    and I wanted to see yours
    in that desperate way I have about me.

  • Ritter’s Diner and other poems

    Ritter’s Diner is an establishment in Pittsburgh.  It’s a 24/7 diner, closing only for a few hours every Christmas and opening again for dinner Christmas night.  It is a favorite hangout for me and many of my friends.  I am not sure, but this very well might be the first poem about them.

    Here is the December 15 poem for the poem-a-day project.

    Breaking a Heart in 3 Easy Steps
    (a found poem from the Ritter’s Diner table jukebox)

         1

    You caught me at a bad time, singing a blue note,
    the new kid in town at the Sad Cafe
    so I’ll tell you little lies as long as you follow,
    I’ll sit in the chariot even when it rains;
    I’m an uneasy rider, but that’s the way it is in America.
    Who do you love when you talk too much?
    Angel-doll, can we retrace our steps, the error of our ways?
    My sweet dark lady, save up all your tears.
    Sooner or later, we all sleep alone.

         2

    I was riding with Motown Philly to the end of your road,
    a friend of the devil for one more Saturday,
    gardening at night in a radio free Europe,
    trying to get the feeling again even now.
    The girls’ gone wild and it’s too far to turn around;
    I won’t paint it black when time is on my side.

        3

    Only the lonely cry when its over.
    I ain’t the one to go searching when Tuesday is gone.
    Old friend, we are standing at the crossroads
    and all I do for your love is my redemption song.
    I think about the way we were and I ask you to trust in me,
    every picture tells a story and you give me a reason to believe.
    I ride the train to Deadwood Mountain drinking about you,
    wondering who you’d be today; somebody to take me home.

  • More December Poems!

    I’ve been great about staying on task and writing a poem a day.  However, I’ve been bad about posting them on my blog.  So anyway, here’s a bunch!  They are short so it won’t take me (or you I hope!) very long to catch up.  Will also post again tomorrow so there’s not so much reading at once.

    12/11/2012
    Autism, circa 1980

    In my dreams, the girls would tease,
    laughing as their weightless buyont bodies
    would take wing, helping them achieve flight
    as they skipped in a circle faster and faster,
    holding hands with their pockets full of posies,
    their feet getting lighter and higher
    toes gently scraping the ground until
    the wind held them suspended above the earth,
    their dimpled cheeks curved upwards
    as the cupid mouths screamed “catch up!”
    and even though I threw my body into the air
    I knew I never would.

    12/12/12
    Anthem for a Muse

    Her song eases the burden of love;
    Her song touches dreams,
    touches body with slick cool wetness.

    Her voice carries the weight of poetry;
    Her voice is electricity, is creation,
    washes body in light and diamonds.

    Her music is imagination and words;
    her music is ebullience and anguish,
    gives birth to body in psychosis and suspense.

    Her art is in the singing, in interpretation;
    Her art is the darkness of soul and the tremble of joy,
    it is the quiver of the body, the “yes” of what you’ve always wanted.

    12/13/12
    Question

    She asked me not to read
    anything that would keep her up at night.
    What is wrong with being nudged and prodded,
    being rolled and held by a lover’s words,
    being nipped and plucked by
    surreptitious syllables falling from the tongue
    that will lash and lick at you,
    leaving you weeping at the beauty of the dark?

    12/14/12
    Sentinel

    The guardian angel
    constantly disquieted
    porcelain face darkening
    in hues of uneasiness
    appeasement whispered
    on a perturbed temple
    clearing away the wreckage
    of an insensible mouth
    quiet breath and lip
    looking all the more
    like a child of heaven
    the halo a diffused light of tears.

  • 12/10/12 Poem

    The poem-a-day project for December is going very well, and I love when my friends give me words/thoughts/phrases to work with.  The Muses for this poem are my friend Suzanne (who has made the list twice so far, this time with the word “quixotic”) and another friend who wished to remain anonymous as he’s a shy private person.  I will say about the subject that it was inspired by his spirit and his brilliant philosophical mind.

    Core and consciousness
     
     
    Moving in a mysterious pattern,
    veiled and vaster than
    anything I have known,
    radiating, glowing, shifting
    like its own universe, orbiting
    at an inexplicable speed,
    complex, quixotic, extraordinary,
    immeasurable depths, unplumbed intricacies,
    I want to explore every part as
    it continues to excite, expound,
    and there is always so much more to see.