1.
Silent. Snow
On the ground.
No noise.
Not wind.
Not Bird.
Only the
Occasional
Dropping of water
From the trees.
“Da-lop”
Large, heavy
Beads hitting
Deep beds
Of white.
Then suddenly
“Kur-plasch!”
A whole
Snowball.
Cold radiating
From the
Blinding ground
Steaming
From mid-day sun
Casting
Saw blade shadows
From cactus fronds
On the blank canvas.
To Ascend
To summit
To take to
The high ground
No shelter here
Only vigilance
Every footfall
An icy opportunity
For mass and gravity
To take swing
And change
Your orbit to
Down
“Watch your step”
2.
Silent!
Mountainside
No wind
Only the
Ringing,
Singing
In my ears
And the heavy
Drumbeat
Of my
Overextended
Heart
Palpitating
Out of my
Chest as
I stop
And breathe.
I listen
And hear
Nothing!
The forest
Still, until
The brief
Drop of water
That “blips”
And returns
To the white
Cold canvas.
I found myself
Gripping my pencil
So tightly that
My wedding ring
Was causing pain
To shoot down my finger
—breathe—
Stopped long enough
To pay attention
And relax.
Another estimation
Of my repetitions
Not sure if it
Is a descent
Or a final
Ascension to
New heights so
That I might
Get a better
Point of view
My circling
Routine must
Be leading to
Something besides
Its own orbit.
Restrained cognitions
Deprived hindsight
Severed Apparition
Lost in transit
Words fall; boulders
Rolling out of mouths
A landslide smolders
With the smoke
Of their stale statements
(Stalemate)
Old bread, forgotten wisdom
You can’t couple every pear 🍐
Eat of the fruit; a
Dance for the tastebuds
Of a flavorful mind
Fruits take labors
And time and care
So where? Does that leave us
Always from the needs;
Us; Trying to find commonality
(Community)
We do not try hard enough
(Rest)
We try again tomorrow!
Medieval metaphors made molten
From smelters pour golden inspirations
Forming the meld of American spirit
William Shakespeare shook out the cobble stones
And delivered us the metaphor of morality and love
Psychology and introspection a
History of the rise and fall of Kings.
As this foundation stuck to the ages
And was carried on small wagons across
American plains to fill cold nights with
Tales and poetry opening up the
Minds of young industrious Yankees.
So Whitman took the book and transposed
The old English voice into the rambling
Preamble of the Frontier Epic.
To open the roads to dreams of new beginnings
In a place where Men’s spirit alone can create
Everything he needs to be whole. Here in
The Wild Yonder…where he mends walls with Frost.
A stone’s turn
To William’s rigid
Architecture
Constructed
Modernism
A new rhythm
Inflamed
With Jazz
And a desire
To vanquish
Sentimentalities
And strip
The poetic
Vocal chord
Down
To its
Objective
Objectified
Truth that
Documents but
Leaves the
Spirit
Longing—
The point—
Perhaps in
This dis-
Enfranchised
Voice
song without
It’s own desires —
attachments
I saw the
Volcanoes 3
In front of me
History
I saw the
Heavenly Stars
The Light from These
History
I saw
The thoughts
In my head
The reflections
They said,
“History”
My Present
Human Being
Exists in
The Past
I build the Future here.
Whipping tail
Chassis loose
On the move
No control
Hope there’s
Nothing
Behind you now
Pressing forward
Counter balance
Brings you back
To straight lines
With a shimmy ~
The only one
who thinks in poetry
is seemingly me.
(surprisingly)
Perhaps it’s you
who thinks
in broken lines,
metaphors and ink.
But to the rest
I must plainly digress
into lyric rust
For on the shelf
These prisoners ||\|||\
(pioneers)
must sit
until they’re unhinged \_/
Or read aloud
to a half-listening crowd
Seeking
Enlightenment?
So you wrote a poem
And you called it a song
Only counts if you can sing it
Let’s hum along
But if it’s just a poem
Then leave it as you wrote
For I don’t need your melody
To stick in my parched throat
Yet if ye be a singer
Then sing your hearts content
I like to Rage and Hammer on
And scream and bang my head.