Aquarelle (from Glen)

My arms ache,
my dry mouth wants water.
The bedroom smells
of fresh-sawn pine.

Sunset wind
tickles white ribs
of slanted window blinds.

Shadows, stained tea-brown, seep in.
All that has happened will happen again.

Sidney, Nebraska

The new moon sets,
Wolf River flows dark down to Colorado.
The one far sound
A car out at the crossroads.

The blacktop runs to gravel, runs to grass,
Black mesas jut sharp shoulders to the night.
The prairie speaks in rolling swells of ink
That swamp the four far corners of the sky.

Not even insects sing.
Late August saps their strength
And snaps a cold wave clear across the plain.

The only world alive lies in the air;
The flaming chain of the Milky Way,
The sideways fuzz of faint stars,
The ever-upward falling of the dark.

Phrases Discovered in a Plastic Word Game Toy

Cosign my white speedo
Ryan White in a geode
Bedpan slut has orgy men
Glad toy, crown me in peas
Crap on my gloss weenie
Eat Gumby's poodle
Crayons in wild heaps
Crispy gamete sound
Embryo logic pants
See big claw nip, yes Thor, moan
Slaw being prehuman
Mange wilts B.C. hairdyes
Ed shits warm, blue gloop
Mighty bean dossier
Sausage boy, chew on me
Luby's is a gonad owner
A demon is our light
Sin is bawdy glamour
Help me, send in cat boy
Urgent meals on whips
You are sloe gin
Large men spew doubt on hay
Onanism: wet bed play
Caesar, hemp is bounty
Diner's club has money to wag pie
Grab my topless Donna
The road less Gumby
Don't be a wimpy asshole, G.I.
Gaseous Idol by Chet M. Prawn
Michael Stipe rues day
Uncle had two orgasms, yipee!
Blender paste gains my cow
Lead giant cows
Atom buyer designs chip
New Delhi pigeon boy arms cat
Modern penis globe
Green pus with bloody maniacs
Genocide wastes Romulan
Pansy mules on goat bride
I was a limpo shotgun derby
Limbaugh sorta wipes one
Satan eyes women crop
Iceland tree pig has busy womon
Dialog tense in shy camp
My sea dolphin gets a boner
Oprah gets nude man-boy
Big ripe melon head says "cunt"
Medusa whore gasp nicotine
Maine Coons bite puds
Audra is wench plenty
Pussy eating homo in bed
Nylon crap is a bite
Opie guards Latin women
Herb tea made NYC gossip

Ars Longa, Vita Brevis (from Glen)

A glance, a heartbeat,
the delicious parts
of a machine.
The falling of a leaf.
Streams running to the sea.

Their preciseness lies
finite and whole,
seen through many doors:
Periodic table, canvas, syntax,
the same unity. Different forms.

These are not just shadows.
but a world. Science sees,
art feeds the physical with creativity.
Is not this writing real?
It could only be.

1 Hectare, Eastern Europe (from Glen)

His plot's small, but it seems to suffice
to grow a few greens, so he tends it religiously
on his knees.

The summer sun's hot, but it doesn't show
in his clothes (grimy grey coveralls,
the same ones he wears when it snows)--
though beneath the brim of his blue cotton cap
beads of sweat bulge on his brow,
running into his eyes as he looks down:

He touches tender plants with his hands,
each a small child. He is father to them,
husband to the land,
savior to man.

Awakening (from Glen)

My body pulses heat against chill vestiges of night.
I am light: and rise from the still-shadowed berth
to drift outside, a channel ship
riding out the roads to sea,
to bright beckon of dawn in the east,
where gulls stretch their wings in joyous riot,
dappling bright bands across the beach.

Red, orange, yellow fire sweeps the shore;
a fading frame I soar beyond,
buoyed by the breeze, climbing high.

Ethos

Abstracts and bad dreams, our ethos will tell
which gods we have made
to which people have prayed
like fads they will fade

Lead my Flock of Anguished Thoughts to Lie Inside my Thawing Soul

Give that man a hand, he's found the meaning of his life,
yessir, thank you sir, I owe it all to inner strife;
for so many years I looked no further than my petty ways
until the day the world's confusion led my thoughts astray;
and now I've reached the firm conclusion,
though I don't intend to shock,
but it's a crock

Why

Life is like a burned-out candle
but it's more than I can handle.
Mystic veils
chanting, ranting,
try to find a truth to live by--
living by a sham
(why complain? who gives a damn?)

Why is the sun in a darkened disgrace?
Shrouding the moon like a tear on your face
I can't see why we have to pretend anymore.

Why does the sun cross the sky without end?
Parading the seasons again and again
I can't seem to figure out what I'm here for.

Why
Tell me why I must cry for your love
Why
Tell me why, does the answer lie
in what we say
or what we do;
Can you deny me this moment with you?

Why have the stars in the sky stopped their twinkling?
Why have your words kept me up all night thinking?
Why did I leave you, could I have been wrong?

What I'm Doing

Perhaps you are wondering where all these puerile poems came from; perhaps you are wonder when they will cease. Well, most of them were written by me when I was a teenager or young adult in my early twenties. Some of them (the better ones) were written by my lifelong friend Glen, and they had wound up in the same binder that contained my own pieces. One day I looked at the binder and felt sad because I doubted that I would ever read these dozens of carefully collected pieces of paper, some with typed words, some hand-written. Suddenly I knew what I should do-- transfer them to this blog! If nothing else, it would force me to read them all one more time. After copying them to this blog, I would then destroy the originals, making them perhaps more ephemeral, but also giving them a slight chance of being read by someone other than me. So that is why I am presenting poem after poem for your consideration.

The photos that accompany the poems generally have no thematic relation to them. They comprise the hundreds of random photos that I have taken over the years with my digital camera. Some are interesting, some you probably wonder what possessed me to snap the shot in the first place. Though many of the poems make me cringe with embarrassment, almost all of the photos give me a tiny spark of joy. There was a little frisson of wonder and excitement when I photographed each varied subject. I guess I'm more of a visual person.

Anyway, the poems combined with the photos provide a faint psychic outline of who I am in this tiny but interesting life I have lead.

I Woke Up

I woke up this morning
to the sound of terminal rain
to the sound of moving parts
to a bittersweet refrain
that said:

We are moving faster
We are moving faster
Where we do not know

I woke up this morning
to bind myself to time
to move about in the circular paths
of someone's grand design.

Like a fish out of water, so I felt.
As before the shrine of success I knelt.
I was blessed for doing things as I was told
I was blessed for waking up on time.

I woke up this morning
with a tear drop on my cheek
those around me smiled with compassion
made me feel like such a freak.

I spoke up in voices
that were safe but weren't mine
and though they pleased
they didn't ease my mind.

I looked about through eyes though bleary,
for the first time could see
the emptiness behind the smiles;
the forest for the trees.

I woke up this morning
though I did not get to sleep
my senses awoke;
my nostrils filled deep.

I got up this morning
I looked out my window
The air was filled with forlornness
I could hear a growing crescendo
that said:

We are moving faster
We are moving faster
Where we do not know.

Roll Your Soul

I want to feel your heart tonight
I want to get to know you better
and get the beat alright.

Wanna take you to paradise tonight
Gonna take you home again
Gonna get you through this lovely ecstasy
and then...

     Gotta roll your heart
     Gotta roll your soul
     Gotta get your AC/DC on
     and let your neon glow!

Oh honey, lay it on the table
lay it in my arms
gotta trust me baby
nothin's gonna come to harm.

Wanna take you to paradise tonight
Gonna bring you home (I don't know when)
Gonna get you through this lovely ecstasy
Oh honey, and then...

Bend

As you round the last bend on your final day
and you throw in the towel
and stand there with nothing to say
Do you fear your maker because you've led your life
down the barrel of a gun,
on the edge of a knife?

Eidolon Eyes

The essence of a million magic midnight moments
captured in a single smile
leaves me breathless, leaves me without words
to show my warm, replete, relief.

No, your eidolon eyes cannot disguise the things you feel for me;
two blessed bodies in a web,
our tears of perfect passion shed
the warmness from your flesh,
the warmness from your eyes.
We lie in a carnal mesh;
I want it to be
oh I want it to be
Yes I want it to be like this for eternity.

Will Be Done

Mountains crumble.
The Titans stumble to hell.
Victorious gods.
Immortal frauds cannot fail.
As they rebuild
the world they have killed
they know its future that cannot foretell.
The pain they feel is that his will be done;
Their glory gone, it passes to no one.

Men of iron
hear the sirens of fear.
Corrupted power
shows that the hour is near.
And as they discover
that they can't recover
they do not even ask themselves why.
The pain they feel is that his will be done;
Their glory gone, it passes to no one.

No one knows where they are going,
all are blind, all unknowing;
pressure growing, signs are showing;
can't you see, why can't you feel
that soon his will be done!

His will be done.
Their world has begun to die.
Hopeless healer
tries to conceal its demise.
And as they decay,
their sins holding sway,
His will again wipes the globe clear.
The pain he feels is that his will be done.
His glory gone, he passes it to no one.

Afternoon (from Glen)

Sprays of flower color
close slopes of grass
still green before the sun
can burn them brown.

Summer holds life in hot hands.
Rain is an interloper,
refreshing the blood
of the soon to be slain.

And what of me, weaving in the heat,
tiny shadow trailing behind
like a beaten soul?
Must all flesh wrinkle and die?

I will never be a father.
Life died waiting for autumn.

Reading Letters (from Glen)

I come to exhume spirits,
go beyond ghosts to find you.
I sit at my desk and cold night air
stirs the curtain at the open window.
The street below is silent.

I am quiet too.
I do not want to wake the dead,
only look at them and hear their words again,
a dreamy melody among these folded sheets.
The papers rustle, a soft singing of angels.
I read until the singing ceases.
I hold and hug you and lay you down to sleep.

Pilgrim

I have never been a pilgrim
out for Edens, out for Nirvanas,
for then I'd be out forever.
I am just a pilgrim
out for love,
out for understanding,
out for lunch. 
Much more realistic.