Poetry

From the Spring to the Pond Green Oranges Leaves Fall on the Sidewalk Seven Steps to Poetry The American West

The American West

A cactus – 
sings a slow song 
on the dust of the ancient ocean desert.

A motorized ragweed – 
kills 
The ground it rolls past;

The green, fidgety lizard 
cries at death.

Death – 
wears pink and
dances to cactus music,
just for the fun of it.

Crumbling walls – 
sick of slowly dying,
build themselves into
castles in the wind.

The cactus still sings slow,
but soon killer ragweed,
will roll over it too.

The fidgety lizard
still climbs
on the castles in the wind. 

Green Oranges

Late into the night
words fall from the sky.
Shot down
like streetlights
from a city that weeps
for the dreaming beauty.


Snow falls in June 
wanting company
then melts 
sad,
alone waiting for
the dreaming beauty.

A lonely poet sits at a 
key board turning
procrastination
into
a rippling translucent grove of trees.

Shining leaves whisper 
as a cool breeze scares the farmers.
The unripe oranges sway gently.
The fruit could care less about what happens in the
night.
Life and death are both the same, 
a cycle from brown to green to orange to me…  

waiting:
for words to fall from the silent night sky,
Waiting for you, 
my dreaming beauty.

From the Spring to the Pond

The river by my child hood home
now lies and alone, making the journey  
from the spring to the pond
sliding past rocks, silt and trees.  

As a boy, I play 
hunched over the water, balanced 
tentatively on a rock

I know that at any moment 
the wind might kick up 
and I will be drenched 
by frog-water and mosquito larva.  

Leaves Fall on the Sidewalk

I walk down the street at night
drunk.     My crossed eyes wander around the world fascinated
by the   blinking    yellow    light.   I look
to the left and a   halogen monster   is coming towards me.
I know this cant be good
so, I step to the side and let it go by.   I still have some
sense, that's good. I'll keep going.

The concrete is cracked and wavy.  Wait
no, I think I'm the one that is      wavy.
staggered steps one by one.   I need
to count to focus my mind.
one step two steps.  How much did
I have tonight?

100-proof Manhattan.  mmm. That was
good.  I think I'll have a few more. Three steps
four steps.   Five drinks six drinks.  What
happened to my glasses.   Oh ya, they are in
the ocean.  The curb is too high.  Thud,  my palms
scrape gravel.  My pants tear at my knee.  Blood
drips on my shoe.  Seven eight steps.  I think I'm almost
there.  where do I live?  what happened
to my friends?

ooph, I need a cigarette.

I cant see the road. I think 
i'll count backwards.  Stumble.  eight steps 
from home.  Blue flashing lights cruise by.  Seven steps 
and he didn't see me. White, black stripes in the road.  
What does that mean?  Hazy memories. always  look 
left look right.  Six steps 
nearly there five four three.  they are 
coming easy now.  Its fall.  
My breath hangs in front of me, I think.

Two halogen monsters appear on my left.  
                        Flashes white.
one step.          black.
Thud                flash of white
.....                   flash of red.
Stars above.
Blue jackets     white sheets.
.....                   Flash of red.
one - .
.....                   black.

wave to the night. stop.

Seven Steps to Poetry
(writing up a hill)
   		for s.a.d.

                        I
I fight the winds and the rain 
to get up the hill.  I drive around 
waiting for eye-glasses and listen to 
the Beatles. I fear 
life without up the hill.

                        II
I climb my words like a ladder 
to the top of a cliff.
I sit cross legged, watching the world.

One day a man, six feet tall, long hair, 
just like me comes close.
He says, "Hey, do you think 
I could borrow that?" 
He holds his finger towards my ladder.

I don't need it anymore.
So, he walks away I call out, 
"enjoy."

                        III
On Wednesday the 19th 
up the hill was in pain;

I didn't want to go up the hill, 
but 
sometimes the only thing that can 
bring people together is a kidney infection.  

I never came back down.

                        IV
I can't say I love up the hill. Love 
is too simple for her.
Maybe I'll just call it the 
                           "inexplicable up the hill phenomenon" 
and be done with it.  

                        V
I realize that I have 
spent a half an hour staring out 
the back of a pickup truck thinking of up the hill
just so that I won't be outsmarted next time 
I go up the hill.  
I know it won't work. 

                        VI
Up the hill keeps me on my toes dancing to cat stevens. 
I love dancing to cat stevens, even though 
my feet don't move, my fingers 
            tango across the keyboard and 
                        "I let my (poetry) take me 
where my heart wants to go."  

                        VII
Up the hill is my muse. 
Up the hill emotions range from sad to 
           "the inexplicable up the hill phenomenon," 
but when I'm up the hill, 
            I write.