Helen sends me scraps of poems for repair. "Shreds of lettuce," she calls them. I fool around with them in my role as Poetry Doctor (see my banner photo). In her extended absence, I will post our convolutions. While the final product is mine, the vision, the imagery, the notion of the poem is all hers and therein lies the true authorship.
From Helen, Dec 2
Here is the last of the salad,
dressing not required...
Upon a plate
pushed to the side
and be scrapped
were we all begin
as fodder for worms
but our own pride
The Human Word Salad
Now it is dressed....
all poems, no exception,
the bad, the exceptional,
wormwood, wormword ancestors,
feast on the scraps,
garbage letters discarded,
the wilts of alpha lettuce,
the word waste of the
every day beta jabber,
plate pushed-aside decorations,
all but none, bystanders
turn them into words,
though inedible, incapable,
of nourishing life individually,
yet their recycled deliciousness,
each sole word,
re-birthed in the compost
of the delivery room of that bin,
meet in the maternity ward
of our minds
and all the true nourishment
the world needs
When you fall out of love,
your soul drowns
into a bath of suffocation.
It wanders, lost in a realm
of pain and heartache, worse
than any imaginable nightmare.
It questions its worth,
in life, in reality...
Some say it's a
that heals with
time and experience.
As the saying goes...
"You have to go through the bad to get
to the good."
... how ambiguous.
How long will I have to wait?
Will there be any good?
How do I know this is true?
This is a stab wound.
Although it will heal.
The scar tissue will
in time that cannot be
I gave those
moments to you.
I gave my heart to you.
I even let myself love you.
You were safe
and you made my soul
You made me feel as
though nothing in
the world could take me down...
A ball of confidence I was...
But most importantly...
I felt happy.
Why would you...
want me to feel any other way?
You said you loved me.
And I guess,
the hardest thing
to come to
terms with is...
it meant nothing to you.
It was just a passage of time,
a short distance.
But, I did learn something.
I will never again
fall in love
until I'm ready to fall out of love.
He stands as a pillar of stone
At the door
To the passage to his heart
He made his mistakes
He won't again
Love cost him dearly
She sits on her bed
Because the man
That she loved
Threw her away
Treated her like trash
For a woman who is
Love cost her dearly
They sit on opposite sides of the room
They don't talk
If they did
They would just
Both sure that they're right
They won't compromise
So stuck in their ways
Love cost them dearly
Love is not the
When you're with them
It's pushing through to the end
True love starts
When the warm fuzzies are gone
I closed my eyes and woke a tick past seven.
Awake, I slipped into my favorite dream
where the wine dark sea called my name
in a sweet fine whisper, and where I
knew how to respond the theme.
You returned to me as I to you
after the water remembers the warmth of the shore.
Bountiful bouquets of sun blessed heavy arms
And nothing relieved my aching soul more.
In my slumber I swam through some beautiful seas.
Bathed in the nectarine skies and lilac showers,
I call your name from between the breeze-
Lay they silent my voice escaped suns closing setting lids.
Reminding me how you closed your eyes near me too,
and how my glory swimming in the arms of you
was just me dreaming dreams of blue (It was not true).
Jerry and Elaine are sitting in Monk’s diner on the Upper West Side.
The place still has that old Manhattan feeling: a film of grease on the
booths, pink packets of Spelnda at every table, and the waitresses, in
their frumpy yellow uniforms, have no manners and less patience.
Jerry is lifting a white mug to his mouth, slurping milk-diluted coffee
between his lips, “Y’know Elaine, it’s fine to say you believe in nothing,
but even nothing is something.” Elaine is only half-listening, all
morning she’s been worried about the rumored round of layoffs
eminent at Pendant Publishing, where she’s been reading
manuscripts for the last seven years, and she doesn’t have much
interest in another one of Jerry’s philosophical observations. “But
Jerry,” she says, in a slightly annoyed tone of voice, “if nothingness
awaits us; if when we die we simply cease to exist, then that is true
nothingness. The absence of an afterlife really does imply that there’s
nothing." Jerry raises his eyebrows, lulls another sip of coffee around
his mouth, and mulls this over. For a few mornings in a row he’s been
waking with a new sense of smallness that he’s never felt before; even
in a city as cold as New York, Jerry had never thought much about his
infinitesimal place in the chaotic clockwork of the universe until
recently. “Okay, so maybe you’re right, when we’re dead we’re
nothing. But if you asked me what I did today I would tell you I did
nothing, but what I really did was wake up, and read the paper, and
come here to meet you for coffee – that’s all something. Therefore,
even if we’re not aware that we’re dead, even if there’s no afterlife,
being dead is still a state of being.” Elaine sighs, her mind is off on
another island – if she does get laid off will she have to downsize her
apartment? Or worse, find a roommate? She takes a deep breath,
wondering if there’s a way she can facilely change the subject when,
much to her relief, George walks into the diner. He’s wearing a red
winter parka, which strikes both Elaine and Jerry as odd given that it’s
sixty degrees and sunny outside. He slides into the booth next to
Elaine, runs his hand across his bald head, and in a tone of existential
bereavement moans, “It’s not working for me Jerry, it’s just not
working.” “What is it that isn’t working?” “It all became very clear to
me that today the every decision I’ve made in my life has been wrong.
My life is the complete opposite of everything I want it to be. Every
instinct I have, whether it be something to wear, something to eat,
has been wrong…” Jerry and Elaine look at their friend, unsure of what
to say. At that moment one of the waitress approaches the table, gives
George a knowing look, and in her two pack a day voice says, “Tuna on
toast, coleslaw, cup of coffee?” George looks up at her, he’s about to
say yes when suddenly an alien impulse stops him. He crinkles his
forehead and says, “No. I always have tuna on toast. Nothing has ever
worked out for me with tuna on toast…” The waitress, looking slightly
bemused by George's neurotic tone, pulls the pencil from behind her
ear and the order pad from her apron pocket. “I want the complete
opposite of tuna on toast. Chicken salad… on rye… untoasted… with a
side of potato salad… and a cup of tea!” The waitress scribbles this
down, gives a quick nod, and hurries back towards the kitchen.
Elaine, shaking her head and laughing, says “Well, there’s no telling
what will come of this.” Jerry is half-smiling, his elbow propped up on
the table, his hand holding his chin. “Let me ask you something
George, do you think nothing is something?” George stares back at
Jerry silently, not sure how to respond. Elaine grabs a hold of George’s
arm, squeezing it with a measure of alarm and says, “George,”
pointing toward the bar, “that woman keeps looking at you.” George
looks in the direction of her point at the tall, thin, blonde woman in a
powder blue dress, her long alabaster legs extending down to a pair
of black spike-heeled shoes. “So?” George says, and Elaine, in a tone
of gentle encouragement responds, “So go talk to her.” George rolls his
eyes – his friend should know by now that his uneasiness in crowds
and lack of self-confidence renders such a suggestion as erroneous.
“Well here’s your chance to try the opposite,” Jerry interjects, “instead
of tuna salad and being intimidated by women; chicken salad and
walking right up to them. If every instinct you have is wrong then the
opposite would have to be right.” George leans back, smirks, “You’re
right,” he tugs on the lapels of his parka adjusting it to his shoulders,
“normally I would sit here and do nothing and regret it for the rest of
the day, so now I will do the opposite and I will do something!” With
that he jumps to his feet, and with an unshakeable pit of trepidation
being to cross the dirty dinner floor toward the leggy blond. The walk
was only several feet, but somehow that expanse felt much greater,
recalling the nervousness with which he would cross a middle school
gymnasium floor to ask one of the girls to dance. “Excuse me,” he said
to the blonde, feeling like he had an anvil crushing down on his chest,
“I couldn’t help but notice that you were looking in my general
direction,” She smiles, pushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear
and through her red lipstick lips says, “Yes. You just ordered the same
exact lunch as me.”
it is true
when we give our blood too much
we aid in disempowerment
constant giving in love and providing does set unhealthy-precedent
and when it falters in its expected-rhythm
ugly-tantrums get thrown, bordering on disrespect
demands kick in hard upon trod-floor of insidious-hooks
there's always a rider for the other party on tightrope-theatre
some or other condition to feed the monster of excitement
while health straddles some jarring regions
in hostile-spitting strong enough to lance startling-injury
shoelaces dripped in hazard-oil over a generational-canyon
provides unwanted-fodder for establishing long-term slippage
(no! you weren't raised this way.. where does this stem from?)
there has been no failure to show how humans act and speak
this is unacceptable)
oh............you want / you want / you want..... all.the.time.
then kick up unholy-storms where there's a break in rhyme
get ye, lad.. go practise your ire on a field
go throw a stick on the prairie
go find your path, you're old enough
yer insolence plain sucks!
(I could tell you .. you're rude.. go home,
but you already are!)
S T - 10 dec 13
it needs hair on teeth and grit in mouth to swallow some stuff, but persevere against adversity.. not always flippin' easy.
to teach independence and responsibility to children is a constant and ongoing thing.. one can hardly let up..
yeah, I guess it's the old adage of repetition, repetition, repetition ...
(there's a poem I half-remember.... about parents letting go of their offspring... natural pattern..)
between jagged-rocks and petulant-push
how breathes a soul
stuck in places where no space moves?
reach for the blue one.. then, a white one
later.. three small ones
wooden wheels of erstwhile-splendour
interest little to jelly already set
skull goes numb in efforts
can't keep placating, no
wrong to wring neck of bird
who feeds well the keeper
who keeps warm the feeder
who helps to lift the spirit
Remember all these days,
for it's the beginning of always.
Here is a promise.
for persisting though life so long alone,
in the possibility and achievement of true love.
to ignore and simply rise above the pain of the past.
which at once binds two souls and yet severs prior ties.
of the chance taken and the challenges that lie ahead.
For two will always be stronger than one,
like a team braced against the world.
Trust that Love shall always be the guiding force in our lives.
For even saying words
"I Love You"
is just a mere formality.
An announcement to the world
of feelings long held.
Promises made long ago..
In the scared spaces of our hearts.
Today's the day..
Where all the
Where doubts are relinquished
and worries diminished.
Here we are so long later from meeting
and being total strangers to now being all this.
We both have been through lots together in this short time.
We've braved through some tough days but also we've had some of the greatest days together too.
The best part,
The happiest part,
I know we have so many more to come.
This is without a doubt one of the craziest and biggest decisions I've ever made,
But.. I have never wanted something or someone this bad in my life, so it's you —
You're the one I want standing next to me when all my dreams come true.
I'd make this choice only if it was with you.
We've earned this babe,
everything up to this moment.
We're one huge step closer and soon,
I'll be seeing you.
I Love You.
The things that I never ever told you
And all the smiles that are never ever, gonna be
All the wounds that are forever gonna scar me
For all the ghosts that are forever gonna haunt me
I'm not burning bridges, I'm cutting ties
You start with pity, and then you despise
But, it's only because you now realize
That this pack of white lies and alibis,
These stories by which you were tantalized
To no surprise were just fantasized
By a mind over-worked, projected through to cold, pale, eyes.
I'm your cherished childhood plaything, barely given a single thought
Toss me with the rest of your keepsakes in your souvenir box
Just a container filled with the memories of the days you smiled a lot
Used to make you laugh more than anything, now I'm just where you stash your pot.
You bet your ass I cared alot, I loved you twice, you loved me not
It's sad, but true, no more flowers grew
I hope next season something blooms for you
But, for now I've given all I got, I've grasped these stems until the petals rot
I'm digging up the roots I grew and movin' on to soil another plot
don't try to chase me
now that the pace is changing
from a crawl into a trot
please, stop lying
don't say you're trying
when you've barely given a shot
my silver tongue did shine so untrue
every time just so I could protect you
from the worries that would plague your mind if you knew
exactly what it is that I've gone through...
but here's what I plan to do:
Grab a cup, drink it up, soak up the Sunday news
The end is near, you're the last one here, what have you got to lose?
So, just fill your lungs and laugh all night long; put on your dancin' shoes
Play your last song it'll not be long before your soul walks out on you
I just close my eyes and let all pass by; begin to pay my dues
Time goes fast, so I took my chance, dancing with my devils to the Pale Moonlight Blues.
I'm under cardiac arrest, tried two times couldn't pass the test
At least when I'm at worst I can't be any less
At best my brain is pained by songs of protest
And you can bet I did my best to forget
I went through solitary confinement, momentarily confident
I'm impressed I haven't died yet, on the contrary, I despise it
Why do I kick myself for providing the ropes by which my hands are bound
When I should just strike out and bite the hands that tied it
it's time to go...
I bet a fiddle of gold you can't save your soul; can't solve a mystery if you don't have a clue
Try as you might, you won't win a single fight until you learn how to lose
Oh, you'll never know until you're on your own what it's like to have the Blues
I've been there before, I can't take a second more, that much I know is true
So, just close your eyes and kiss all goodbye; it's time to pay your dues
As time burns to ash, so does your final chance
To dance with your devils to the Pale Moonlight Blues
I love poetry
For there is nothing more natural and free
Than my lines
The words,the images..
Smoothly make their way from my brain
( throught my heart)
To my fingers
And I write them just as they come.
I love poetry
For one word sentences are still full of meaning
No one will ask about the verb the subject the object and the adverb
They are all there, the meaning is all there
Of course the readers might wonder about the story behind it
Who caused it? How does it taste like? How old is it.. ?
And I, the poet ..could be generous enough
To quinch their curiosity
But a true poet would answer questions
Which haven't been asked
Questions like : Where? ( in the library)
Doing what? ( forgetting)
In what? ( books)
And my poem would be something like:
In the library
Forgetting my heartache
I love poetry
For I can give my poem
A title as irrelevant as : Angels can be terrible
And nobody will complain
( though it's not that irrelevant)
What's Mickey without Minnie?
What's Tigger without Pooh?
What's Donald without Daisy?
What's me without you?
When Peter Pan can't fly
And when Simba never roars
When Alice can't
fit through small doors
And when Dumbo's ears
And when happily ever after
That's when I'll stop loving you.