A midnight poet,
she calls herself.
Because the cascading words,
come to her
wrapped up in shiny moonlight,
served on blankets of darkness,
stars dusted lightly on top.
Her inspiration
rides the midnight breeze
swiftly and gently
to her window,
waiting patiently for her
to lift the glass up
and greet them warmly.
So there she sits,
next to the open window
waiting for the perfect moment
to say hello.
To invite her loyal inspiration in
for some midnight tea,
and although she says
she’s not fond of midnight snacks
She pours herself
a steaming mug of metaphors
and serves couplets
with the drink.
After a comfortable chat,
Inspiration takes its leave
out the window
on the breeze in which it came.
And so the girl
is left lonely once more,
but not truly alone.
She has her words,
her rhymes,
her metaphors,
and her couplets
to keep her company
as she forms it all
into beautiful verses
that capture the heart.
As she sits by her window,
the midnight poet
notices how soft the sky looks,
dark and freckled with stars.
The sweet sky comforts her
as she mourns her bitter loneliness into verses,
or envelops her in maddening, exciting emptiness
as she writes
or simply sleeps
by her window.
The midnight poet
sighs gently
catching the wily night’s attention
And draws poetry from its
calming,
yet sly,
grin.
The girl catches falling stars
made of verses
from her pretty window seat.
She finds lines tucked behind faraway planets,
makes metaphors from the moonlight,
comfortable in the darkness’s embrace.
The midnight poet
coaxes poetry from the freckled night sky
And tucks it into her pocket
For safekeeping.
To keep
as an ever loyal
companion.
A reminder
of her home.
A poem of the night.
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 2:49 PM UTC
flatten your tongue
slip it between your teeth
_n._
your little lips
forming an elipsis
_o._
put them together
and may you declare
a word you’d so carefully deny—
_no._
you spell it out
on table tops
shout it
from the rooftops
and when cursed hands
seek to defile your shrine
may you exclaim
_"i am mine"_
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 5:32 PM UTC
In my real life,
not a poet,
just an astronomer,
an observer of
universes, bodies,
places, faces,
visited, discovered,
named and oft,
best forgot.
I observe:
Some never find true love.
Some never fly first class.
Some of us
never see the
South of France.
Some of us wear
hand-me-down pants,
white lined creases when “let down,”
mocked, we never forgive ourselves
the shame of it.
Some never experience
reckless abandon.
Yet, some of us are
recklessly abandoned,
and never forget,
and never forgive.
Some of us lose
children, husbands,
avanti nel tempo,
before their time,
and
the anger is
forever, palpable,
costly.
Some of us
were raised by
someone else's parents,
and never rest easy,
the abandoned taste
always nearby,
a cruel living, breathing
teasing wasting
Some we can pass over
with ease,
as new tissue grows,
those cuts marked -
emotionally healed.
But the ones that scar,
the ones that visible scar
permanent reddened,
are the
holocaust deniers
that there is a real
promised land of
peace of mind.
Peace of mind -
not even for a second,
foretold but
*unrealized,
a biblical myth,
a promised land,
a capitalist paradisal hoax.*
Some never feel
public victory,
adulation, adoration,
always wearing the T-shirt labeled
Property of Someone Else.
Most of us remain
unpublished, undiscovered,
unremarked, blanketed,
cloaked in bills to pay;
Living a triumvirate of
heart ache, loneliness, worry,
our normal table fare
consists
of hand to hand
into the mouth
combat MRE's*,
we engage,
to survive,
just stay alive.
We are not digitalized,
nonetheless,
we are
but digits,
our faces hidden, and
in no one's heart book
are we recorded,
friended,
yet our viewing habits,
purchases, secret sites
are enumerated, captured.
Some of us live
exclusively
in the real life,
never to escape to the
province of Wifi,
in the landscape
of the electronic mind,
an option for which
we are
untrained.
Perhaps sanctity of separation,
safety of text, email,
avec the ******* intrusion
of tweets are
the real life today,
games are always won,
and what we don't enjoy,
we just delete away
But In My Real Life
getting up is trying,
IMRL,
the trying is trying,
IMRL,
delete buttons don't exist
in the keyboard
of our brains,
IMRL,
all we have is a
measly twenty six aleph bets
to find new ways to say
that living is striving and
what we feel is
oh so real,
not digital
IMRL,
when I laugh out loud,
the neighbors
beat the walls,
complainants,
registering their feelings
in my face,
in my book,
so to speak.
IMRL,
I got a friend,
maybe two,
all I need,
voices to help soften
the 400 blows of RL.
Their synthesized silence
of their breathing
on the phone
is precious unto me.
IRL,
limp from Friday
night to
Friday
night,
a bottle of Medoc
my weekend reward,
my bedrock cushion
in order to sleep.
After all these years,
gains and losses,
conversations with God,
I look up,
see the risk,
the slightest breeze
is a
hurricane wind.
The shaft,
of the
the sword
hanging above me
the hilt,
swaying in living color,
is no legend.
But what I have is
the ability
and maybe
the responsibility
to let anyone know
that
in my real life
anyone who touches me
with fine and good intent,
a momentary glancing blow
or a gunshot to the ventricle,
is part and parcel of
my real life.
This makes you real too,
savior, and hereby notified,
that you are not
just an observer, but
a poet of me,
an astronomer of my heart,
and namer of
a secret universe
inside of me.
Sept. 1, 2010
_________________________________
*US Army jargon: meals ready to eat
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 6:44 PM UTC