Jun 2015
Preface
(not even 9:00 am and
I've wet myself
this was my to be
my Poet Palm Sunday,
when my pen is in
some room,
by other's well hidden,
and composition is a prohibition,
the hours yet to come,
come negligently but happily,
whiled and whittled,
reading the better poetry of others,
on this, a day of rest for the
body's satisfaction
and the body of the soul's,
even greater
yet a day of rest,
be not South Pole opposite
from a day of no North Pole work
this early I-am-risen Sunday dawn,
finds me focused, two dog ears alert,
forty one poems in descending order,
read and wept over and upon,
a real, not a faux Bush,
"mission accomplished"
lived long and occasionally prospered,
of poets, I am familiar some,
of writing poetry,
have learned my sums,
know what is likeable
love what is
loving and loveable
it is the poetry of every day life
of strange noises of strangers
in the mid of night,
dogs rhythmically snoring,
while you curse/overcome
the bright eyed, darkened alertness of insomnia
by word whittling yourself,
by the softness of skin of a grand kid
that momentarily manages to convince,
it was indeed,
all worth it
the zoo animals of the lawn and trees,
singing concertos in any minor they please,
as long as it's major enough
to command the world's attention
six stanzas and yet have not commenced,
the task God gave me this sabbath morn,
for the problem with seeing the world,
thru the filter of aging eyes,
is you grow vulnerable, wistful,
distracted by your own ancient feeling streams
that lie too deep in the Manhattan schist
of what others call, your heart,
but somehow still manage
to bubble up and geyser out your eyes)
~~~
Joe Cottonwood
as Patton said to Rommel,
"I've read your book"
the book of forty one poems
that are the products of
years in the making, with tools
that hang upon the belt of yourself,
that you acquired long before
the leathered and weathered
tool belt of four decades of you daily dress,
was first ever worn
you tell us of your ancestry,
thus reveal your story simple intimate,
and by the fourth or fifth essay,
our poetic ancestor,
Walt Whitman,
was readily apparent,
in the little life things
the American and all families
celebrate
of my six decades,
I yet
still struggle for a summary definition
of who I am,
what I'm worth,
yet weep at your simple eloquence,
self described scribe and man
detailing a life well lived
Hammer nails. Write poems. Bake bread. Shake hands.
is that all there is?
Oh god there are veins
in this poet run deeper than the
iron ore that makes his nails,
the sun ray mines that electric heat
his bread oven
they are mined by me this morning
he does not write of
anguish, blood, love or scars,
that are newly born on a
summer's day youthful blush,
no, he writes of
anguish, blood, love or scars
that humans accumulate,
and in poetry encapsulate
of a life very well lived
I know you Joe,
and apologize for the
paucity of mine,
in honoring yours...
~~~
Postface**
the coffee beans grinding,
the pots banging,
the music suddenly turned softer,
surely constellation cosmic signs
that a lover's breakfast soon to arrive
so I away, but in earnest plead,
share the simple joyousness
of his poetry,
and our communal Sunday
and everyday lives
will be indeed come
as a day of comfort blessed,
the only toil,
tear removal...
(not even 9:00 am and
I've wet myself
this was my to be
my Poet Palm Sunday,
when my pen is in
some room,
by other's well hidden,
and composition is a prohibition,
the hours yet to come,
come negligently but happily,
whiled and whittled,
reading the better poetry of others,
on this, a day of rest for the
body's satisfaction
and the body of the soul's,
even greater
yet a day of rest,
be not South Pole opposite
from a day of no North Pole work
this early I-am-risen Sunday dawn,
finds me focused, two dog ears alert,
forty one poems in descending order,
read and wept over and upon,
a real, not a faux Bush,
"mission accomplished"
lived long and occasionally prospered,
of poets, I am familiar some,
of writing poetry,
have learned my sums,
know what is likeable
love what is
loving and loveable
it is the poetry of every day life
of strange noises of strangers
in the mid of night,
dogs rhythmically snoring,
while you curse/overcome
the bright eyed, darkened alertness of insomnia
by word whittling yourself,
by the softness of skin of a grand kid
that momentarily manages to convince,
it was indeed,
all worth it
the zoo animals of the lawn and trees,
singing concertos in any minor they please,
as long as it's major enough
to command the world's attention
six stanzas and yet have not commenced,
the task God gave me this sabbath morn,
for the problem with seeing the world,
thru the filter of aging eyes,
is you grow vulnerable, wistful,
distracted by your own ancient feeling streams
that lie too deep in the Manhattan schist
of what others call, your heart,
but somehow still manage
to bubble up and geyser out your eyes)
~~~
Joe Cottonwood
as Patton said to Rommel,
"I've read your book"
the book of forty one poems
that are the products of
years in the making, with tools
that hang upon the belt of yourself,
that you acquired long before
the leathered and weathered
tool belt of four decades of you daily dress,
was first ever worn
you tell us of your ancestry,
thus reveal your story simple intimate,
and by the fourth or fifth essay,
our poetic ancestor,
Walt Whitman,
was readily apparent,
in the little life things
the American and all families
celebrate
of my six decades,
I yet
still struggle for a summary definition
of who I am,
what I'm worth,
yet weep at your simple eloquence,
self described scribe and man
detailing a life well lived
Hammer nails. Write poems. Bake bread. Shake hands.
is that all there is?
Oh god there are veins
in this poet run deeper than the
iron ore that makes his nails,
the sun ray mines that electric heat
his bread oven
they are mined by me this morning
he does not write of
anguish, blood, love or scars,
that are newly born on a
summer's day youthful blush,
no, he writes of
anguish, blood, love or scars
that humans accumulate,
and in poetry encapsulate
of a life very well lived
I know you Joe,
and apologize for the
paucity of mine,
in honoring yours...
~~~
Postface**
the coffee beans grinding,
the pots banging,
the music suddenly turned softer,
surely constellation cosmic signs
that a lover's breakfast soon to arrive
so I away, but in earnest plead,
share the simple joyousness
of his poetry,
and our communal Sunday
and everyday lives
will be indeed come
as a day of comfort blessed,
the only toil,
tear removal...
If your value a skill and love
that captures more of life and love,
please read
http://hellopoetry.com/joe-cottonwood/
a single excerpt,
no two, a sampler
~
Coffee and corn bread.
They putter about with weekend chores:
she waters plants; he snakes the cursed toilet.
They take turns riding the exercise bike.
He cleans the hot tub filter;
she stretches yoga-like while listening to an audiobook.
He makes a wooden toy, gift for a grandchild;
she prepares chicken burgers and salad.
They watch a movie from Netflix
about Miss Potter, Beatrix
a rebel of another century.
In the dark, outdoors, scarred bodies
water-slick in the moonlight,
they soak in the hot tub
while a dog guards, sphinx position, ears *****
to the rustle of raccoons in the underbrush.
At fifteen minutes to midnight
as steam wafts in moonbeams
she says, “Hey — it’s our anniversary.”
Almost forgotten. The forty-sixth. Or fifty-first
in a different calculus, because at the wedding
they’d already been lovers five years. He sings
Oh my love is a wallflower
so pretty and so shy
She answers:
No boy I’d ever marry
until you gave me a try.
Under water, their toes touch.
~
old bronze
your cheek, so brown
old bronze
brushed with down
shekels of freckles
over a dusky moon
bronze is an alloy
forged in heat
shaped in art
durable as stone
darkens with age
glows when rubbed
still warm
against my lips
that captures more of life and love,
please read
http://hellopoetry.com/joe-cottonwood/
a single excerpt,
no two, a sampler
~
Coffee and corn bread.
They putter about with weekend chores:
she waters plants; he snakes the cursed toilet.
They take turns riding the exercise bike.
He cleans the hot tub filter;
she stretches yoga-like while listening to an audiobook.
He makes a wooden toy, gift for a grandchild;
she prepares chicken burgers and salad.
They watch a movie from Netflix
about Miss Potter, Beatrix
a rebel of another century.
In the dark, outdoors, scarred bodies
water-slick in the moonlight,
they soak in the hot tub
while a dog guards, sphinx position, ears *****
to the rustle of raccoons in the underbrush.
At fifteen minutes to midnight
as steam wafts in moonbeams
she says, “Hey — it’s our anniversary.”
Almost forgotten. The forty-sixth. Or fifty-first
in a different calculus, because at the wedding
they’d already been lovers five years. He sings
Oh my love is a wallflower
so pretty and so shy
She answers:
No boy I’d ever marry
until you gave me a try.
Under water, their toes touch.
~
old bronze
your cheek, so brown
old bronze
brushed with down
shekels of freckles
over a dusky moon
bronze is an alloy
forged in heat
shaped in art
durable as stone
darkens with age
glows when rubbed
still warm
against my lips
(M/nyc)
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