Aug 2013
Seven New Poems For Seven Days #6 & 7: Live like you're dying
Perhaps you know the lyric, the song?
Live like your dying.
Dying caught my ear, my eye, can't imagine why.
Con-Textual emendation, Natalino style.
Live like your writing.
Yes, that makes sense...
Embrace with passion each new session
Charge every second stanza with ruminating rhythms,
Cut the wires to the air traffic control sensory tower, go solo,
Pulse each word, beat all into a plowshare, even the anger,
Even the hate, dressed to ****, in words, forgivable...
Grant the mundane, the insane, even the pain of tragedy,
You refuse so hardily to glorify, grant it and
Record it all - a moment,
A royal audience with all
Your writing parts.
No fancy footing, keep it simple.
No jesters in rain puddles,
Let images of clouds of sand
Born and perish in other's eyes and sighs, let verbal games bedevil other
Wooden puppet princes drinking fairy ales.
Huh?
Write clean and clear,
Let the sheerest wonderment of a new combination,
Be the titillation of the tongue's alliteration,
No head scratching at oblique verbal gestation,
Let words clear speak, each letter a speck,
That gives and grants clarification, sensational.
You, afternoon quenching Coronas, white T shirts,
Sun glazes and later, a summer eve's Sancerre,
Wave gazing on the reality of rusted beach chairs,
Babies sandy naked, washed in waves of Chardonnay,
The traffic-filled word-way highways and bay ways,
Exiting at the Poet's Nook, for exegesis & retrieval.
Write of:
Body shakes and juices, skin-staining tongues,
Taking her, afternoon, unexpectedly, her noises your derring-do!
Broken tear ducts, the Off switch, so busted, write about
Real stuff.
Write not in fear of dying
Angels delivering bad news in vacuum tubes,
Write joyous, psalms of loving life,
Live like your writing,
Write like your living,
So you may die well.
Perhaps you know the lyric, the song?
Live like your dying.
Dying caught my ear, my eye, can't imagine why.
Con-Textual emendation, Natalino style.
Live like your writing.
Yes, that makes sense...
Embrace with passion each new session
Charge every second stanza with ruminating rhythms,
Cut the wires to the air traffic control sensory tower, go solo,
Pulse each word, beat all into a plowshare, even the anger,
Even the hate, dressed to ****, in words, forgivable...
Grant the mundane, the insane, even the pain of tragedy,
You refuse so hardily to glorify, grant it and
Record it all - a moment,
A royal audience with all
Your writing parts.
No fancy footing, keep it simple.
No jesters in rain puddles,
Let images of clouds of sand
Born and perish in other's eyes and sighs, let verbal games bedevil other
Wooden puppet princes drinking fairy ales.
Huh?
Write clean and clear,
Let the sheerest wonderment of a new combination,
Be the titillation of the tongue's alliteration,
No head scratching at oblique verbal gestation,
Let words clear speak, each letter a speck,
That gives and grants clarification, sensational.
You, afternoon quenching Coronas, white T shirts,
Sun glazes and later, a summer eve's Sancerre,
Wave gazing on the reality of rusted beach chairs,
Babies sandy naked, washed in waves of Chardonnay,
The traffic-filled word-way highways and bay ways,
Exiting at the Poet's Nook, for exegesis & retrieval.
Write of:
Body shakes and juices, skin-staining tongues,
Taking her, afternoon, unexpectedly, her noises your derring-do!
Broken tear ducts, the Off switch, so busted, write about
Real stuff.
Write not in fear of dying
Angels delivering bad news in vacuum tubes,
Write joyous, psalms of loving life,
Live like your writing,
Write like your living,
So you may die well.
This poem~title, been on my "to write" list,
In a wine cellar of stored notion~nuances,
A smack-down list of ideas that require:
aging, awaiting, body and fleshing,
ruminating, brooding, masticating.
Challenges, lying, comfortably asleep in my iPad.
Sometime when bereft,
these well used empty Mason Jars
catch my glinting eyes.
Bell Jars ringing, finger wagging,
attention deficit needy,
to punctuate the season of bad timing.
Need pie-filling, plum jelly-canning,
crying out like a sad ole country song,
twanging, achy breaky, heart breaking sounds of
Write me write me write me!
So now you are done, to sit and stew, till ready for
Next year's pleasured tasting
The last of the poems inpired by the passing of my mother. Tho I wrote only six in all, there is a good reason for that. I set myself a challenge before the funeral to complete this "collection." This last title was indeed sitting on my list of titles in need of a poem, when I tripped on it as the way to finish the task.
In a wine cellar of stored notion~nuances,
A smack-down list of ideas that require:
aging, awaiting, body and fleshing,
ruminating, brooding, masticating.
Challenges, lying, comfortably asleep in my iPad.
Sometime when bereft,
these well used empty Mason Jars
catch my glinting eyes.
Bell Jars ringing, finger wagging,
attention deficit needy,
to punctuate the season of bad timing.
Need pie-filling, plum jelly-canning,
crying out like a sad ole country song,
twanging, achy breaky, heart breaking sounds of
Write me write me write me!
So now you are done, to sit and stew, till ready for
Next year's pleasured tasting
The last of the poems inpired by the passing of my mother. Tho I wrote only six in all, there is a good reason for that. I set myself a challenge before the funeral to complete this "collection." This last title was indeed sitting on my list of titles in need of a poem, when I tripped on it as the way to finish the task.
