i write
because i have this stuff--i don't know what
inside of me
and it doesn't belong there
rotting away at my bones making them weak and my vision blurry
i'm a volcano spewing pain
trying to make sense of what i'm feeling
a tennis match between myself, a weakling
and twenty foot tall beasts of my imagination
i'm losing
and then
i'm winning
i'm turning my monsters into flowers that thrive best in volcanic ash
and i write
because i love seeing the flowers bloom

There is a new chill in the air,
my aging bones attest to
its bitter sting.

Dog days of summer have passed,
change is in the air.
Colors change,
moods are different.
All around us,
melancholy sets in
as we prepare for
winter’s doldrums.

Through arthritic reminders,
my body prepares to battle
this northern climate’s
failure at global warming.

Yet it’s not an end
to anything,
but rather a beginning.

Fall into winter
so we can
spring into summer.

It really is
perfect.

Murmured voices break the silence

To my right
a cute couple clink
their wine glasses together
in a celebratory toast.

Off to the left,
an older gentleman
engages an old-ish lady
in whispered conversation.
I’m guessing he’s whispering
sweet nothings to his bride.

The well dressed young man
standing at the bar
survey’s the crowd,
looking restless.
He seems to be waiting
for…

Ah, that beautiful girl
that just walked in.
Her eyes light up,
his face breaks into
a big smile.

I love the ambience
of this old place.
Red carpets,
dim lights,
candles flickering in
every direction.

My time here is
almost done.
I only need
some sugar
for this last
cup of coffee.

I don't always see the ghost-
he chooses a wicker chair to sit-
seems to be the problem when past comes to dine.
I don't always see them-
the empty obscure references
as they drip like baby saliva from pale lips
places we've been,
things we've done.
The past sits across.
pinky out daintily
as past will do
when drinking champagne
and talking about the
good days.
I see him like James Dean leaning against the door frame.
I feel like Grace Kelly
Flipping blonde hair flips in dip and twirling curl,
licking pink lips as if they were full of icing on cupcakes.
Yes, I do not see him.
Here I go again flirting with the past.
I do not see the emptiness of the stare
as he looks across to me
I think foolishly it is star crossed love-
and grab his hand to slip wistfully through my own
and pull him grudgingly forward.
I zoom with him room through room,
looking for a place to hold him.
And the  present sits forlornly on my front porch.
dejectedly he sits.
And the presents gift-
of soon wilted flower
lay on his lap...
And the present stares through the window
as I waltz with a ghost.
I do not see, I can not see.
I do not see the ghost.

Sahn 10/03/14

Somewhere

Somehow

I can’t identify when
it changed.

I saw things differently,
my eyes no longer covered
by an opaque way
of thinking.

Sunshine brightened this world
with unimagined colors,
butterflies broke free,
songbirds warbled lovely tunes.

Amidst emerging beauty
words became
every day’s lifeblood;
I found my voice.

All around me,
there was change,
yet everything remained
the same.
For it was me
that changed.
Reborn, rewired.
My heart drummed
a brand new beat.

Driven by transformation,
I wrote. I write.
Adding a dash of color.
Singing harmony
to surrounding melodies.
I am changing.
I am writing.
I am a poet.

I am prepared
to experience
joy with pain,
success via failure.

My mind is opening up
to creative vibes,
my muse is beckoned
once again.

I long for
that euphoric ******
when a new poem
is born,

yet I fear a block
which prevents any thoughts
from becoming
alive.

Write! Ignore all obstacles
which stop my passion
from existing.
Think outside the box.

Listen.
Feel.

My heart will guide
inspirations into
words.

And through it all,
I will learn
to write again.

“It is time to write,” she says
I open a new Word Document.
A blank sheet.
My mind does not want to write an essay.
I write in verse and
chopped lines
not straight paragraphs that drone on and on about William Faulkner and his acceptance speech.
My mind, it drifts off and thinks in flowery words, much too flowery for an essay.
My fingers start typing and words appear on the screen.

Enter.
Type, type, type.
Enter. Type, type, type. Enter.

My thoughts appear in verse and William Faulkner goes unnoticed.

How many times have I written about the whirlwind of a storm inside my mind instead of
whether or not cohabitation is a good thing or
speeches about equal access and the themes in Harper Lee’s To **** a Mockingbird?
How many times have I given into my urge to write and relieve my brain of the pressure that gets built up instead of writing things that will earn me a grade?
The answer is often.
The grade,
Just a number
The conceptions?
Just words

What I write in procrastination?
Everything that bleeds from my heart.
The low grade I received on my speech because I couldn’t be bothered to write about horrid subjects when my soul yearned for something greater?
Worth it.

anything is
anything can
be
a poem
if you
will it
there are
no rules
in poetry
at least
not in
my
poetry

In a memory, in a postcard, in a corner, in my mind.
I tuck it there and wrap it well
old newsprint to mark its date.
In a bottle, on the bottom, in the lake, in winter,
I ship it there and throw out anchor
and watch it as it bobs.
In a place I won't remember
as soon as I remember to forget you-
I'll have shelved you
and stocked you
inventoried and packed you.
And then I'll say,
"just where did I leave that thing,
that heart of mine?"
And then I'll say,
"What was that thing I remembered to forget?"
In a thought that I won't think of you
when I think enough to think again
Is where I'll banish you to.
Yes, In the that place where the lost things
stay lost.
In that place where broken pieces stay broke.
I will take you
and your soft way-
long kiss, tired eyes, weary heart.
No. No, I'm remembering again.
Infested.
I'm infested.

Sahn
9/18/14

Storm into that room so you will be seen, and
hold up high, sun salute
that body, that vessel you got!
Take every vertebrae, mmm pull it taught
Pull it.
Pull it as twine itself
wrapped around my words-
each bone
creaking like footfalls on old wooden stairs.
And look directly at your soul-
Do not squirm in the shame
of your nakedness -
beautiful lustful abundantly naked-
Instead
Crest, oh lord,
White swirling madness of intentions.
and  take these old bones, baby-
take this body
Take these old bones of mine and pull them up,
Stretch, find the strength! and pull-
Take those limped shoulders and throw them back to the gods!
Oh your rusted soul, fill it with water from the Darma ***** Crick.
And it might
burn-
sting and sour.
Make you cough, choke and sputter.
But oh
Renewed, Renewed!
And you start out with the feet, kicking rocks on the road, mmmm.
And end with the head bowed back with a psalm bouncing on
red berry lips, mmm
Oh, yes! Hands out to glory, oh feet moving, dancing
hot pavement below like Hades.
Step and another, another.
Until  your out of  frame...
Oh glory is the road.
Cleaned and cleansed as you go,
Hear me? Cleansed as you go, down Sinner Lane.
Cleansed and cleansing is the road
of the
revival parade.

sahn 8/25/14