"anchors" poems
There were dividing lines
between Springfield
and Mariners Gate
soft, subtle lines
that spoke of origin
and code
and biting union
it was all
the reason
for being;
alive and living
dead or dying
deep in a pack
of pint size resistors
hell bent on the
marsh crow
and cannabis tower
jumping the rush
with *** shots
and anchors
and tribunals
camouflage creepers
and transient floaters
marked rebellion at the gates
(skullduggery and taunt
high on their favor list)
jack straws and flat paddles
for the evening charade
beakers and flailing hands
from the foot washing baptist
(the Pleasant Street conservatives with their
own something to say…“there’s gonna be hell to pay!”)
there's a
lingering effect
to this sentiment
(evident in the pump house stride)
the river winds
blow gently
into the night
as the huddling packers
and **** backs
chase the evening hours
it’s a bitter sweet
end of an era;
those traction bars
hood scoops
and nickel bags
will always
be the rage
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 11:13 PM UTC
Searching my heart for its true sorrow,
This is the thing I find to be:
That I am weary of words and people,
Sick of the city, wanting the sea;
Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness
Of the strong wind and shattered spray;
Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound
Of the big surf that breaks all day.
Always before about my dooryard,
Marking the reach of the winter sea,
Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood,
Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea;
Always I climbed the wave at morning,
Shook the sand from my shoes at night,
That now am caught beneath great buildings,
Stricken with noise, confused with light.
If I could hear the green piles groaning
Under the windy wooden piers,
See once again the bobbing barrels,
And the black sticks that fence the weirs,
If I could see the weedy mussels
Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls,
Hear once again the hungry crying
Overhead, of the wheeling gulls,
Feel once again the shanty straining
Under the turning of the tide,
Fear once again the rising freshet,
Dread the bell in the fog outside,—
I should be happy,—that was happy
All day long on the coast of Maine!
I have a need to hold and handle
Shells and anchors and ships again!
I should be happy, that am happy
Never at all since I came here.
I am too long away from water.
I have a need of water near.
31.5k
For centuries philosophers have speculated the role sleep plays in society
But it was not until the 1950s that sleep woke up in academia
And today sleep studies show what dormant minds really look like
Information about our rest we've never seen before
However, I've always understood the importance of bedtime
You see my parents taught me that sleep and love are soul mates
My mom
She's the sleeper
She loves to sleep
She cuddles up on any piece of furniture in my house and snoozes for hours
Never views a sitcom past the first commercial break when she's tired
And she's okay with that
Dad never lets her drive on road trips when night falls
Preferring his sleeping beauty tucked safely in the passenger seat
Their hands meet as she lets the stars serenade her to slumber
While he anchors his left hand on the steering wheel
Thanking his lucky stars for his real life princess
My dad
He's the snorer
He loves to snore
He roars like a lion on his love seat and naps for hours
Never views a sitcom past the second commercial break when he's tired
And he's okay with that
Mom never lets him sleep alone too long though
Keeping his nose plugged strong enough to signal for bedtime
They both stand together as he lets her guide him to slumber
While she ushers her left hand around his back
Thanking her lucky stars for her own prince charming
Now my parents call me the dreamer
And I sure do love to dream
It seems my parents are textbook role models for me
Because when you live inside a fairytale for far too long
Your reality becomes an endless stream of fantasies
Your expectations are exceptionally out of context
Strictly written for poetic lines in picture books
Never meant to be held
Never meant to be felt
Only meant for spines stuck on rosewood shelves
My parents call me the dreamer
And boy I love to dream
I believe in creating the unthinkable
And when you live inside a fairytale for far too long
Nothing is fictional
You picture a life with storybook endings
Praying the author never runs out of ink
You crown each syllable the king of the moment
Treating each page like royalty
And I've always been okay with that
So when I asked my mom when she knew she fell in love
She spoke of an instant of unadulterated emotion
She said she knew instantly
She didn't need to sleep on it
When I asked my dad when he knew he fell in love
He just smiled back at me
He must have known instantly
He didn't even speak on it
So when I ask myself when I might fall in love
I can't help but smile
Think of fairytale titles
Mile wide love notes in all shapes and styles
And a moment where my reality sets my hopes on fire
And I won't need to dream about it anymore
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
and i am eleven again
feeling like tomorrow
is a couple yesterday's ago
smothered in cayenne pepper
hot enough to take off taste buds
and tonight i am eating a meal
only worth burning
it tastes like my parents anniversary
it tastes like a zinfandel
left on the counter too long
it's a bad story, see
there's no silverware
'cause my mom sold it
to keep the lights on
and somewhere in heaven
somebody in a suit
doing commentary
on this fiasco
is telling someone else
in a suit that
"you have to eat love with your hands"
so we sit, four plates on the table
for the two of us
my brother's long gone
dad's even further away
& he's not the one who's buried
i carry both their names like anchors
that i cannot unmoor from
while she looks at the empty table
and says something about the news
she says something else
but she's not talking
we aren't proud of this, see
my dad likes to wax his car
he's proud of it
and my mom says
she sees a lot of him in my hands
says, i touch the things i find
like they didn't belong
to people sleeping in the ground
she says i touch photo albums
the same way-
you know,
i never used to believe
that history could repeat itself
not until i could
fast forward seventeen years
and still wake up to smoke alarms
how i would go into our kitchen
to find it empty
and the dinner smoldering
& my mother in her bedroom
looking through family photos
like it's a just another summer day
and the sirens are just the birds
i don't ask, i never say a word
in this moment
i am an archeologist
afraid to dig up the past
cause history repeats itself-
you see
my brother is dead
and my father is gone
they have been for some years now
and my mother
sometimes forgets
and sets their place at the table
like they're still here
and in the confusion
ends up ankle deep
in pictures of how it used to be
she let's dinner burn
and douses it in red pepper
hoping i won't know the difference
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
*
Cné
I believe in love...
In a blink of an eye, a life goes by
extinguished in the end.
And all that's done returns to dust.
No omen can portend.
Yet love lives on, infecting all
and never really dies
It goes beyond the realm of man
to live in fragrant skies.
And on the spacious sea of clouds,
it waits to find a port.
And then it anchors in a soul
to caper and cavort.
Traveler
Perhaps
In the emotional beginning
When head was yet held high
Stumbling through clouds
Of bright blurry skies
Love was a foolish quest
Of paralyzing highs
And now you're telling me
Love can never die?
Cné
Translucent,
the clouds we've sailed
and golden sunsets made
Kisses that we could have had
while watching rainbows fade.
Alas, a life's too short to spend
in fathomless regret.
Perhaps the wheel will turn again
another lifetime yet.
And so, my love
the voyage goes on,
to "golden years"?
We'll see.
Until
the other side reveals
what shall become of "we".
Traveler
Indeed
A dangerous theory
I can't imagine
Love roaming free
The source of all misery
Another invisible ghost
Possessing unaware host
Surely
Love is the blood we bleed
All across time and history
Love is more than a mere key
More than a want
Love is a need...
**Cné
Traveler Tim**
*
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 10:41 AM UTC
Willets cull the seawall
snapper on the grill
rock ***** swoon
in shallow lagoons
long boats pass
under quiet
palm shade
Plovers dance and flutter
handrails frayed and torn
graffiti spots
at lovers rock
frigate-birds fall
from a high
noon sun
Thatched roof on a mud wall
fish flags settle score
anchors arch
in front line march
pillar cracks form
under rust brown scars
Elegant tern and grebe
watchmen fall in cue
children play
on crested waves
whimbrels and notchers
perch above Tentaciones
Striped pelícanos
the bandits of the sea!
merchants grow
in steady flow
siblings jostle
in a tide cooled sand
Heerman gull and boobie
durango smoke in yurt
boiler shrimp
and puffer blimp
castle buckets and scrapers
under a dusk light cheroot
Six pulls on a lead line
painted toes in sand
shearwater run
in a rainbow sun
the portly mexicano
flaunts his tacos
and wares
Rooster house for swordfish
bamboo shoots and sails
broken shells
and ocean swells
rise
on the
perfect
La Ropa bay
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 2:22 PM UTC
#
*if you are the ocean
then I am the mist
that kisses the morning
the way I’d want
to be kissed
if you are the ocean
then anchors aweigh
we'll sail through the evening
and on to the light
the daystar is dawning
we'll keep to the right
like Peter and Wendy
to Neverlands' door
we'll sail on forever
and touch every shore
if you are the ocean,
come wash me away
to some misty morning
and there we will play
if you are the ocean,
then sing me a song
of sailors and treasures
and places long gone
if you are the ocean
come wash me away
to a place, together we’ll
forever stay...*
#
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 6:05 AM UTC
What if
I had fallen to my knees
On the cold parking lot concrete
Tears washing over my cheeks
And cries no one should ever have to hear
Bellowing out from beneath my ribs
Screaming at the sky
Looking up at your face
Forcing you
(and everyone else)
To see me in this godforsaken state
Of absolute chaos
Heartbreak
In it's rawest form
What if I had begged you to stay?
What if I'd told you I can't do this without you?
What if I'd told you how much I needed you
What if I did anything other than fighting back the tears
Maybe for myself, maybe for you,
Mostly for the crowd of people gathering
Saying their goodbyes
Anxiously looking around to bear witness to everyone else's reactions
And I didn't want to be that girl
That girl who falls to the ground
Kicking and screaming and crying and begging
But what if I was?
What if I was any girl other than the one I pretended to be that day
The one that held her tongue and kept her mouth shut because she knew the second she opened it to speak she would sob
The one that wrapped her arms around you for the last time,
and the one that let go
The one that couldn't bear to watch you walk away
So she kissed you goodbye
Got back in the car
And drove home
What if i wasn't that girl who didnt allow herself to completely fall apart until she was alone in the privacy of her own home?
What if instead I'd made a scene,
Doing what everything inside me so desperately wanted to
Grabbing hold of your hand and refusing to let go
Losing the facade of confidence
The charade of strength
But I'm not that girl
And I never will be
So each and every time you leave
I kiss you goodbye
I unclench my fists and retract my anchors
I untether my heart from it's human home
And I put on a brave face
Maybe for myself, maybe for you,
Or maybe
For that girl.
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 12:19 PM UTC
To distant lands
And open doors,
To bright white sands
On distant shores,
I must away.
I cannot stay.
Set free the sails!
We must make haste
To catch the gales!
No time must waste
To seize the day;
Anchors aweigh!
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 2:11 AM UTC
you sowed this **** into my brain...
why do you even "think"
that i want... you?
i, want your children...
the meme-mutation is what i'm
after...
and there are plenty of useful idiots
to allow me to process
the intermediating processes
for: the sigma, "accomplishment";
which is unlike
what infected mushroom's -
trance party track sounds like,
outside of my own head.
why do these people even
think i'm after their genes
of memes?
i want, their infantile
replicas...
i want to craft a
worthwhile curiosity,
on a canvas, that that they call
their gene replicas, children,
and... like why called me...
easy meat..
einfachfleisch...
what?
i'm not here for these news' anchors...
i'm here for their children...
nibble nibble nibble chew chow
cow tow and main...
prawn crackers...
ah... news anchors are
easy targets...
slightly pointless
20x bulls eye honing devices...
it's their children...
i want their children...
i want their cognition
to become replica of wheelchair
bound infirmaries;
why?
oh... you know...
football and wrestling,
given the Qatar investment plan...
the whole sport "thing"
became a tad bit boring...
had to resort to secondary sources
of entertainment;
children of news anchors?
the secondary, "last",
albeit, the best resort;
schindler...
required a list,
to become reincarnated...
and revive a **** a heartlessness
of an reincarnation
anomaly:
i.e.: what, a limited number
of people, to begin with?!
so the rest is primitive "a.i."?
now i'm starting to think...
thank the blue indians
for their culinary innovations...
but when it comes
to their theology?
**** 'em;
did i advocate that?
if i did... within what pronoun
guarantee of advocacy?
playing the grammar card...
which pronoun?
the plural singular,
or the singular plural,
or the gender neutral?
thank you jean-paul sartre,
for the... "i"...
i simply love, this revised concept
of a unit...
the revision clinging
to the royalist affirmation of pronouns...
i.e. 1 would say... so...
and 1... would, so, will, do so.
**** the pronoun debate
in Canadian politics...
if i have to resort to this?
then i will...
like your plain citizen...
may "i" speak within
the confines, of the royal, one,
given the example:
one might suppose...
to be the former, and the current,
highest, etiquette?
gender neutrality of pronouns...
last time i checked...
one was never allowed
pronoun stature...
why not address this
conundrum, to begin with?!
oh, right... too late...
too many loud mouths
without a guillotine...
so, basically, a cow fart's
worth of argumentation.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 11:51 PM UTC
My mother had two faces and a frying ***
where she cooked up her daughters
into girls
before she fixed our dinner.
My mother had two faces
and a broken ***
where she hid out a perfect daughter
who was not me
I am the sun and moon and forever hungry
for her eyes.
I bear two women upon my back
one dark and rich and hidden
in the ivory hungers of the other
mother
pale as a witch
yet steady and familiar
brings me bread and terror
in my sleep
her ******* are huge exciting anchors
in the midnight storm.
All this has been
before
in my mother's bed
time has no sense
I have no brothers
and my sisters are cruel.
Mother I need
mother I need
mother I need your blackness now
as the august earth needs rain.
I am
the sun and moon and forever hungry
the sharpened edge
where day and night shall meet
and not be
one.
7.2k
Isn’t it
Wonderful,
The suffocating love of a hundred people
They want you, what’s best for you
What’s best for you, what is best for you?
Rejecting them means rejecting love,
but you are in short supply of you
As demand increases, so does price
the price of you
the price is you.
Sanity sets in, escape’s let out
every night let it out,
beats staying in
Some are in short supply of love
********
Not you
The suffocating love of a hundred people let you know
Across the room, across the country
a hundred people can’t help
shedding ‘bout one sixty does
only, you have to shed it
anchors only work when attached
love
it pulls your judgment, mind from its foundation
wants to make your choices
wants to make your coffee
you start to save you,
in a container with a seal
the shiny latch makes a pop noise
You can see through the otherside
No one can get in,
Not with the pop noise
Its where you keep you
in the house, Close the door
pressure mounts
let it out in
drops,
thoughts and blood
watch it heal, know you’re better
lets you know,
you are better, you are better
You are Better,
better isn’t with help, it doesn’t come with age
it’s a choice you make
the suffocating love of a hundred people
they pile on blankets, keeps you warm
but at a hundred blankets deep you aren’t moving
move.
Don’t think about me, don’t think about him
Just move and keep moving,
roots and anchors
Learn which is which
Remember which is which
Act on which is which
you grow roots, anchors are placed upon you
usually around the neck region.
Box up all the memories, store them if you like
But don’t stay attached, burn if necessary
Anchors only work if they’re attached
You can’t ‘be ready’ for something that’s already happened
It’s the past in those boxes,
the fond death of past nothings,
Life only exists in the future,
Not to be too dramatic but we’re dying, right now
in the present
we breath out life out as we speak
Only the future has life, stored as potential
just take the steps
cut out the cancer
if you want to be ready for something, be ready for what’s next
May 16, 2010
May 16, 2010 at 9:46 AM UTC
Lungs burning with affliction, no prayer can help you realize that you are on fire.
Help me, open my ribcage and read the encryption that is my heart.
This is where my ideas form; this is where the magic happens.
This is where trees become homes when I turn to prose.
This is where love becomes tangible.
Take the helm from my chest cavity and steer me home.
Sew me back up and pretend you didn’t figure out how my mind works from studying my heartbeat.
You can keep my memories there, keep my stanzas there.
But you cannot lock up an idea.
Do you realize that every single time you open your mouth I’m wishing I could have a lobotomy?
I don’t want my brain to miss you when you leave.
I don’t want my heart to miss you when it realizes that it no longer beats in sync with yours.
You can take yourself away from me.
You can make me cry so the salt water stings my face like it’s a burning map.
You can take my poems from my veins and scatter them in the river.
But you cannot lock up an idea.
Oh Captain my captain, I think we are going down.
But everyone is just an arm’s length from drowning.
When life preservers are anchors and every single thing is whispering for you to sink.
The Bermuda triangle is just another place where sailors go to pray and what kind of god ***** you in and tests you with a tempest?
You and I are so much more than child’s play.
Tell me to stay.
Tell me my ideas do not belong on the ocean floor.
Because you cannot lock up an idea.
If the sun shines through your blinds, think of me.
Think of the morning.
But without all your leaving.
Don’t think of the bags packed, of the plane tickets bought.
Of the ferry setting off its horn for you in the middle of the night.
Think of the morning.
Without all your leaving.
With the coffee, with the metaphors that were leaking through the walls as you blinked.
You wanted to keep them for yourself, hold them hostage in your bones.
But you cannot lock up an idea.
So next time you think of leaving, think of taking the ferry across the ocean.
Next time you think of whispering my secrets into the waves that kiss the rocks like they are not hurting anyone, think of me first.
Without the poems.
Before I even started writing.
Remember how I chased butterflies and the sunset.
How I begged you to let me climb up on the roof to watch the sun rise again.
Remember that my ideas are my prayers to a god I have not yet found in the curve of your spine.
Remember that I want nothing more than to not have to miss you.
Remember that every time you dismiss my words, my art, my need to chase the sunset; you are diminishing my creativity.
Remember that you cannot lock up an idea.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
I fell in love twice the first time.
First pinching myself assuring the initial first.
The initial first I realized how silent love was.
Seeing all but hearing nothing.
This was my first kiss.
Coming into contact with a quiver my lips
have never before felt.
Falling in love twice.
Certain that I am uncertain of nothing.
Learning to speak a new language.
Lips poked out.
Exposed to foreign land.
Overlooking my feet.
My ship never before having sailed.
Day turned to night.
My heart stead fast.
Crashing against the ripple of tides.
The experience of something new,
Tides pulled by the hull of rubber soles.
Our arms like anchors.
Our feet hesitant, losing all feeling of finding ground.
Our tongue the cargo set to provide entry
into things no longer forbidden.
Night reconstructs day.
The initial first of two times I fell in love.
Eyes closed.
Our breath becoming more shallow,
Passing through the canal of each others mouths.
Overlooking the side of my nose against hers.
An anchor dropped.
Chain link after chain link, plunged deep
Far from the shore of everything I knew.
My shoes soaked.
The pavement with every reason to worry.
Forever fractured.
This anchor falling faster and faster.
Without worry of kink
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 7:44 PM UTC
your mouth is on fire, i am
between it. the smoke
which we are forever in need of
swims like salmon in between brain and skull
scared (rinse and repeat this part)
i beat into you, desperately
carving the cold flesh twitching
as though recalling a bad dream
but you cave into yourself. a sand castle
shifting and dripping with sea
eyes cast off like anchors
i want, w-want, sorry (in a whisper)
stuttering and shaking and trying,
forever trying, to save
something, anything
of this moonlight which wakes me
i break open my chest, unzip the seams
of my lungs and invite you inside
offering a home,
how selfish. how heavy,
and you crumble into dirt and ash,
prayers answer, destiny
met. left behind, i am buried under you.
asleep. unseeing.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 1:29 AM UTC
I was a child of the river. Always living within walking distance of the restless water, the uneasy docks, and the anchors that kept the boats steady. Even as the current smacked against the starboars, the sailboats would waiver but never fall. I admired their tenacity. A child of the river: strong but restless; the anchor and the starboard; a suburban sadness-- a yearning for something beyond the river, but too weighed down to sail. A child of the river, stuck in a stagnant town.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 12:31 AM UTC
Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
Sail on, O Union, strong and great!
Humanity with all its fears,
With all the hopes of future years,
Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
We know what Master laid thy keel,
What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
In what a forge and what a heat
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
’Tis of the wave and not the rock;
’Tis but the flapping of the sail,
And not a rent made by the gale!
In spite of rock and tempest’s roar,
In spite of false lights on the shore,
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee.
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our faith triumphant o’er our fears,
Are all with thee,—are all with thee!
4.4k
I was the tides and you were the moon,
you brought me too close all too soon
and just like the tides all I can feel is the cold
we suddenly came crashing to a unfortunate halt.
You shouldn't have said you revolve round another
my voice sounds so dull when before it was thunder
if these words were lies I would surely paint them white
because honestly baby, I just don't wanna fight.
So please won't you stop rubbing salt in my wounds?
I wish what we had could again be resumed
however you are the moon and no doubt you'll move on
I barely even had you and you're already gone.
So your words are like anchors and I'm helplessly drowning
my heart was so strong but you stopped its pounding.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 4:30 PM UTC
Ladle Guilt, blame, and regret into me
Someone should convict me and restrict me from emotion
Crest-fallen, I yearn for redamancy
I tormented time with a turbulent fallacy
Condemn my illicit distribution of preconceived notion
Ladle guilt, blame, and regret into me
I can’t recall tasting stories without choking on hypocracy
For all that makes peace & love stems from chaotic commotion
Crest-fallen, I yearn for redamancy
But too long my eyes merely saw until the day I learned to see
Not importance placed like a trophy case but in honest raw devotion
Ladle guilt, blame, and regret into me
Promises sink like anchors, for their nightmare’s being free
We struggled finding solace and settled for continuous motion
Crest-fallen, I yearn for redamancy
If only I could do things differently
Cast a spell, think before I speak, perhaps produce a potion
Ladle guilt, blame, and regret into me
Crest-fallen, I yearn for redamancy
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 6:53 AM UTC
Unconditional love
Amazing journey above
Truth or Lie?
Or just one more catchphrase?
.
Freedom or the Cage
Freedom in a cage
Hard decision
We have to make
.
Complexity and fluidity
Loving without condition
Behavior versus a feeling
No more restriction
.
Non-attachments
No chains or anchors.
Spread your wings
Start to fly above
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 12:49 PM UTC
I want to write something to fix me.
I want to write something to heal my wounds, to hide my scars.
I want to write something to wear that will make me beautiful. I want to sew something from words that will fit me perfectly, something that flows like linen, curves of S's fitting curves of hips, legs like L's and F's soft like lips.
I want to write something to wear like new skin, something to make me interesting to look at, to make me a poem worth reading. I want to be the one you tuck into your notebook and read in class. When you're tired of listening, tired of focusing, tired of everything, you can read a few lines off my shoulder blades, from my palms or knees, and maybe you'll feel better.
I want to write something that will make you laugh. God, I love your laugh, I'd write myself into a joke just to see you smile like that, my shoulders to set it up, collar bone to draw you in, my stomach could be the punch line and I'd have you cracked up for sure. I don't need to be taken seriously, as long as I can see you laugh.
I want to write something strong and heavy. I'll melt the letters together, weld T's to G's and K's to X's until I've written us an anchor. It'll be just light enough for us to carry, just heavy enough to weigh us down. I'll weave J's into ropes, we'll tie ourselves together, and toss our anchor overboard. No matter how the ocean writhes and tosses my words will be heavier, my ropes stronger. The anchor will hold us fast, words weighted by promises, fighting angry seas around us. No matter what, we will always be close enough to read each others' poetry.
I want to write something that will last forever. I want to set words in stone to be discovered long after I'm gone, to paint hieroglyphics on the walls of my house to be interpreted by future civilizations. "This is where I ate cereal." "This is where I showered." (Did I make you laugh? You know how I love your laugh.)
I want to write razor-sharp, white-hot points of infinite logic, and I want to write children's books. I want to write something that means anything but God, all I want is to write anything that means something.
I want to write something to fill pages, to break silence.
I want to write something to fix me.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 2:55 AM UTC
"A patient man bides his time,"
Theodore tells the man in the mirror
Tomorrow, all the levees will break
And all the fables will be told
Of distant Decembers and forgotten fathers
Livelihoods will be threatened
And remorse will fall by the wayside
He watches as icicles on the awning
Melt away into puddles on the ground
"Warmer every day," he thinks to himself
He hangs up his scarf and overcoat
The way a simple man, with complex demons, is wont to do
And as his wants devolve into needs
And as all his anchors deteriorate to rust
Her smile unnerves a once-settled man
To think of the quality of glove necessary
To hold onto the wagon in this day and age
So Theodore pulls the door to,
Leaving Chopin's "Horseman" to gallop in peace
And in pieces
He watches her from across the courtyard
"Such sweet bliss in her footsteps," he sighs
And it seems to him as if the snow dissipates
Just from the warmth in her steady gait
Just from the radiation behind her brown eyes
He slides open the dresser drawer
A haven for scattered trinkets, odds, and ends
A place of respite for the weary souvenir
There, amidst all the corroded memories
Lies a corroded pistol, unspoken and unburnished
"And a lonely man drinks his wine,"
Theodore says, as intrepidly as he is capable
For there is a time when fathers stop teaching
A time when mothers stop singing
And a place where the sins stop searching
A last breath is deeply inhaled
But never again will find its escape
With a thud that echoes to Seymour Street
Theodore crumples to the cold wooden floor,
A simple man, finally free of complex demons
Jan 25, 2023
Jan 25, 2023 at 1:19 PM UTC
The poem was inspired by a particular photo of the WT C, and after that by my first visit to the 9/11 Memorial. On the day of 9/11, I was working about a diagonal mile away, and from our windows, we could see people jumping to their death.
Open sky annulled
to bordered lines of
uptown edges,
worldview momentarily
forcibly redefined by
memories of buildings and sadder days,
recollections of pillars of biblical smoke rising
A photograph
makes me look up,
and sit down historically,
need to catch a breath,
to rest mentally,
upon a storied small bridge's steps,
that I well recall,
a disappeared street stoop.
all were rubble then and once
upon that day.
Wear, tear, and older eyes distill perspective,
but the hardy heart is hardly stilled
by the recognizable gray upon
bon vivant gray reflective surfaces of
memories of buildings and sadder days
So today, on a reborn street,
I rest upon reconstituted speckled curbstone,
the city's lowered down ledges,
the city's lowered down-town boundaries,
constantly redrawn, but
nonetheless, always rebuilt from their own
regenerated stony compost,
and the NY passersby doesn't even notice
a man, head in hands,
silently weeping, thinking that:
We throw away so much we should have kept.
We keep so much we should have thrown away.
Lose keepsakes, but keep our mysterious sadnesses
locked away in compartments that open only to
benedictions uttered in ancient tongues.
Make your own list,
be your own curator,
catalogue visions of sophomoric triumphs,
museum mile pile
those early poetic drafts,
be unafraid of memories
raw and ungentrified,
overlaid, buried underneath
postmortem of dust-piles of senior critiques
Finally went downtown to see
where the blessed water falls
into catacomb pits that once
were the foundations
of buildings that ruled the cityscape,
downtown anchors
for a modern city that exists
only because it was built on
million year old granite bedrock
Stone monuments are stolid, discrete.
Memories are of grayed, frayed edge consistency.
Negatives resurrected that survive digitally,
all blend synthetically, layer upon layer,
essence distilled in a single,
black and white photograph
that serves to
disturb complacency,
awaken stilled pain,
reflections suppressed,
are restored
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC
Hey stranger,
Sitting at the bar alone,
Let's exchange our numbers,
Or get a taxi home.
You've got me on your mind,
You've caught me like a cold,
The gun is locked and loaded,
Let's pull the trigger and watch the night explode.
We'll lead a revolution once more,
Lying on the bedroom floor,
The white flag is buried beneath our piles of clothes,
We'll search it like it's treasured gold,
Just kiss me and surrender.
Throw our anchors out onto the shore,
The storm is raging,
But we're engaging
In an intimate warfare and we're breaking the law.
Wolf in sheep's clothing and the wool covers my eyes,
Held my heart in your hands and you're feasting
On the lies,
The love,
Lust,
Desire,
It's getting hot and we're playing with the fire.
Throw our anchors out onto the shore,
The storm is raging,
But we're engaging
In an intimate warfare and we're breaking the law.
You know,
I know,
One of us will win,
But for now we'll dance in the dark and do everything.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 5:25 AM UTC
All I've ever known
is the ghost of my past, and we shook hands
once they took the
form of my past skeletons.
I'd like to slither
out of my skin like a snake,
leaving behind the trail
of memories
and fingertips that
I'd love to forget.
Do you remember the day
I told you I'd like to
leave this world behind?
Do you remember the day
you told me you
wished I'd leave this world behind?
(I should have followed through.)
You are the anchors
at my feet
and I am drowning in your eyes.
I have let you go
a thousand times,
but you are still here in the form
of everything that is
burying me alive.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 6:54 PM UTC