"coleman" poems
like that pill bitter Sunday morning (after)
with a nauseating hack
the previously uneventful Tuesday
derailed
in surrealistic tale
with Auntie and Jack (and a quarter of fate)
in the 748
on a night flight
from Sherwood to Lore
reverberating waves
of imminent summer haze
river flats
and flower fields
fly weights
and silver bait
shredders and shysters
and open gates
(into those everlasting
and sweated journeys of hope)
bloods and strays
and florentine grays
(reminiscent of Rockwell fame)
running horses
and overgrown country lanes
morning grace
and gentle cheer
eyes clear
on the river pass
*blunted paddles for those ancient
and not so willing suckers!*
duke making his own way
(to the corner club)
Parsons and Poe
stream from the torn screen door
cricket cadence
and symphony of the Deere
calm and deliberate
in the soft
and silent fields
meadows open for grazing
(guineas scamper across the till)
pocket apples fill
the country ripe air
drunken bees
and chestnuts
and electric fingers
strike the surface pool
(a cedar strip wedged on the white wash dock)
baited bull heads set to cast
evenings with hearts
and Nolten Nash
may flowers bloom
across the grass
~ time unmatched ~
with blue jays
and river bends
and channel cats
...and that warm
and recurring
Coleman drift
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 11:36 PM UTC
Passing through mid-century
these jazz oneironauts reached Apollonian heights
while society drifted into Dionysian drunkenness
the merchants caught on too soon
The most beautiful parts of humanity
enamored to serve the ugliest:
The merchant class, the bourgeoisie
Buddha’s undeserving in charge
If only in past centuries
those noble princesses embraced
even more lowly patronages
all this potential today could be staved off
Saved from the drive to be commodified
People stopped buying jazz as it reached its height
No more smiles to appease the whites
Jazz for the few
the noble, the individual in the know
Until this too becomes the simulacrum
The Ornette Coleman on the bookshelf
to signify your snootiness
your refinement from wealth
Aging Dads in thousand dollar sweaters
kicking out their 22 year old kids
for being ****** addled hipsters
meanwhile Bird on Verve is nodding out
and Dad’s girlfriend pops a Percocet
to deal with all the stress
Jan 15, 2022
Jan 15, 2022 at 10:50 AM UTC
Angels walk among us,
Each and everyday.
Angels walk among us,
No matter what you say.
The Lord sends them to us,
When he's not ready for us to leave.
Yes,
Angels walk among us,
Though you may never see.
And there I prayed,
Making peace with the Lord.
When I heard a sound.
The flutter of wings perhaps?
Or, Just the sound of an angel,
As her feet touched the ground.
My prayers were interrupted,
So I snuck a quick peek.
And there standing before me,
My eyes beheld an angel.
Her garb was plain,
And she had raven black hair.
I know now she was an angel,
Who was standing there.
She appeared as normal,
as you and me.
And she asked,
If she could pray for me.
But it was an angel,
Sent there to save me.
I was so very low,
And thought I was ready to go.
But the lord wasn't ready for me to go.
And had sent his angel,
To insure I did not go.
Yes angels walk among us,
In many different ways.
Angels walk among us,
And most will never see.
Yes angels walk among us,
The Lord could choose you,
Or even me.
Yes angels walk among us,
The Lord sends them to us,
In times of our need.
A child had wandered,
Much too far away.
To an unsafe place,
She should never be to play.
Yet the Lord chose a passer by,
Who'd never gone that way.
To spy the young child,
Who was in a dangerous way.
To inform her parents,
Of where, She'd gone to play.
To insure she'd survive,
Yet another day.
Yes,
Angels walk among us,
Despite what you say.
Angels walk among us,
Pray they never go away.
Yes,
Angels walk among us,
Though you may never see.
Oh yes,
Angels walk amongst us,
One came and saved me.
Coleman
Nov 23, 2020
Nov 23, 2020 at 4:45 PM UTC
The Guest House
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and attend them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
clean of all its furniture,
still, treat each guest honourably.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
greet them at the door laughing and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
-- Jelaluddin Rumi, translation by Coleman Barks
Feb 20, 2010
Feb 20, 2010 at 11:56 AM UTC
She lay in his bed
Scenes of tunnels & trains
& thoughts of trite moosh run through her head
when young she saw him different
with a quiff
& a whiff of CK on levis
& a watch with LED lights
& a t-shirt blue, skin tight
but with fashion aside
her passion subsides
when he enters not so gently,
did not test the waters
did not guess it was low tide
During the evening they danced
They got down to steady trance
But now it seems he’s in free time
A strange rhythm, so contrived
He doesn’t look like he knows it
Doesn’t seem like type
To quote ornette coleman
In the dark of the night
He has the feel of squashed fruit
And the thwack of a wet sock
Flooped out like misplaced steps
Of a horse learning to walk
The night entertainment then,
Condemned to an eye on a clock
Whilst sharing sweaty absorbence
& not at all evenly proportioned
the most obtuse solos
are always too long
and if made into a duet
it’s just awkward & wrong
one face polite
as one face holds strong
held strong in the notion
it is the king of this realm, his own
like a deluded ****** rock star
with an out of tune guitar
& a confused young groupie
rebelling against her ma & pa
in the end he doesn’t sell it
rather he gives it away
& she is obliged to take it
to carry on the shared charade
a feeble dance of pretence
not to shatter the held façade
of a bullied masculinity
of a young boy fully charged
of a girl swooned by a conman
albeit not well disguised
she convinced herself a prince of sorts
fit to break past her royal guard
she leaves bored & unfulfilled
while he sleeps sound & proud
her dreaming of a prince she’ll soon meet
with a better sense of time
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 12:49 AM UTC
negotiating modernity
at the MoMA
one's pushed along
mass conveyances
inertial rush an
intractable force
surer then the weight
of Newton's gravity
routes precarious
contemplative moments
nails scratching
Pollack's #9
in desperate attempt
to hold ground
Mall of America's
crushing crowds
vagrants pacing
the large garages
barely glimpsing
composite walls
the open spaces
bagging fast food art
not a bit of intimacy
in the **** place
Music Selection
Ornette Coleman
with Eric Dolphy
Free Jazz
2/24/11
NYC
jbm
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 8:41 AM UTC
Family Secret
An Ice-cream man, with an Ice-cream van
His melodic chimes seem magical and enchanting
the heat waves, a major summer killer
Little children with happy faces make biblical verses
Jump off the pages and come alive
Block to blocks, street to streets
laughter could be heard for miles
There he was sitting on the old stoop
A little freckle face boy.
with eyes of a deep, dark blue
Waiting for God to answer his pray
Poor, little Vincent Maloney
He remember his grandmother harsh words
"Wipe your tears away, and pray in silent
Young Vincent Maloney"
“I pity your mother and I pity her choices,
and most all I pity her
For eloping with the colored man
Barbara Coleman husband
Wipe your nose, and weep no more
Your daddy ain't your daddy
But your daddy doesn’t know
.
Race is not a determinable concept my child.
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 3:40 PM UTC
on the fringes
the outer extremes
a vision of myself
standing next to me
is this a future destination
or a song from the past?
is that my final countenance
I view in a dark mirror
and ask?
where I am now
and where I want to be
I detect hidden clues
in my aching spleen
a foreboding of
what ill winds may blow
a toxic brew
of electric jazz
jizzing in a ***** bottle
aging in formaldehyde
splits a mind in two
poetic visions
running watercolors
of empty houses
with more hidden clues
words to songs
written by me
now sound funny
and patently absurd
loving the history
form seems desirable
content too
but it doesn’t come together
something is missing
stories are embellished
an ego grows larger then a house
bursting open the doors
exploding the roof
sending the heavy slates flying
in all directions
flinging them
into ponds of regret
and lonesome longings
of art offered up
to a critical God
ignorant of history
as I see it
so I lie to myself
and proclaim
delusional truths to others
hoping they’ll listen
to my ***** tales
of higher knowledge
intimate loves
and this weeks episode of
my life’s action adventure series
am I an empty box
or a clanging bell?
ringing something of a warning
about me and my emptiness
as I stumble along in my cluttered apartment
Music Selection:
Ornette Coleman,
Dancing in Your Head
Oakland
1/31/99
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 9:59 AM UTC
6-8 hours on a small bottle you’ll burn
when its heat for which you yearn
off grid camping is a breeze
with this heater you will not freeze
Camper warm all through the night
if you time the bottles right
when its deer season
it’s usually freezing
Take it to your box deer stand
feel the heat, isn’t it grand
quiet and handy portable heat source
all without hoses or cords
Just ***** on the bottle ready to go
turn the **** listen to propane flow
match or lighter use to ignite
just watch for the dull orange light
That’s how you’ll now when it lit
and good heat is what you’ll get
small and out of the way mostly
but when it’s cold you’re warm and toasty
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC
rocking in my
fishing boat
a red skeeter
twelve feet
a hundred fifty
horsepower
a blue Coleman
cooler at my feet
the sun on
my face
the graphite rod
at my side
the worms left
in the car
the sun on
my face
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
when i think of you
i think of seventh grade
we met and you were funny and cool
and i was probably shy and afraid
i think of swimming at memaws pool
you called me amish when you saw my room
that year is when i started to love you
and our friendship began to bloom
i think of letters i think of notes
of watching breaking bad from your bed
and how you were always on my side
no matter what other people said
i think of blueberry toaster strudels
and late night ihop talks
of crazy times at coleman park
while taking random walks
when i think of you i think of home
i think of warmth and i think of joy
yes i'm very blessed that you're my friend
you're an extraordinary boy
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 12:58 PM UTC
I'd forgotten about the last frost
the tv casting a flickering glow on
the opposite wall, I'd been counting
the number of times you'd said **** (six)
still expecting (hoping) you to take my
hands and blow warm air through
my thumbs--
we left the cows (which had dwindled since I'd last been)
and climbed the rails near the house to get to the roof
it's so dark that it's light out here, I've got some song
by the Randy Rogers Band coming up through my
hair and buzzing on my lips
curse the photographic memory, I see you wobbling on the icy ridges
putting your faith in bolt heads to hold you upright--this stretch of
stars linin' up with your shoulders, your heart is crooked but beats
pretty straight--sometimes the air glistens around you like you're
still cookin' in the sun or maybe you've got some of that anger
still left over from Ashley, (who knows) I don't say a thing.
People say the night is black, but the night is blue. The night is the color of the year, purple quartz, johnny cash's long drawl, the night is your shadow, your laugh, a wily hand briefly tucked in the seam of my thigh where it all runs together, where all the water meets on Coleman land--disenchanted by our differences, scouring skin like shrikes waiting
for an opening, going in for the dive and finding that I am all melted
wax and whimpers--
lying shoulder to shoulder like we first
did up on Skyline,
boy, did I.
Boy, did I?
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC
The AAA guide says Jesse and Frank James
jumped Devil's Gulch on horseback to outrun
the Northfield posse. A must see locale.
Though that story has largely been debunked,
Splitrock done built an small tourist industry
around the myth.
Gordy sits all summer long in a cabin
with no A/C, black flies on the screens
like dog hair on a furnace filter.
Gordy sits all summer long in a cabin
with a couple Coleman coolers filled
with all the best brands of soda,
Hawkin' the t-shirts and postcards
he didn't sell last year or the year before,
but that's ole' fly-swattin' Gordy.
He keeps a list of the origins of tourists,
that's all his talk down at the Sports Cabin,
where he sits all winter long.
Between sips and drips of foam above his lip,
he'll say "Norway, Pennsylvania, Mississippi,
Japan, Iceland, Kansas..."
He might ask you if you're gonna eat that.
The pizza got cold anyway - so why not.
Plus he knows what Gloria did yesterday.
He gave a '57 Chrysler to his 10 year old granddaughter,
but she lost it after the divorce.
Her dad signed the title and left the state.
I guess that's about the state of things around here,
disappointed tourists, skunked out beer,
cold pizza, the little girl who lost her
dad and her car on the very same day.
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 5:19 PM UTC
Green Coleman lanterns hung over the water , craving the humid night , nocturnal creatures bathed in the artificial lights ....
The metronomic crash of breakers on the aluminum hulled vessel , baiting hooks and tying gear by flashlight or sheer memory .. Horned Owls , Killdeer and Whippoorwills filled the dark night with haunting songs , the crash of bass and topwater shellcrackers would chill the blood for a moment , cause you to breathe in deep , exhale out loud .... The aroma of lake water , insect repellent and cigar smoke , chewing on a plug of Bloodhound , strained eyes concentrating on nothing but that bobber , waiting on that tasty fish to take it and run ....
Working your piece of the lake till the early morning Sun ....
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC
Edit
Either/Or
by Daniel Coleman on Wednesday, October 21, 2009 at 4:38pm
You may call this your heaven,
But I call it my hell.
We’re of differing opinions
(In case you couldn’t tell)
You say I’m the whiskey
And you’re the zinfandel.
That I’m going sixty,
And you’re stuck at twelve.
Well, you be north
And I’ll be south.
You be first
And I’ll be last.
You can’t have one without the other,
You can’t have the son without the mother.
Mar 29, 2011
Mar 29, 2011 at 7:38 AM UTC
I'm just sitting here
waiting on a deer
wishing I had a beer
Or better yet some 40 creek
some 7up to mix I seek
hoping the stand roof don't leak
In the driving rain
it would cause some pain
cold rain down the neck causes disdain
**********************************************
In my coveralls
made by Walls
Coleman heater warming my *****
Bushnell binos around my neck
looking out, what the heck
oh it’s just a speck
On my lense
I feel dense
but I used uncommon sense
It wasn't a ghost
it was at most
something from the post
Where my binos sat
right next to my hat
and above the mat
Where my boots are
drying out from walking far
most people would drive a car
*************************************
Now sitting in the camper
feeling a bit hampered
By the cold and rain
it's the mud that causes pain.
Slippery and wet
a mess you get
with every step
cannot move with pep
It's like walking on wet glass
you will slip and bust your ***
then a muddy mess you'd be
wouldn't want anyone to see
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 2:28 PM UTC
Gefen said
that girl you like
that one
who stinks somewhat
and looks as if
she slept in a barn
is in the girl's bog-house
crying
I looked at him
and flicked
my cigarette card
against the wall
of the playground
it wasn't near enough
to win I didn't think
why's she crying?
I asked
how the ****
would I know
he said
just saw her go in
and heard the sobbing
I watched
as another kid
flicked his card
near touch the wall
and fall
ok you win
I said
and walked up the steps
from the playground
and walked
to the bogs
and listened
with ear to the door
that you Enid?
I asked
no it's Coleman
what do you want?
I said nothing
and wandered off away
and there was Enid
by a window
what's up?
I said
she looked at me
through smeary glasses
not here
she said
not what here
I said
I can't say here
ok where then?
I said
so she beckoned me
to follow her
along a dank passageway
(there were many)
until we came
to where the cleaners
kept their brooms
and buckets
and such stuff
and she sneak inside
and pulled me in
beside her
well?
I said
sniffing the air
of disinfect
and soap
and yesterday's clothes
can't sit properly
she said
and she lifted
her dull grey dress
to reveal a red weal
along her thigh
and beyond
it hurts when I sit
and I can't say why
and it hurts to sit
she lowered her dress
and looked at me
red eyed
and dripping nose
your old man?
I asked
she nodded
and looked around
the small room
her eyes vacant
say you've got a boil
on your backside
and ask for a cushion
I did last term
when I had boils
on mine
she looked unsure
really?
yes really
I said
I'll ask
old ma Murphy
if you like
she's got loads
of cushions
Enid looked at me
her eyes dull
as dishwater
ok
she said
she kissed my cheek
and followed me out
and along
to Murphy's room
uncertain
and unhappy
as if facing
death and doom.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 10:04 AM UTC
What have you got there?
Record, LP.
Nima looks at me.
Which one?
Ornette Coleman.
I show her
the record sleeve:
three men standing
in snow.
She nods,
loses interest,
looks away.
Pigeons make noises
about us;
people pass by.
We're in Trafalgar Square.
How are you?
I ask,
sitting on the low wall
around the fountain.
*** starved,
need a fix
and a smoke,
she says.
I can give you
a smoke.
She sits beside me.
There is the sound
of water
from the fountain
behind us;
chat of others
around us.
I give her a cigarette
and light it for her.
She inhales gratefully.
Needed that, said
the bishop
to the good-time girl,
Nima says.
How's your *** life?
She asks
after a few minutes
of silence.
Non-existent.
Likewise;
I feel like
a ****** nun.
I watch traffic go by;
a boy and girl
walk by
hand in hand.
Nima watches them.
Bet they're *** life's
up to the top rung,
she says.
How's it
at the hospital?
I ask.
The usual:
stupid quacks,
*** starved nurses
and medication
to help me get off
other drugs.
And is it working?
Don't know;
all I know is
that I am aching
for a fix.
What about a drink?
Not allowed.
Coffee?
You know how
to get to
a girl's heart,
she says sarcastically.
Coke and burger
and you're on.
I nod my head.
We walk through
the Square
and up towards
Leicester Square
to a burger bar
where we sit
and order both.
If you come visit me
at the hospital next time,
bring me
a packet of smokes.
Sure, if you like.
And they'll look at you
suspiciously.
Why?
They suspect
we had ***
in that cupboard.
We did.
I know
and so do they,
Nima says, smiling.
I picture the scene
some weeks back,
she and I
in a broom cupboard
off the ward
in the semi-dark,
risking it.
Quite a lark.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 2:11 AM UTC
Who ever thought of it as the peninsula it is. Inhabited by native Americans and called Narrioch, a ” land without shadows”, “always in the light”, its beaches facing south and ‘always in the light; a “point” or “corner of the land”. Come 1600’s and it’s Dutch bought for a gun, a blanket and a kettle. Also called Coninen Island, then Coney Hook, then maybe Conyn Eylandt, maybe even Konah, even Colman after John Coleman, slain by the natives 1609.
Wikipedia
So I write about my Coney, phony, and for me my lonely island.
Land of rides and fun’s placations,
First such park for work vacations.
Frankfurters with ***** and mustard,
Frozen custard, chocolate syrup on the top.
Brooklyniters, Jackson Heighters…New York City’s pop…ulation
Come by subway all that way.
(Who had a car? Everything and place was far,
Every stranger from a land they landed from –
At least their dads or moms or grand or great-grand dads and moms:
Generation and the nation of the 20’s 30’s, 40’s).
Cotton candy, candied apples sweet outside, sour within.
Who thought of sugar then?
Who thought of staying thin?
Miles and miles of sand - all gray.
Cold Atlantic blocks away.
Parachute ride, new and daring.
Arlene Nover, longing, raring.
Merry-go-round wan and childish,
She, wildishly shy, tongue-tied,
Watched by grownups there not sharing any wooden horse beside
Which could have turned the ride
To fun
No parent un-derstood.
Clear and queer these memories.
Showing up spontaneously.
Sequences squeezed out of fate
Some seventy years later – late.
Coney Island 5.1.2017
Pure Nakedness;
Arlene Corwin
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 6:08 AM UTC
A poem by Billy Collins always seems to have a twist, some humor or a pun waiting to make you chuckle or stop and wonder while holding your chin.
But now, I’m not surprised by his slights of poetic hand. He has tipped his hat one too many times.
Too many winks.
One can only enjoy a twist so many times.
What would really surprise me is not a poem about jazz that is really a poem about death, or some stanza about a Bird in the winter snow (but really about a distant mother or an Ornette Coleman song or a high school sweetheart)...
What would really stop me in my tracks is
A few simple words
A haiku or prose, a
Moment for its own sake.
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 11:23 AM UTC
that bird plays freejazz second only to ornette coleman
in the cool and dewy pre-dawn.
the wet, bounding notes
are
suspended from the hillside like -
flesh
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 3:32 AM UTC
every one i've ever kissed,
right here in this park.
two were in midday.
two were after dark.
my first kiss to a boy,
he turned out to be shady.
my second was my first love
a beautiful, smart lady.
the third was to my best friend,
even though he has a wife.
the last was to my current boy
the one I'll have for life.
every time I run here
I get memories, good and bad.
one specific memory
contains the best kiss that I've had.
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 11:56 PM UTC
External Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Aliens vs Predator vs Predator in the shadow of Saudi Arabia and from Dikon to Germany, and a friend who helps the armed forces in the ruins of his mother and the name of his mother was in the game, the best in the world, Coleman, the mother of Paul who after reaching the girl that does not give. Three colors are colder than the young skin of the nose. The vitamin's vitamin. However, this may be the case. This game is not as good as the one in the United States. A family of wood; and support in the United States. "War is like a fire that destroys", "The history of the region of the Catania region, Africa, Germany and Fox." And it was great Indians such as in European and Trinidadian celebrations. That he is a member of the United States. The woman owes, in particular the mass Key of literary Paul. Then go to the market with your desire to document the package, we cannot. Sad parts and all the members of the Church out of fear. But this cannot cause vitamins in vitamins. This game is not good for the United States. But the commander also made many Greeks follow Albert the loafer. Paul Young Paul, Santa Clara, Italy, Lorraine, United States, Canada, China, United States, Italy, Germany and Russia. - but in honor of the United States. It is not the fish. "In American society, the American Council of Anemone Pacific, Santa Clara, the farce and the future." The fear of technology as a political comedy. The city of the United States, Canada, Paul, Paul, Paul, Carl and Juan in the United States, the United States and 40 floors: Anita Perkins, Italy, Santa Clara.
______________________________________________
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 6:31 PM UTC