"columbia" poems
She's like a drama queen,
Plays the 'blame game' like a loser,
Fair minded as a bigot,
Wages war like drones,
As free as surveillance,
As open as privatized prisons,
As equal as feudalism,
As rich as the beggar masses,
Bankrupt as homeowners,
Socialist as the military,
Truthful, trustful as "NEWS," as propaganda,
Pagan as the manufactured Goddess 'Columbia,'
Christian as the stingy,
Pious as a sinner,
Wicked as securities, exchanges on 'Wall Street,'
Insecure as an empire,
Greedy as a fast food glutton,
As brave as a fool,
Warmongering as a chicken hawk politician,
Machevellian as a coward,
As rigged as the free market,
As selfish as Capitalism,
As tolerant as Islam,
Beautiful as a clear cut forest,
Charming as a strip mall,
Forward thinking as chaos,
Lawless as congress,
United as a belligerent crowd,
Compassionate as a swat team,
Green as any petrochemical company,
Organic as pollution,
Deep as a strip mine . . .
. . .
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
the earth is curved - sure y’all knew that.
but to get to the Northwest,
Interstate 84
ain’t le route plus directe
nope curve north to Ontario,
wave to Bex as I cross over
London and Toronto, also can’t recall
which poet from Rochester hails,
or did they shuffle off to Buffalo?
Crossing Erie, Huron, and Michigan Great Lakes all,
brings to mind
my mother’s birthplace,
Last of the Mohicans,
and the three years I did in the Cleveland Penitentiary,
where sun was illegal and baseball was a pretend play
of cowboys and Indians
but by god, it made me
the penitent fella I am today
Look skyward to Montreal,
yes, there he is, the Leo Priest,
the baffled king,
blessing this poetic meet ‘n greet trip
with a smiling unsurprising
hallelujah
Apparently some US citizens still can traverse O Canada,
even if one forgot their passports,
and are not PNG’s (Persons Not so GREAT)
over Minneapolis shed a tear for Diane,
a poet- gone-missing, and wonder if you reader come from
St. Cloud, Fargo or Duluth, Bismarck or Aberdeen,
surely they still speak poetic English there
in a twangy metering methodology - well, message me asap
wow there really is a Saskatoon!
the pilot asks us to lean left in our seats
to help turn the plane
so we go to Portland and not to Vancouver...
me thinks he might be a touch Rockie Mountain High,
considering we are at 30 thousand something Imperial,
as he walks the main cabin with an oxygen mask and a
huuuuuge grin
see the distant Cascades
through a crack in the shuttered windows,
must be close to “the coast”
(as if, harrumph, there were but one)
ah, words in the clouds, ripe for the plucking
must be getting close to Oregon,
where poets grow on trees, woody words like ****
and log-float poems down the Columbia to the sea
gonna drink me some poets
under the table cause this
trip I ain’t no driving and I am already
“flying” ‘n scribing and arriving
on a high tide and a good wind
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 5:47 AM UTC
a bottle of scotch had bad dreams.
bullets twitch, junk sick
in 3 inch thick
mustard ****
toe nails clipped from yeti
lay strewn about the **** stained corpse
of a motel six dixie cup -
root canal trophy,
next to
a black fez
with scab tassel
upended.
down in it. belching apnea
propaganda
and belladonna
waiting for curious george
to find a shotgun
and a yellow
hat
and a brick banana.
blowflies inhale the rank damp
of a fresh ****
the odd dog whines
like a clown in -
a blender.
[ the ]
house wins
with a marked card; jabbing fat fingers
into acned rosacea
bloated with sleep lack
and mortgage
back stab
chasing twenty ******
with a hollow point
pull from an acid
flask
while hailing a black cab.
tinsel sutures
stitch eyelids as a mercy
shattered bone knit
hand-grenade
cozies
old glory, at half mast
half wasted
fifty stars, no light
dragging on
the grounds of immunity
to do a line
of coke stock
with a basset hounds'
finesse.
your taxes at work
in columbia,
hiding from a lost farm
in Idaho
your american dream
turning tricks in shanghai
for a counterfeit
egga roll
your meme, devoid
like an ice cube
tombstone
your freedom, parking cars
for italian escorts
smoking skin flutes
for ferraris
and white teeth.
your integrity, sold to a hedge fund
for astroglide and a pez dispenser
packed with prozac
pressed by ' Jose the butcher' s abuela
in a narco slum
that ain't seen radio
since cinder blocks
had wings.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 2:40 PM UTC
Perfected spending ideal day off
Prepared a hot breakfast in bed
Procrastinated Java or Columbia
Perused the paper cover to cover
Perplexed prayer over crossword
Pampered by bath-time bubbles
Phoned almost forgotten friends
Purchased Murakami on Amazon
Polished off a lunchtime martini
Postponed exercise with siesta
Perambulated the beach slowly
Pushed the boat out for dinner
Preferred Barolo to Barbaresco
Panicked - work again tomorrow.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:23 AM UTC
Among pelagian travelers,
Lost on their lewd conceited way
To Massachusetts, Michigan,
Miami or L.A.,
An airborne instrument I sit,
Predestined nightly to fulfill
Columbia-Giesen-Management's
Unfathomable will,
By whose election justified,
I bring my gospel of the Muse
To fundamentalists, to nuns,
to Gentiles and to Jews,
And daily, seven days a week,
Before a local sense has jelled,
From talking-site to talking-site
Am jet-or-prop-propelled.
Though warm my welcome everywhere,
I shift so frequently, so fast,
I cannot now say where I was
The evening before last,
Unless some singular event
Should intervene to save the place,
A truly asinine remark,
A soul-bewitching face,
Or blessed encounter, full of joy,
Unscheduled on the Giesen Plan,
With, here, an addict of Tolkien,
There, a Charles Williams fan.
Since Merit but a dunghill is,
I mount the rostrum unafraid:
Indeed, 'twere damnable to ask
If I am overpaid.
Spirit is willing to repeat
Without a qualm the same old talk,
But Flesh is homesick for our snug
Apartment in New York.
A sulky fifty-six, he finds
A change of mealtime utter hell,
Grown far too crotchety to like
A luxury hotel.
The Bible is a goodly book
I always can peruse with zest,
But really cannot say the same
For Hilton's Be My Guest.
Nor bear with equanimity
The radio in students' cars,
Muzak at breakfast, or--dear God!--
Girl-organists in bars.
Then, worst of all, the anxious thought,
Each time my plane begins to sink
And the No Smoking sign comes on:
What will there be to drink?
Is this ma milieu where I must
How grahamgreeneish! How infra dig!
****** from the bottle in my bag An analeptic swig?
Another morning comes: I see,
Dwindling below me on the plane,
The roofs of one more audience
I shall not see again.
God bless the lot of them, although
I don't remember which was which:
God bless the U.S.A., so large,
So friendly, and so rich.
4k
When Coyote witnessed
the Creator making this world
he thought
I will make a world like that
for myself
And so he formed a copy
of every living thing
from the mud
from the branches
and detritus that he gathered
there on the banks
of the Columbia River
But all of his
carefully wrought figures
elk and deer
fish that sparkle in the shallows
black bear
who hides from two-leggeds
the wings of the air
who mingle with the leaves and branches of the forest
all melted back into the mud
of the riverbank
at the next rain
Undeterred
Coyote set out
on a quest
He found a new country
a pleasant land of vast expanse
with every manner of good things
When Coyote came into this country
his hunger
was greater than myth
sharp as the edge of a knife
And there he spied Crow
on a high cliff
with a mouth full
of deer fat
A plan quickly formed
in the caverns of his cunning
Coyote called out
Chief Crow
I am told that your voice
is as sweet as spring water
as pleasing as a woman
in the night
Sing for me
Great Chief
and I will reward you richly
Crow is a vain creature
and being called Chief
gave him great pleasure
He preened
opened his silver wings to the sun
and sang his rough song
but in a muted tone
in order to save
his delicious morsel
Coyote called out again
Oh Chief!
That wasn't much.
not like the stories
I have been told.
Please sing your song again
with feeling!
Crow rose to his full height
****** his sharp beak
into the air
and gave full voice
to his raucous song
for the sake of every crow
on earth
We know the end of this tale
because Coyote taught it
to our ancestors
The deer fat fell to the ground
and Coyote
trickster
scarfed it in an instant
Hunger dampened
he ambled along the well-beaten path
to find the next fool
And that is the story
of Coyote and Crow.
Keep your pride in check
or be the next one laid low.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
America, Why I Love Her
Written by John Mitchum
Poet/Actor
You ask me why I love her? Well, give me time, and I'll explain...
Have you seen a Kansas sunset or an Arizona rain?
Have you drifted on a bayou down Louisiana way?
Have you watched the cold fog drifting over San Francisco Bay?
Have you heard a Bobwhite calling in the Carolina pines?
Or heard the bellow of a diesel in the Appalachia mines?
Does the call of Niagara thrill you when you hear her waters roar?
Do you look with awe and wonder at a Massachusetts shore...
Where men who braved a hard new world, first stepped on Plymouth Rock?
And do you think of them when you stroll along a New York City dock ?
Have you seen a snowflake drifting in the Rockies...way up high?
Have you seen the sun come blazing down from a bright Nevada sky?
Do you hail to the Columbia as she rushes to the sea...
Or bow your head at Gettysburg...in our struggle to be free?
Have you seen the mighty Tetons? ...Have you watched an eagle soar?
Have you seen the Mississippi roll along Missouri's shore?
Have you felt a chill at Michigan, when on a winters day,
Her waters rage along the shore in a thunderous display?
Does the word "Aloha"... make you warm?
Do you stare in disbelief When you see the surf come roaring in at Waimea reef?
From Alaska's gold to the Everglades...from the Rio Grande to Maine...
My heart cries out... my pulse runs fast at the might of her domain.
You ask me why I love her?... I've a million reasons why.
My beautiful America... beneath Gods' wide, wide sky.
[topp]
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 6:11 AM UTC
i met him in 1989 in a study hall class
and haven't forgotten him since.
a month ago,
i found out he had died in 2014.
the girls liked him
he'de tell me what was playing on his walkman
so i listened, learned, put a penny in an envelope
and mailed it off to columbia house
some weeks later i received my 12 cassette tapes.
i quit eating and got creative with eyeliner.
i memorized a lot of cure lyrics and went to study hall
prepared.
the semester ended and we weren't in the same
study hall class anymore. he ended up transferring to another school.
but i still had hope.
i had memorized so many lyrics.
i had gotten my hair cut into an inverted bob
and learned how to dye it black.
it felt like anything was possible
and it felt so good.
the next year
i transfered to the other school, but he wasn't there anymore.
the year after that
i transfered to an even worse school
he was there
finally.
soon after that,
emily became his girlfriend
one day, i ran into them at the park and ride
as i was getting off the bus
we spent the night on the sidewalk
outside of emily's dad's house.
none of us were allowed to go inside,
not even emily.
but emily managed to sneak inside
and stole a jug of homemade alcohol,
which we did not call moonshine.
emily fell asleep with her head in his lap
while we talked, smoked three packs of cigarettes (all mine), and drank the homemade alcohol that her dad had made.
emily wanted to be a fashion designer.
he really believed in emily and her drawings.
the sun came up
and i caught a bus home.
we both ended up
dropping out of highschool.
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 8:05 AM UTC
I was two years behind Art Garfunkel at Columbia College, but I never met him. Nonetheless, like millions of other people, I consider him to have the most beautiful singing voice of the 20th century. Art's singing of BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATER is celestial.
I was two years ahead of George W. Bush at Andover, but I never met him. Nonetheless, too many people voted to make him President of the United States twice. W. was not very smart. He did not do well academically at Andover and Yale and Harvard Business School. But his father, George H. W. Bush, had gone to both Andover and Yale, and later became head of the CIA, then Vice President, then President. Legacy was powerful in the 1960s, and still is.
I wish I could meet Art Garfunkel and thank him for the enormous pleasure he has given to millions of people. I would never wish to meet W.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jun 3, 2025
Jun 3, 2025 at 10:37 PM UTC
That Spring afternoon of my Upper-Middler year at Andover, I had just spoken with G. G. Benedict, the man who controlled, in effect, at which college you would matriculate. Columbia and Yale were at the top of my list. "Fine, fine, Tod. You've done very well here," he said. That evening, every student found a place to sit in George Washington Hall auditorium. Oppenheimer was to speak. I sat in the balcony, but I could see the man well. He looked as though he might have been around plutonium too long. Gaunt, pale, he began speaking. I cannot remember a single word he said that evening, but I will never forget the portentous feeling that came over me: DREAD (or should I say "dead"?) Over half a century after Oppenheimer's speech, humanity sits precariously on the cusp of extinction. A hydrogen bomb is 1,000 times more powerful than the atomic bombs we dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and there are thousand of hydrogen bombs we know about on Earth presently, not just the two atomic bombs Oppenheimer had. If only one hydrogen bomb accidentally explodes, scientists say that explosion will be enough to cause "Nuclear Winter." The sky around Earth will grow so dark that sunlight will not be able to penetrate it; thus, nothing will be able to grow and we will all starve to death. Every living creation on Earth will die. I think Oppenheimer, as smart as he was, knew, at least subconsciously, he had lit the fuse to inevitable annihilation of all living things.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Apr 27, 2023
Apr 27, 2023 at 4:03 AM UTC
Somewhere between a bicycle
and a seat at a daydream...
I had to make money
so I mortgaged
my woods, my sea, my music
Words--
left
Regaled only with rust
my 1938 Columbia
bike
(sold for a crib)
to an antique dealer
Fat-tires, red-faded fenders
Baskets saddled on wheel
for towel and lunch
Key chain dangling
jingling against jar
of cool ginger ale
Look back at the baskets-filled
afternoons at the park
I was a poet
The road
laid itself bare
For my bike
and I
scrolling through leaves
like words that fell
like hair across shoulders
that I sang to no one
the audience--
air
I know that now
I was not really…
nor ready
I once was a poet
___
This poem was based on a black and white photo of Harry Bertschmann as a young artist,
posed proudly by his magnificent work. First two lines of my poem were my immediate reaction to his painting.
https://www.nytimes.com/2018/01/05/nyregion/the-struggling-artist-at-86.html
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 7:06 PM UTC
*for T.M.R.
our "fellow" southern friend*
the southern way,
she-poet
teaches me
via long distance
breaking of the
braking neural inhibitions of
the loudest silences
that only humans can
mistress
photos, stories,
Facebook posts
how the earth rebirths
taking unasked
unwitting but wisely
both of us
to be refreshed,
so verily
the southern way
sharing worldly
southern words
betraying a
more than
passing
(how I hate that word)
expertise
in spring colors
glorious to every sense,
best described
as nature's way to humanize what we wordily call
hopeful,
self-betraying herself by the
she -poets
innate
southern ways
calls me
northern boy
in a
true voice,
raconteuring,
quick retorting
always in the midst of
d r a wling stories,
about all crazy frogs
of Columbia County,
jumping multiple courses
all about
she-poets navigating
life erratic,
half ecstatic
yet singularity colored,
characteristic of a
ninety percent southern
Tennessee whiskey blues
hear clear
she-poets
welcoming swirling
undertow undertones
lying just above the calmest
morning water surface glistening
words betraying nothing,
yet saying
all in
between, in
pauses of
speckling sun drops spectacular
she-poet
has her places
in woods, knolls and
rarely visited mountains
where cold brooks and cold beers
southern sooth
in ways
I will likely,
wanting but unable,
never learn
to hear clear
the southern way
is never flex,
nerve never
never bend, smile,
still fighting
the prior lost cause
ignore the
cracks coverup
until and when
the afternoon sun
ceases to warm
the orchard porch
daylighting no longer
when no one is around
she-poet
weeps out loud alone
in the
southern way
and I,
northern boy,
student witness,
having obtained
a learner's permit
for her teachings
re
the southern wayfaring ways
of living life
weep along side
in my unsatisfactory
northern way,
learning that,
who knew,
tears are also
glue
anywhere
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 8:08 AM UTC
You began as a dream
Dreamt by leaders with vision
Evolving to surpass
All of man's wildest ambition...
With adventurous men
Like Shepherd and Glenn
You stubbornly strove
To prove, once again
Beyond any doubt
That bounderies could be broken...
Despite mishap and fire
Alas, you did inspire
A generation to dream...
From Mercury to Apollo
The world, it did follow
Your steady pace
To Tranquility Base...
Via Viking and Voyager
Your efforts did prove
That exploration of the universe
Was well on the move...
To Mars, Jupiter, Saturn and Neptune...
You tenaciously endeavored
To, your accomplishments, festoon...
Your progress was sure
As you strove to endure
The incessent chatter
Of the grossly short-sighted
Their nonsense did clatter
Proving they were poorly enlightened...
With untold discoveries
Like non-stick surfaces and airtight seals
Through your numerous breakthroughs
You've shown us how it feels
To live better...
From Columbia to Hubbel
You've saved us great trouble
In our daily lives...
With your Space Station mission
You've shown the same vision
And, continue to lead in gaining cognition
Of our universe...
Lead on, great adventurers
Lead on.
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 6:35 PM UTC
(After a seven day hike in Pacific Rim National Park, British Columbia)
The wilderness is a beauty
Unforgiving,
She’ll take your breath
You glance deeply
Through the forest
Hear the waves
Crash through and crest
This land has not been conquered
It barely has been tamed
There’s many a spot unspoiled
And many a place unnamed
And life is all around you
The way it’s always been
It’s as if the world’s forgiven
Just this once, all of man’s sins
So you tread carefully on the footpath
You pay attention to each step
Cross canyons and each precipice
Scale the granite cliffs
This place, it is rewarding
For those who are aware
You see life teeming in the ocean
And eagles in the air
You live in the present
Your senses re-attuned
Whatever else is happening
Is suddenly consumed
You get up with the sunrise
Build fires when darkness calls
You pay attention to the tides
And sleep by waterfalls
Nov 11, 2010
Nov 11, 2010 at 7:49 AM UTC
If you take my gun
You may as well take my rights
I have the right to bear arms
To protect my fortress
To defend my family
I will use everything
Machine guns
Shotguns
High-power rifles
Anything
So I can feel secure
Around bullets of death
3 people lie motionless
Blood seeping from shell wounds
In the middle of a crowded mall
12 people lay lifeless
Two years since their last death
In the middle of a movie theater
28 innocent souls lay empty
Most of whom couldn't understand
In the middle of a elementary school
What other people do with their weapons
Doesn't concern me
I will protect myself with my shotgun
My machine gun
My high-powered rifle
Maybe I'll teach my child how to shoot
So one day he can protect his family
With assault weapons
The victims of the crazed people
Those insignificant others
Are not dead by the shooters gun
But by the shooter's insanity
Those insignificant others
Were just poor, unlucky souls
Insignificant souls
When I get older
And not fit to live
I'm going to give my machine gun
My shotgun
To my son
So he can hold the fortress
And protect his family
From those insignificant others
Those poor, innocent souls
That will awake from the grave
That will trespass his property
That will look him in the eye
With the wounds from Sandy Hook
Aurora Movie Theater
Columbia Mall
Still viciously bleeding
And dare him to shoot again
To protect his cold-blooded ignorance
RIP Brianna Benlolo and Tyler Johnson
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 2:18 AM UTC
in winter we rubbed off our skin with bitter yellow soap
& danced across the murky floor of our brains.
ankle-deep in ambien, our toes scraped urchins & palms of anemone.
we built shelters in the living room
from moss-green blankets & coffee tables,
our fingers making furtive wishes in the quivering dark.
we picked small hairs & pennies out of the carpet.
when i grew hungry you offered me your left thigh
like an unwrapped christmas present.
under the aquatic quake of the fluorescent light
you fat seemed to boil
& your bed turned into a small, cold island.
we opened checking accounts under fake names
& you started to worry about your gently doming stomach.
when the mailman came, we cowered in the closet.
each year the temperature of our livers
rose a few degrees.
spring brought us flowers that smelled like DDT.
––Appears in the Spring 2013 issue of The Columbia Review.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
People coming by with tins of food and towels
Newspapers, toys and blankets, and little plastic trowels
I don't understand the reason they are coming
We're a charity, we don't need this stuff
But, still they keep on coming, bringing food by the truck
There's tins, and bags and skids
There's enough towels for turban training in British Columbia
And papers, lots of newspapers, tons of newspapers
But, we are a charity looking for donations
This doesn't make sense, all of this animal product showing up
Until I checked my email.....
**** I hate auto correct on the phone
I told people we hoped to increase last years donations
And hit a grand total of 101 thousand
Thanks to my Iphone...we sent out a message
that we had a grand total of a 101 thousand dalmations
God, I hate auto correct
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
RECORD: ****** JANET
FROGMAN: BARRY BOSTWICK & SUSAN SARANDON
Brad Threes (spoken): Hey Janet.
Janet Ones: Yes Brad.
Brad: I've got something to lay.
Janet: Uh huh.
Brad: I really loved the skillful way
You beat the other ones
To the braIde's bouquet.
Janet: Oh Brad.
(Stringing begins)
Brad: The stream was deep but I grabbed it.
There's a face on me'head and you'd slammit
Family (Riff Raff & Magenta): Janet.
Brad: The future is OURS so let's can it.
Framily: (Riff Raff & Magenta): Janet.
Brad: So please don't tell me to planeit.
Framily (Riff Raff & Magenta): Janet.
Brad: I've one thing to say and that's
****** Janet.
I love you.
now,
i know three ways that love cancanflaux
That's good, bad, or gran-plan mediocre
Brad: Here's a thing to groove to that, I'm a joke'n.
Janet: Oh!......It's noicier than Letty Mungtoe had
Magenta: (Peering up from behind pile o'pew) Oh Brad.
Janet: Now we're engoraged and I'm so glad.
Magenta & Columbia: Oh Brad. (Both peer up and disappear)
Janet: That you met Mom
And you know Dad.
Whole Framily: Oh Brad. (peering up together)
Brad Majors There's one thing left to do, ah-whoo
And that's go see the man who began it
When we met in his poe-science exam-it
Made me give you the eye and then panic
Now I've one thing to say, and that's
****** I'd love you
Janet (Taking his alcharm): Geez. I've one thing to say and that's,
Brad I'm mad,
with you too.
STOP: TURN THOUGHT
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 2:59 PM UTC
As I sit staring at the "fasten seatbelt" light overhead
I can feel the endless possibilities of places I could go, people I could meet.
Today you asked me "you feel miserable here a lot don't you?"
You've never been more right.
And as I sit here on this **** plane in your **** sweatshirt I wonder if you know.
I wonder if you know how scared I am
of all the opportunities the fasten seatbelt light brings me.
Of all the opportunities you bring me.
I swear the way you look at me
while I'm in the passenger seat of your beat up car
on the way to the dinner that you'll buy me
and I'll pretend not to care about
is the same way I look at Columbia and blank notebooks.
The possibilities and beautiful what-ifs are spelled out
in the whites, blacks, and multiples shades of brown in your eyes.
And I am thinking to myself how beautiful this fasten your seat belt light is
but I am also thinking of how beautiful you are
and how you've never been given the chances or opportunities you deserve.
So as I sit here stirring in my just barely big enough seat
I am feeling things that not even the damien rice in my ears can suppress.
I am seeing every beautiful night I spent wishing I never had to go home.
I'm seeing all the miles you put on just wanting to talk to me a little longer.
I'm seeing the way you nod your head back and forth
and tap on your steering wheel to the beat
of your latest favorite pop punk song.
And I am seeing the tremble in my knee that you don't notice
when you say that my laugh instantly makes you smile
because in all reality every waking moment I spent frowning at you
was because I was hoping that if I convinced myself
that we were no good then you would believe it too.
I realize all these things as I sit in seat 20E
on a delayed flight to Orlando
and all I want to do is parachute down to whatever tiny
secluded unknown cafe you're spending your evening jamming
to a local set of bands drinking something fruity you've never tried before.
And just like that drink I want to run down your throat
to the deepest parts of your gut
and permeate through your blood stream.
I want to run like oxygen infused flames through your system.
I'm still sitting in this cramped seat on damien song number five
staring at this fasten seatbelt light and all the possibilities
and I just have one thing to say: fasten your seatbelt with me.
Fasten your seatbelt and see all the possibilities that I see.
Fasten your seat belt and move three states closer to that dream
you've been dreaming since we were neighbors on that worn down block
where we learned to hate our parents.
Fasten your seatbelt and run away with me.
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 10:49 PM UTC
She stands at the wall reflecting
on those who were lost at sea
names and poems and words connecting
her to those poor souls and to me.
Beyond those memorial walls
the mighty Columbia into the Pacific spills
whose depth and wealth have called
so many to sail from Oregon's green hills.
From the safety of their home
they left for the great unknown
where writers and poets travel
every time they pen their spirit in word
to explore what God and life has unraveled
what pain, sorrow and joy have stirred.
Her kindness and her reflection move me to write
my poems of wandering from a safe and tidy home
to regions of imagination’s heights
shadows, sorrows, or oceans’ foam.
She reads and lives life’s poetry
knows its canyons and desert sands
she yearns only to be free
of the noise and anger of badlands
to smell the freshness of a cool and gentle breeze
feel the air brushing her arms
to look up and see the greenness of trees
to be free from crushing and brutal harm.
I see her standing and watch her reflection there
with seafarers, poets and lovers at peace
where God’s creative breath stirs air
and torments, terrors, and quarrels cease.
Author’s Note: My sister Genie who lives in a large urban area visited Astoria, Oregon where the Columbia river ends in the Pacific Ocean and local citizens have erected a memorial park with several walls of polished black granite that display the names of mariners lost at sea. There are also sentiments and poems about those lost souls one of which Genie photographed and sent to me. As I examined the photo I could see her reflection on the wall as kind of a background for the poem. That photo and my sister who loves nature and trees inspired this writing. I wish I could post the pic here for you to see why and how it inspired me.
Below is the untitled poem on the memorial wall photographed by my sister.
Weep not for me that I go to sea.
I shan’t be lonely, though vastness surround me.
The brotherhood of the sea shall be my family.
The kinship of the deep my company.
Weep not for me, nor worry over harm.
My heart stays with you, still and warm.
In sunrise and starlight my hearth and home
I carry you with me wherever I roam.
Weep not for me, whether bad luck or good.
Tossed about in a shell of steel and wood.
An ancient salt sea sails within my blood –
I but follow its tide through ebb and flood.
Weep not for me that I go to sea:
in the limitless ocean I am free.
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 10:40 AM UTC
Oh! little lock of golden hue
In gently waving ringlet curl’d,
By the dear head on which you grew,
I would not lose you for a world.
Not though a thousand more adorn
The polished brow where once you shone,
Like rays which guild a cloudless sky
Beneath Columbia’s fervid zone.
1.7k
Cain slew Abel –
Thus began the parade of
Characters whose dynasties
We remember, who decorate
Our memories.
Abraham –
He gave us all the stars
In the sky, a greater lineage
Than the grains of sand
Slapped by seas.
Moses –
The babe in the bulrushes,
The prince turned traitor
Whose whiplashed back
Parted the Red Sea.
Tempus fugit –
Geo Washington, Thos
Jefferson, Alex Hamilton –
Madison, Adams, Franklin –
Minds who created, who
Dreamed, who begat.
How many names we find
In those first tumultuous
Years – warfare and love,
Duels and decadence,
Politics and party.
Scant years later, across
The pond – revolution is
Catching on – les français
Waged a ****** scene,
Ousting the régime.
What would become a
Baby democracy – birthed
More than one new flag
And song – yet lived to
Fight again and bleed.
History is ours to hear –
We respect the honorable,
Honor the drama, revere
The prudent and refight
The battles.
The District of Columbia
Paints a new canvas – she
Sings off key, her promises
Begging for whitewash, her
Patrons vice and folly.
What offspring will such as
These sire? Are they fathers
To found a new nation – to
Garner worldwide pride, or
To slay the abled?
Let the wings of victory
Carry us back to the days
Of greatness – let us exceed
In probity and virtue – let
Freedom succeed again.
© Lewis Bosworth, 3-2017
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 11:36 PM UTC
Before hearing about your death
I began a novel inspired by you
and your struggle with the truth--
The truth of who you were,
what you wanted of life and of me.
And it became a journey
into the past, into a life
that had happened before
we met, decades ago,
and after we parted for good,
I wove a new life out of remnants,
of things I knew or just supposed.
And like a good researcher,
I told of your parents' failings,
the darker side of love.
Of your grandmother and friends,
and even your cousin who
brought you to me,
Luring you out of the homogeneous crowd
and into our perfect valley--
"the land of spires and dreams".
I even spoke warmly of our artless love
and our drifting apart like ghost ships.
After our second parting,
when you left the mortal coil,
I tried not to reminisce about us,
for the story was yours, not mine,
But I fear that a mirror kept
cropping up behind me and
around corners, erasing mystery.
Narcissus caught me time and again.
Even so, I created times for you
that I had never seen or heard.
I have you swimming off La Jolla,
traipsing on mountain paths
in the wilds of British Columbia,
or arguing with your wife
in that mansion you dreamed of.
I invented a girl you would like
and two kids who loved you
in spite of everything.
Your memories of me became
less urgent, locked in a chess box,
in songs or on film, hidden away.
I analyzed your youth, your vanity,
lust, boredom, mistakes and age.
And when it came time for you
to make a decision: to stay or go
again, either west or east,
I stopped and looked over your life,
rolled out flat, like the American plain
from western crags to eastern city
and like a broken record,
the choice shuttled back and forth,
not letting me decide for you.
Glancing at a photo
of your childhood home,
I realized at last,
not that you had died too soon,
but that I really never knew you.
Apr 10, 2022
Apr 10, 2022 at 6:00 PM UTC
My aglets are wearing thin
from the miles crossed
by the traversing of my soul
rivers run in valleys unseen
and unheard of from the
cockpit of horseless carriages
fair Columbia boasts of beauty untold
ancient Gaia all the more
Psyche prevails
topography of the mind
vast and uncharted with room
for leviathans and behemoths
lurking in the recesses of our soul
my aglet is wearing thin
Jupiter can never measure
Neptune can never fathom
nor Hades bind
the content of my character
I have perceived mysteries unheard
before a quarter past
awake from slumber
your aglet is wearing thin
Apr 12, 2011
Apr 12, 2011 at 8:28 PM UTC