"connecticut" poems
So …..
Who Are The ...
... " Good Guys " ... ?
In These Modern Times ... ?
Osama … Obama ... ? ?
Or Those … Civil Type Guardia ... ?
What ...
Makes Them Good ... ?
The Guns They Use ...
As If They ... Should ….
To RESTRAIN and ... Defuse ...
VIOLENT … Neighbourhoods … !?!
But REALLY …
Is This ... What They Do … ?!?
I've Heard Stories ...
That … Relay TRUTH ...
About The ABUSE ...
Some Guardia … Choose … !!!
Like …
STRIPPING Men …
In … Spanish Streets ...
To ... Prove To Them ….
The ... Kinda PROBLEMS ...
They're ... BOUND To See ...
If They ... DON'T Respect ...
The ... " Gendarmerie " … !!!!!
Good Guys ….. !!!?!!!
REALLY … ?!?
Or Employed … BULLIES ... !?!
The Type Who ... FEED ...
of … "ABUSE FILLED Deeds" … !!!
The Type That Make ...
Young People … BLEED … !!!
When ...
Guns They … PARADE …
Aren't Used … " Properly " …
Kind of Like …. " NEWTOWN " ….
Where It's CLEAR … Gun Sounds ...
Will Now … RESOUND ...
In The ... Hearts and Mouths ...
of ... Parents Now …
Resound With … " LOSS " … !!!!!
Cos' A ... LOVED One's Gone … !!!!!
WITHOUT A …. Song ….
Or Farewell ... "Prolonged" ...
So …. ???
What Was The Mantra ... ?
of … Adam Lanza ... ?
To Shoot REPEATEDLY ...
In A ... KILLING SPREE …
That Took … SO MANY … !!!!!
Was His Mind So HEAVY ... ?!?
That His Thoughts … CLEARLY …
Had Become … "UNstEAdy" … !!!
So …
Where Were Connecticut's ...
GOOD GUYS … Then … ?
With The ... " NRA " ... !?!
At A ... Shooting Range … ???
Shooting Guns For … "FUN" … !!!
While The Blood of A MUM ...
And Youngsters ..... RUN .....................................
Down SCHOOL Hallways ...
In The … Middle of The Day ... !?!
Now The NRA Says …
"Bad Guys with guns,
need to face, good ones !"
Okay Okay ...
But Let's ... Get This Straight … !!!
It's ... OKAY For A Man ...
Whose Been Paid and Trained ...
To ... SHOOT TO **** ...
Pretty Much AT WILL ...
Cos' It's Been … " Okayed " …
By The …. " NRA " …. !?!
Who Said ...
They Were Good … !!!???!!!
I Learnt My Lesson ...
Watching … Charlton Heston ... !!!
It Would ...
Seem To Me ...
That ... NRA Peeps …
Care ...
MORE For ... MONEY ...
Than When … Children BLEED … !!?!!
It's ... ALL About GREED … !!!
Cos' ...
Good GUYS ... DON'T NEED ...
To Have … " ARMOURIES " ... !!!
To ENSURE The Streets ...
Are Filled With … "PEACE" ...
and I … For One ...
DON'T Believe That Guns ...
Have … ANY Function …
In …. Education …. !!!!!!
Educate Our Youth ….. !!!
About The ...
HARM They Cause ... !!!!!!!
They NEED To Be Schooled ...
In ….... AVOIDING Wars ............ !!!!!!
And In ... Avoiding Depression …
That Leads To HARSH Lessons ... !!!!!
It Time To STRENGTHEN ... !!!
Our Fight Against ... Guns ...
And Time To … " LESSEN " … !!!
" NRA " ... Type Funds ... !!!!!
That SUPPORT … " The Lie "
of ….. " Preservation of life " …
Through The Use of …
………. GUNS …………
Seeing Blood ... Run …
DOESN'T ... Signify FUN … !!!!!
NEITHER Does ...
... The Sight ...
of Police In Schools ...
With A Gun By Their Side … !!!
They Weren't In View …
When I Was ... Being Schooled … !!!
So FOLKS …
DON'T BE ... Fooled ... !!!
By ... Lobbyist Groups … !!!!!
When It Comes To ...
... "Who is Who" …
Who Are THEY To Decide … !???!
When It Comes To ... Peoples' Lives ...
Who The People Should Believe .....
To Be …………………………
... "The Good Guys !!!" ...
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
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Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the black bird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
6k
I think of mom often.
Like when I read anything by Jack London
or Ernest Thompson Seton.
Her memory swirls around me when I see a dead opossum by the roadside
it reminds me of the one we had as kids.
Yes, we had an opossum.
It wasn't a pet as much as it was a wounded soldier,
convalescing in a field hospital close to the front and cared for by Florence Nightingale,
except the field hospital was our carport under a suspended Old Towne wood canoe,
the battle, with a Ford or Chevrolet, on the main road near our house in Connecticut.
Florence was Mom.
She peeks at me around corners in the kitchen when I make fish,
or soup,
because I hated fish as a child.
She made us eat it because it was healthy and the blocks of frozen Turbot were cheap
and she was a single mom at forty two with three hungry mouths to feed.
She tried to make me think it was exotic because it came from Iceland.
I thought Turbot was Icelandic for "more bones in your mouth than you ever thought possible".
Mom was, however, an accomplished homemade souper.
She's by my side as I explain wild things
to other little wild things which hang on my every word.
Words put into my head which make it seem,
to the under four foot set,
that I know everything.
Knowledge put there by her in our yard,
by the lakes of New York, the mountains of West Virginia or deserts of California.
She is in every frog that jumps, whippoorwill that calls or each stalk of Jewel ****
which is a cure for poison ivy by the way,
that grows near a stream in the woods.
But then today
as my daughter opened the overhead sunglass holder in her car for the first time,
the Subaru she inherited from Mom over a year ago,
and Grandma's sunglasses fell out,
there were no thoughts of lessons learned
or knowledge imparted.
Today,
I just thought of her.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 1:10 AM UTC
I had to run to the store today at lunchtime
we were out of paper plates
we had a party last night
and didn't want to have to do dishes again
While there and while moving quite quickly
although in the shape I am in, "quickly" is being very kind to myself
I came across a man
In a blue blazer
with yellow shorts and
knee-high yellow socks
in beige shoes
My first thought was
I need to get paper plates
my father-in-law is waiting for his lunch
he's eighty nine and flew over the Pacific
during WWII in a PBY Catalina
one of the most beautiful flying boats ever created
pulling pilots out of the water
who had come up short in a dogfight
or of fuel
I needed to get paper plates
This isn't Bermuda old chap
or a cricket match in Rhoorkee
the british invented great campaign chairs there
this is Connecticut but then
I realized that I knew the man
I had worked with him in a previous life
in a long dead company
that burst before the internet bubble did
He was a former British Sergeant Major
and as such took his colonial British very seriously
that attitude fascinates me
his office I recalled, looked like a colonial governor's office in India
So I said hi
and we talked for a bit
and wished each other well
and said good bye
as I needed to get paper plates
my father-in-law was waiting for his lunch
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
- Wallace Stevens (not me)
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 11:04 PM UTC
My grandparent's house
ten-kid-large and sinking
on the corners of remembrance
Remodeled now, to
...tenements
Honeycomb
...the remnants
Irish immigrant and Scottish orphan's child
She sang on the ferry
He fell in love
"The rest is the history of us...."
Wide
as the Connecticut River, grieving--
in their sunset....
________________
This-- chair
is his
I am afraid of it-- of his learning
of the shiny badge pinned to his coat
of his dying...
Golden leather of it
soothes
his memory--
of another continent
of the once warmth-- of a distant hearth
so darkened now--
where his head once rested
...his hands
and,
I fear--
his mind....
I will not sit in it
as if he will come back, to take his place
I am afraid of him--
with his chair--
all worshipful and empty
like a high place, abandoned
to the heart attack
not for grandchild play
Seat of Authority
still stamped
beside the standing cold--
brass ashtray
Pipe smoke imagines itself
against the ceiling in the words
of Yates and Milton
He read to them
and somehow--
Paradise is Lost....
_______________
This house is cold now-- even in the summer-- cold
Worn as only large families wear
The War
of waiting shadows
--four brothers who were spared
Anna Mae, in charge, too young,
worries in abrupt dark
of dinning room
Her face, haunted--
an archway-- ever empty
by the large and ghostly table
covered by its web of lace--
a bridal veil
of Catholic impossibility...
Anna Mae, held hostage by her thoughts
of darling, Sean...
Aunt Lil's “breakdown”
with cigarette and thorazine
quaking quiet in her corner
Aunt Nell,
as blind as ******** hell
ironing, darning
with threads that thatch
the wounded socks
Holds it all together, scolding--
Brought the welcomed jelly donuts
sneered as Yankees clobbered Boston
all-- while drinking yellow ale
Uncle Eddie-- laughing hoarsely
cracks nuts over a wooden bowl
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 10:52 PM UTC
The first enchilada was created in the summer of 1968
In a small house near Seal Beach
In Southern California.
The house was owned by a friend of my dad's
Or my mom's
And we had gone over for dinner
I was eight
I would like to say that it was a cool beach pad
With wood paneling, all the rage back then
And an Eames recliner in the corner of the living room
I only remember the paneling
but since I am writing this
The Eames piece stays
We had gone for dinner
And the owner of the house had made enchiladas
Beef ones as I recall with sauce from a series of Old El Paso cans
I can still smell and taste them
They were the first world food I had ever had
Besides canned Chinese food from the supermarket which doesn't count
And because I loved them with their ground beef and sauce
Their hot oil softened corn tortillas, sour cream, cheese and green onion
And little tiny bits of black olive
They became the prison guards
Throwing open the gates of my suburban Connecticut upbringing
Letting me leave the confines and walk freely in the sunshine for the first time
They were followed by many other firsts
Sushi, Crepes, haggis, tiki masala and sea urchin to name a few
All of which owe their very existence in my life
To that first enchilada.
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 7:29 AM UTC
when he died, his jackets all went
to the grandkids (world-war-two-chic was
en vogue), his medals to his sons, and his
meticulous preparations for any far-off
hurricane, blizzard, fabled connecticut sandstorm,
power outage, overheating engine,
skinned knee
to the big and elegant dumpster.
his wife in her heels-for-every-occasion, in her
quiet knowing
languages and recipes and birdseed
loved him even after she forgot his name
and hers.
they built this house bare-handed
and in the shade of the trees
and spiders and cell-phone towers
it will stand as ever
it always has.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
26 angels have arrived for orientation
Taken from the world without hesitation
Heaven is a little more crowded:
There’s a place already prepared
At least tonight those who’ve passed,
Will rest in God’s care
Buried under heartbreak, Newtown still stands
Worlds changed, for this kid and the next
“Kids, 2 +2 is…” BANG -
Children were unable to protect,
Themselves or their friends
Gunshots filled the air
Instead of love that should be there
Flags at half-staff, leave us half-hearted
Soo many, like too many,
Will spend their Christmas
With families torn apart
And no New Years resolution
Can make up for the inhuman execution
May we ever look to love unconditionally.
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 4:40 PM UTC
is this craft
that chose you,
not defined by millimeters,
precision absolute,
curvatures, so eye pleasing
they demonstrate
no tolerance
for tolerance
of the
ordinary
the skill of words,
too, cut so fine,
find the
extraordinary within,
refine, refine, refine,
shave away the trite,
the reused, discard,
instant recognition,
unusable
cut new cuts,
thy spirit tolling,
thy soul trolling
anew
is thy
toolings earth sourced
from and of the
ever better,
ever closer,
always newer
make thy own designs,
faithfully execute
the new born original,
by elevating,
with the tools
in you, provide us,
by illuminating
no thing machined,
can ever be as fine
as the originality
that requires
soft spoken definition
in new ways,
heart and hand
guild crafted
when God designed the Connecticut
autumnal leaves,
overriding the summers's single green, good
but not miraculous, insufficient,
when contrasted with the
shades of red, yellow,
purple, black, orange, pink,
magenta, blue and brown
of newly fallen
words and worlds
in the season of change
write me a tool
so elegant, so complex,
so refined and yet so simple,
that its point will force no choice,
but engrave gasps of pleasure upon
my faltering eyes,
my slowing heart,
my exhausted limbs,
and make me
live again
through your
finest creativity
heat heat heat
burn to look beyond
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
The world is resting without sound or motion,
Behind the apple tree the sun goes down
Painting with fire the spires and the windows
In the elm-shaded town.
Beyond the calm Connecticut the hills lie
Silvered with haze as fruits still fresh with bloom,
The swallows weave in flight across the zenith
On an aerial loom.
Into the garden peace comes back with twilight,
Peace that since noon had left the purple phlox,
The heavy-headed asters, the late roses
And swaying hollyhocks.
For at high-noon I heard from this same garden
The far-off murmur as when many come;
Up from the village surged the blind and beating
Red music of a drum;
And the hysterical sharp fife that shattered
The brittle autumn air,
While they came, the young men marching
Past the village square. . . .
Across the calm Connecticut the hills change
To violet, the veils of dusk are deep —
Earth takes her children’s many sorrows calmly
And stills herself to sleep.
2.6k
The sun was gone, and the moon was coming
Over the blue Connecticut hills;
The west was rosy, the east was flushed,
And over my head the swallows rushed
This way and that, with changeful wills.
I heard them twitter and watched them dart
Now together and now apart
Like dark petals blown from a tree;
The maples stamped against the west
Were black and stately and full of rest,
And the hazy orange moon grew up
And slowly changed to yellow gold
While the hills were darkened, fold on fold
To a deeper blue than a flower could hold.
Down the hill I went, and then
I forgot the ways of men,
For night-scents, heady, and damp and cool
Wakened ecstasy in me
On the brink of a shining pool.
O Beauty, out of many a cup
You have made me drunk and wild
Ever since I was a child,
But when have I been sure as now
That no bitterness can bend
And no sorrow wholly bow
One who loves you to the end?
And though I must give my breath
And my laughter all to death,
And my eyes through which joy came,
And my heart, a wavering flame;
If all must leave me and go back
Along a blind and fearful track
So that you can make anew,
Fusing with intenser fire,
Something nearer your desire;
If my soul must go alone
Through a cold infinity,
Or even if it vanish, too,
Beauty, I have worshipped you.
Let this single hour atone
For the theft of all of me.
2.5k
New York ~ News
New Jersey ~ Beaches
California ~ Movies
Florida ~ Disney World
Kentucky ~ Chicken
Texas ~ People that can't fit in their cars
Connecticut ~ Lyme Disease
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 11:47 PM UTC
Oh Jesus time by the pink and purple sunset
Thinking of a traveling guitar boy,
of chai sleep broken by dying beggars
all trying to tell me something.
If the ocean lights don't call us home
we could backpack to the crocodile places
eat thirteen camels with the people
smoke tea and rainy day cigarettes.
Heartache sits like snow on the roof
of the hollow hut Connecticut.
The kids tried too many times for nothing.
Mom dream better for me
Wear your peace face
I'm trying to change
You're talking France nostalgia while upstairs
the weaver makes seven-dollar laments
for international slum chickens.
We can't do better than the break-bone average
reading scorched Chalbi newspapers
hacking coughs and statii soup for company.
Bukowski's in Mumbai eating cheddar
My siblings are in cages down in Egypt
The Spanish Communist cowboys
spill Turkana survivors on the floor of the Greyhound bus
Is there a hood idealist, ghetto healer?
My Sacramento roommate's drinking skeleton coffee
in the bathtub, she's got the Arab fever, so have I,
and not much else but these crazy plague jackets
this hungry smoking December
and Rumi's kids in cold-bread streets with protest signs.
We're easier taught the panic than the magic or the save,
There's too much strange and midnight waste.
You didn't know I needed you but you came through.
You're shimmering in clothes of saxaphone
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 2:03 AM UTC
(Tune: “Londonderry Air")
Here in the vista of three hundred years we stand,
Our torches kindled by thy guiding light.
A Pilgrim host, we come to thee from every land,
With joyful hopes, well girded by thy might.
Connecticut, beloved State, all hail to thee;
Tower of might against a flaming sky,
The heav’ns resound with praise, ring out with victory.
God speed you on and all your glories sanctify.
Through summer heat and winter cold thy honor stands,
A bulwark gainst the mighty hosts of sin,
Till love shall spread to earth’s most distant island strands,
And Heaven’s righteous ways o’er evil win.
Connecticut, advancing through the changing years,
May knowledge guide thy sons and daughters fair,
And honor, truth and wisdom banish all our fears,
Connecticut, while we thy many glories share!
The years shall pass across thy mighty mountain walls,
Against the gold of every setting sun,
A newer host, well-born within thy ancient halls,
Shall bear thy standards of new glories won.
Connecticut, our fathers kept thy honor fair,
Thy reach of love they widened to the sea.
We shall keep faith, where they fought; we, too, shall dare,
Connecticut, for aye we pledge our hearts to thee.
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 9:00 AM UTC
In God We Trust, For He Invented Reasonable Doubt
In Courtroom of the State of New York, Part 62,
where the only decoration extant,
in gold leaf letters,
a magnificent joke,
In God We Trust.
Words so incongruous
to the real time drama,
a poorly acted Law and Order episode
of which I partake,
(as Juror No. 1,
ergo you may address me as
Mr. Jury Foreman),
they stun me into stupefaction
every time we enter and the
Bailiff pronounces with much gravitas,
"Jury Entering"
A potpourri of a dozen Manhattanites,
with wisdom acquired
by the singular virtue of
having attained the robust age of 18,
noteworthy for being free of
criminal record,
having been nominated
to sit upon the jury that will decide
the fate of one Eric B.,
for what he may have done upon West 11th Street
one Summer night in
June Two Thousand and Eleven,
If adjudged guilty,
New York State can take,
incarcerate him for up to
15 years of his life
Predicate felon by the age of twenty seven,
Eric's resume consists of
four felonies,
two misdemeanors
a wife and two little children,
and a partridge in a pear tree.
Facts turgid and muddy,
Eric tells a story
one juror calls a confection of lies,
no one murmurs
much disagreement in the
tiny, overheated room
we have been sequestered to
replay
the 2012 version of
Twelve Angry Men.
But I am not his peer,
nor am I a seer,
common sense says
if appearances are what they seem to be,
he aided and abetted
in the forcible taking of
a nice Connecticut lady's cell phone
with his brother who just happened to be
released from prison earlier that day
A convoluted tale
ripe with inanities is told,
upshot is our defendant's tale,
his robust defense,
portrays him as the unluckiest man
in the whole world,
a good Samaritan,
*{chasing after the thief,
** ** his bro}*
against whom events have conspired
In Manhattan can be a harsh place,
where the natives
a tough lot,
tougher than the Indians from whom
they stole it all.
Our bridges we sell to out-of-towers,
all it takes is one to say,
what the heck,
reasonable doubt is
a ***** to overcome
so let him go
Jan, 2012
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
For more information, including the origin of Honku, please visit the official website:
www.honku.org
Clogging traffic flow
twin, brake riders in the lane,
they're really a pain.
America's love -
Unsupervised car racing
on our new highways.
Rubbernecking state:
Welcome to Connecticut,
spend more time on road.
Suggestion only?
Painted lines are optional
for lane straddlers.
Forget the roadkill!
Rubberneckers demonstrate...
Lust for dead bodies.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 6:49 AM UTC
It’s starting to cool down here in Connecticut. Leaves are falling, like giant, burnt snowflakes (science says that trees send chemical signals to their branches to clip leaves away).
Peter borrowed a friend's toy-like, pea green, Fiat-500 convertible and we drove into the country to see the turning leaves. We hiked a bit too and stopped, in Mystic, for seafood.
I never realized just how theatrical trees could be, with their few, simple, chlorophyll tricks and how reflective still lakes could be. Wowzer, just - wowzer.
There are some things that should never be shared. Like a toothbrush, an iPad, lipstick, strawberry stroopwafels, a slice of pizza or a secret lover (that last one just sounded good). But life is good, I can share that. We’re young, dramatic sophomores with good hair products and we’re at it, working and playing hard.
Ahh.. ok, upon consultation, I have to add that some of us are in their mid-twenties with only a few good years left.
Did I mention that we climbed up a twisty lighthouse staircase too? Peter always thinks people should take the stairs, and not the elevators, “You want to have muscles and bones that work when you’re eighty,” He says. Since he’s closer to eighty than I am, when we’re not carrying furniture, I let him have his way. Of course, he’s never been to up Lisa’s 50th floor townhouse either.
My mom told me that they’re off to Poland again, over the holidays, for another tour with “Doctors without Borders” **** war). Lisa’s parents have (kindly) invited me to share their high-rise utopia again this year. Who knows, maybe Peter will have his chance to try those stairs.
Nov 4, 2022
Nov 4, 2022 at 3:30 PM UTC
There is a great river this side of Stygia
Before one comes to the first black cataracts
And trees that lack the intelligence of trees.
In that river, far this side of Stygia,
The mere flowing of the water is a gayety,
Flashing and flashing in the sun. On its banks,
No shadow walks. The river is fateful,
Like the last one. But there is no ferryman.
He could not bend against its propelling force.
It is not to be seen beneath the appearances
That tell of it. The steeple at Farmington
Stands glistening and Haddam shines and sways.
It is the third commonness with light and air,
A curriculum, a vigor, a local abstraction . . .
Call it, one more, a river, an unnamed flowing,
Space-filled, reflecting the seasons, the folk-lore
Of each of the senses; call it, again and again,
The river that flows nowhere, like a sea.
1.8k
farmland, not death, is the great equalizer. death separates the famous from the infamous, the young from the old, the lucky from the alone. farmland, stretching to the horizon, makes pennsylvania into connecticut into ireland into kansas. you can't tell monet's haystacks from mine.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
The thumping and darkness in the bowels of Irene
sit lugubriously on the edge of serenity
the pounding and the tears through all these years
languishing in turpitude and solace from her knowledge
unceremoniously, recklessly and without feeling
while listening to her tongue lashing and
harshness of her venomous and thoughtless words
cracking like a whip, “do you think I’m an idiot”
Not once but twice while searching through black clouds
of disappointment and destitution … no rhyme…no reason.
All due to confusing north from south and east from west
reality from fantasy as we all feel the sound of her thunder
Irene crashes on and above the banks of New Haven,
Guilford, Fairfield and the Housatonic
lapping and licking at the shores while throwing
her magnificent weight in her favor, and the swells explode
the question, “how can she possibly know the children”
Even though downgraded and ebbing
the uneven strength and fortitude asks the question
and all my determination fades in the wind.
Trees weakened as we begin to dig out and explore
power lines and internet down, hampering communication
flooded streets and nervous bridges impeached
yet Irene serves notice with an ace of her own
dressed in her sheer-like vest and turquoise ring
her hazel eye filled with scorn and distain
while brightness and candor follow her path
with her feline temperament scratched and clawed
the tears begin to taper amidst her howling breath.
Irene begins to move northward stoically away from me.
I’m not a victim so I pick what remains of my heart
and begin to reattach my churning stomach
with the threads of her words of disbelief
bringing the force she was most capable of exerting
as the storm continues her long, unforgiven journey
hatred and disdain replaced by disinterest and apathy
as the breath disappears, the light becomes brighter
and Hurricane Irene decides to leave Connecticut
impact in place, on the broken bows of the sturdy trees
perhaps she was right, after all was said and done.
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 2:43 PM UTC
Six days left
In this oasis
In this escape
In this reality we’ve created for ourselves.
Six days left
And it already hurts.
Three days left
Where did my time go?
She’s one floor below me, and I miss her this much
What is twelve hours?
Half a day.
This will be the only thing about our relationship
That isn’t easy.
She has an early morning tomorrow.
Sleeping in our respective beds,
I don’t remember how to sleep alone.
If words could describe perfection,
I would paint a picture of phonemes and morphemes
Of syntax and semantics
Of beauty and wonder.
If words could describe her
I would bridge together vowels
Consonants
Punctuation
Grammar
If words could describe this
Trust me,
I would use them.
Shakespeare
Made up words when nothing else
Seemed right
I’m beginning to see why
He and Mr. Geisel
Were so unsatisfied
With the language at hand.
Five days in and I'm
Keeping myself busy so that I can ignore
The Aching that comes.
That always comes.
I'm afraid to hope that she'll
Be different than the others.
But she seems genuine
And I'm so satiated
When I'm with her.
Trying to be a better person for her,
I've never been with someone who could
Keep the panic over grades and schoolwork
To a dull roar.
I think I've got something remarkable here...
And I miss her.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC
On July the 4th in 1976, the bicentennial of our great nation. I awoke at 3am in Lakeside, Ohio to start a journey to Plant City, Florida. I was to pick up a leased car in Kent, Ohio and take it to Greenwich, Connecticut. Where I joined several others to make the trek to the Sunshine State. When I crossed the George Washington Bridge over the Hudson River in New York City, off to my right I saw the tall ships heading out to the harbor for the day's celebrations. The radio played every version of God Bless America in their archive. I sang every one of them. We traveled all day and into the night where we saw fireworks in at least 4 states. We reached our destination in Plant City very early in the morning on the 5th of July. But
I Larry Dean Goodwin on July 4th, 1976 in a brand new American made Red Chevrolet Monti Carlo sedan traveled through Ohio, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, Washington D.C., North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Florida.
God Bless America, God Bless Us All.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 12:48 AM UTC
It's such a strange thing,
falling in love,
and the way the things you fall in love with,
change with the seasons,
or as various lovers even strangers,
enter and exit our existence,
as time passes.
And it's extraordinary how love
seems to warp time.
How it moves too slowly
when love is sad,
but far too quickly
when the love is good,
how you fall in and out of love
faster than you can say the words,
or the tears can form
on the inside corners of the eyes.
The tears that don't ever fall,
but linger just long enough
to melt the mascara on the fine lashes,
that only seem to be evident
during moments like these.
The moments when people look most like themselves.
Moments of weakness.
The same moments when you realize
that the movies are liars,
and songs are rarely written from truth.
Because people don't find their soulmates
in the spontaneous moments of passing,
but in the everyday moments.
Real people don't fall in love
during the dramatic, desperate, lonely moments
but the quiet
simple moments.
For I once fell in love with a beautifully ordinary boy
as he slept soundly
on the other side of my mattress at 4am.
Because he'd never shown me
any of the private memories he had survived
and that night he'd told me everything,
and whispered that without me
he always slept, but couldn't dream.
And once during a quiet evening
on a couch,
in a small town in Connecticut,
in front of Lord of the Rings,
while we'd laughed about all the things,
we'd somehow forgotten to laugh about
over the course of growing older.
And then a third time in your car,
on a rainy afternoon
while we had danced horrendously and sang off key
to an old mix you had burned back in
God knows when.
Where you knew every line,
and I'd rolled down the windows
despite the rain,
to hold my arm out like I was flying,
like we had when we were kids,
and you had smiled at me like I was magic..
These have been the moments in which
I have fallen in love.
Never during the movie-esque moments,
but in the ordinary moments.
The moments in which,
I never expected to fall in love at all.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 4:12 AM UTC