"northward" poems
The distant hollow of the high mountain pass
swallows the setting sun as it steals away southbound
behind the coastal mountain's tangerine sunset hued silhouettes
Mulberry plashed shadows pointing northward
across the evergreens outstretched dimming,
beneath the waning fade of each fleeting eventide
Sundown ebbing asunder the wafting daylight,
each gloaming of the day, helplessly a moment sooner past,
transfixed further south beyond yesterday's passing azure
The lazy days of summer escape unbounded,
nomadic as the sea I've seen sail away before;
evanescent as the beauty of the bloom summer days beheld
and the memory of the fragrance they exhale
The nebulous weight of the gravity is consciously denied
by the truths a human heart beholds
A moment’s epiphany afflicts like a rogue wave in a calm sea;
the only thing my heart ever wanted remains out of reach
Everything my heart needs consciously surrendering
to the poignant passing moment's beauty,
the falling sun at distance sets more suddenly now
Lost in the undeniable certainty
life's imminent season's change
Eyes drawn stubbornly from presence to a sky so far away,
knowing there'll be no restitution for the welling sense of loss...
A bitter sweet song mummers in the silence of the absorbing spell,
summer's sun stained pages of watermarked soul scribbles,
time tattooed reparation for the indelible ache
of a harsh grey winter loneliness
Perhaps too familiar, this whelming Déjà vu
that tears my soul; that tugs at these roots
but cannot sever their sacred grasp
But for now, eyes fixed to the sun's
inevitable tightening tether hence —
to wear weary each fraying thread's impending break
Each sunset leans a deeper angle southward
as it slips down through the firwood shadows;
illuminating other faraway latitudes
far beyond the distant horizon skies
The preordained continuum unfolding what will be ...
someone you used to know ... September 11, 2017 ... 7:30 PM
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 11:41 AM UTC
I made you of breath
of shadows and sunbeams
of boundlessness
of folding out and in like wings
of fallings and risings
from the gravity of things
I am your leaves without
limbs or leaving
I am the circles and spirals
your body carves from air
your leaps toward heaven
when you most love the earth
I was before you and will be
after you, I am the center
and the circumference
I am within and without you
And I am your comforter
when the cold winds come in
I am the point on the line
I am brief and desirable
I eat oranges and watch
the Northward flight of geese
my being roars like oceans
I rock myself in the cradle
of self doubt and other emotions
I sometimes let take control
I rock the world like a baby
I kiss the air like my lover
here and here and there
I embrace you, World
I am your second Moon
that rose from the South
I am your eyes, your mouth
your star, your tree
and something else
I am sand, river, feather,
grass, moth, l am forever
yet lost and not found
and I am something else
and I always will be
something to someone else.
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 4:59 PM UTC
Venezia, its musical key of brick and shade
And the canals in rejoining polyphony
Sweeten the dour Church-ear.
From the impasto knife and loose brushwork,
A thumb-smear of waves and gently-bristled strife
Rise to assumption of the cloud-submerged bay,
Mural of cristallo, only-light without landscape,
Made too from the winds of Murano,
Its clayed blowpipe of waterways molding
The lagoon of blown glass and bouquet of colored sea-shadows.
The Tiber lies on its side, like the lion and fox,
Licking its paws at empire’s dust,
A drifting gaze of water that already foresees
The swift-run northward to Romagna,
Where the veined fur of the roe will succumb…
A ripple twitches like one dark claw of the Borgia…
The watercolors of the Arno are a fresco
On the wet plaster of the lips of Firenze, Tuscan fire-dream.
Or like the warring leg in curve of counterpoise,
Sprung foot-forward to the daring world
And arm slung down in stone-victory
From this valley, too much like Elah,
With taunting eyes turned from the Medici toward Rome.
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 10:06 AM UTC
I'd like to catch a songbird when I visit.
One that only lives near your house,
One I've never heard.
I'd like to catch a songbird,
And have it sing for me
The songs you hear each morning.
I'd like to watch the moon when it rises.
Lifting itself over the earth, reflecting
As it passes my window.
I'd like to watch the moon,
The same white moon
That you might be watching tonight.
I'd like to hold the wind in a mason jar.
The warm little south wind
That chuckles and breezes northward.
I'd like to hold it down,
Whisper my hellos into its gales,
And let it go darting off northwards -
Whistling and running like a fugitive
To you.
Jun 16, 2011
Jun 16, 2011 at 3:11 AM UTC
~
*solstice = sun stopped; in the case of winter solstice,
the moment when the sun ceases its journey northward
from the earth’s equator and turns southward toward
longer days; much like the journey our sun takes,
love solstice then is that moment of
arrest and redirect for one’s direction of travel
in life... and in this, the moment
a Sagittarian and Capricornian
separated on two sides of the solstice,
turn, collide and coalesce.*
~
hers,
the waning side,
winter's reprise,
calls to the night,
at height of eventide.
his,
on ebbing turn,
the sun's reverse,
together rise to step
as one at winter's ball.
their dance across the sky
'neath moonlit nights.
two in love,
in lockstep of
the stars above,
collide and coalesce,
their waltz amidst
the delicate pearls of
a Milky Way stage!
no more his lonely
path among the stars;
his heart she's swept,
to never dance alone;
her arrow sent with bow,
piercing to the marrow,
holds his life,
his very soul.
bold and daring,
her voice of caring,
soothes his troubled heart.
he, her promise, calls
to her adven’trous heart,
two stepping toward
a rising warming sun,
in birth that spans
the space and time between,
forever now as one;
this their solstice of love!
~
post script.
*she (late Sagittarian) is the setting-sun-kissed, rain-misted huntress,
he (early Capricornian) is the rising sun's icicled traveler.
mere days separating their arrival, though theirs could not be
more varied. their births under different signs; his in the wintry
heartland, hers in the sun-kissed southwest; individually they are fire
and ice, huntress and wanderer who together have captured,
captivated each the other’s heart. you’re not likely to see them
separately, but when you do, it’s only briefly when resupplying
their home, their hearth, their hearts. two making a most unlikely one,
but oh so surprisingly, so beautifully passionate!*
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 2:19 AM UTC
*The perfect slanting of sun
tundra cotton leaning northward
salmon spawning homeward
golden grass - waved in winds
The cast of red autumn's spell*
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 11:59 PM UTC
I walk around my hundred person hot tub party
and I
cannot feel anything
crawling through my veins alcohol takes over
alone in my yellow living room full of people
\\
The girls from the local apartments are here
they arrive in groups of three
five
six
sometimes in long trains of sixteen
I try not to **** my pants with laughter
as I hug and greet each one as they grace my home
I never thought I would be this person
this tongue tied host
\\
the felons are here talking about their latest stints in jail
the Olympian is talking about how he walked next to Lebron James at the opening ceremony
the musicians are serenading a girl that does not want to hear it
plastic bags have been placed over the smoke alarms
the marine is talking about killing in the desert
leaning on the northward wall I take a long drag of my blunt trying to look aloofly attractive
, but failing miserably at the act
until she walked up to me
red leather jacket
skin so soft
binding black dress
I liberated her from it and she kissed me
Kissing her back emptied my inhibitions and the morning after: when I found out he was in love with her and I had slept with her; I felt alone all over again
She ran when this was spoken
Me and him fought with our fists
nothing got resolved
all of a sudden
I feel isolation again
just like the party
leaning on the northward wall
having made thirty conversations
none of which compel me
finally leaving me to the world
that exists in my head
THE ONE I CONTROL
\\
I have this negative kick back
whenever I feel something going too nice
I just want to be in my room
alone
with a computer
books
marijuana
a chair
pen
paper
precious paradise
I want to run
tear my flesh off my chest
rip into a heavy metal howl
then have blasting music come in
come in from every corner of the room
the bass tones would bounce from the corners
the high tones would bounce of the walls and refract rapidly
and I would be gone
now wondering
what my position is to where they stand
\\
What worlds we can mentally create
and which do we want to step into
Sometimes the ability is strong on Tuesdays but not on Thursdays
Why the inconsistency?
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
Feeling fine
I am a paper cup full of ice
An inter-dimensional (being)
Laughing
And
Agreeing
Take off your disguise,
Beautiful
Let me see those pearly-eyes
Ruby lips
Diamond cheek bones
May I kiss?
May I sit?
Good to see you
Great to be here
Can I pour you some tea?
Two cubes of sugar
A tad of cream
A little rat poison
To help you dream
Half-closed eyes
And leaning
Gossamer dreaming
As you play piano
For no reason at all
You play with the treble
Line to line
Perfect pretty rhytm
Dancing in time
The melody of your thin dress
And the shape it reveals
Limbs and weeds
The music swells
A dash of lust
Your summer smell
A fragrant perfume
The jump of eyes
Northward
Eastward
Westward
Skys
The spark of fingers
A flash electric blue
The kitchen light
Is dripping on you
The teeth of your smile
The color of white
*No my love
I cannot stay
With summer here
It's time to play
If your mother says you can't come out
I'll stand outside
I'll scream
I'll shout
Over radios
And t.v screens
Shooting cap pistols
At everything
Because last night I had a dream
You called on the phone
I heard your whisper
Infinite dial tone
On the reciever
Lie dreamer*
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
In my mothers tongue words twist
words like hope mean "Okwukwe"
now that means everlasting and she is
my mother dear for she understands "okwukwe"
she understand every word
like a knight would his sword
like an Eagle understands the wind
as for me call me a tender boy
for am my mother's son
the fifth amidst her seeds
a virtuous woman she is
one ordinary day father called
"there is no telling the age of the sun
she is amazing as she looks
and as she is in your science books"
then he swore by heaven
how much she mean to us then
while he Northward roamed
mama held on for us
she washed and combed
my stubborn hair and Tom
grew amazingly rich
Rose turned thirty and left
Joan found a school where she could teach
as for Mark he had his garage set
You are one of a kind mother
without you there is no other
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
water was showering over me
warm steam with coffee scented molecules
quenching the dry air.
a thought was in my mind:
porcelain can’t hold coffee grounds.
something nice would be fresher air
as fresh as frenchly pressed coffee.
so, in my thoughts, i dripped on the rug
and made footprints over to cup one
(it was wasting heat, losing steam)
so i used the momentum
of its northward-traveling aroma.
an air freshener was made
(as i turned the cup in my hand)
to a catapult of filtered black sand
no grounds to spill, but coffee’s scent
poured through the air as it went.
lifted level, tipped right askew,
my nostrils flared as coffee flew.
the air freshener that was thought
occupied a braid of air,
perfect aroma.
then liquid’s caught.
gathered by carpet, furniture and clothes,
coffee no longer kissing my nose.
my eyes open,
the warm steam is still around.
thoughts no longer on coffee grounds,
but rather the soap in my hair
and on warm cup one
still waiting there.
Oct 28, 2010
Oct 28, 2010 at 9:14 AM 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
Part I
The fragile, forgotten arctic perseveres; the white snowy tundra wrapped in a blanket of darkness.
The buried threads of memory under hardened, ice plastered arctic waters.
Why always to be submerged? Can you feel the freezing?
As if only icebergs can gather the brine of the ocean to itself and never let go.
What does not return fungal and muddy in more corporeal climes travels toward the poles.
Is there an alternative to ice bound quiescence?
As if what has passed to the extremities of mind is not forever lost.
And so I follow the leads, swimming in the cracks of what forgetting has not claimed.
Will even these channels soon freeze over?
As life travels northward intent on testing the conditions of existence.
Part II
Under an icy sheet of polar sky; fissures of light weeping through an immovable, immeasurable surface.
The strongest force in the universe embeds the foundation of our undulating, fractured lives.
Does that which holds us together also keep us apart?
As light is held in tension between being and becoming, revealing and altering.
Our wavering hearts like solitary planets seek orbit around a suitable center.
Do we choose the star which gives light to our days?
As our gravity reels, heedlessly casting for moons or meteors in passage.
And so the hushed wall spreads a river of blazing reds and somber greens.
Do the gaps in our comprehension expand imagination or despair?
As memory embeds each frozen expanse, touching where the horizon unfolds.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 9:31 AM UTC
Give the night two glowing eyes
The ashes spilling on your lap
And blue goes grey
And stories
stay
clamped tight behind
your pursed and frozen lips
Back alley ways through black
and lighter greys
We'll bend our steps up northward
past the frosted window panes
and swallow stories whole
Winter's on its howling way
We're making up and think we're on the mend
(How are you making out,
My stony, ash-faced friend?)
'Cause I been lying under
aching, heavy skies
And now I'm chewing on another sad story
The year's ragged breaths
now begin to freeze
I gotta level with you:
--Speaking honestly--
The silence feels just like a fight.
"We could skate down frozen streets."
You say to me and I keep
seeking half-lived heat
Pretend to listen
and I'm streaking through
'til Spring
Don't want another season's empty lies.
"I'm ******* sick of this place
it's always, always only
filling empty space--
but we keep living here.
And I know that we're still
just way too **** young to die."
Winter just arrived today
You're breaking up and I don't think you're on the mend
How are you taking the
muddy, snowy end
that never ends? And, brother,
winter skies fall slow.
Time to spit out every fermenting story
The year's rattled breaths
froze and, now, they're ceased.
Let's take another shot for the deceased and face the fact that
we are all marked and diseased,
At least that's what I've seen 'til now.
That's all I've seen 'til now.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 7:06 PM UTC
He did not forget the friend who, in need,
Had helped in the struggle against the sharks
In the white clothes, but whose hearts wore dark marks.
Mandela, who the Heaven’s angels lead,
Took his long stick and moved along northward.
He advanced with his head held high, grudged
Other friends of his, and he reminded,
“Of my heart no one holds the keys.” They said
Then, “That knight’s steed must always freely hop.
He’s a god abiding in the kingdom
Of love and his right steps no one can stop.”
So Mandela met Mu’ammar at home,
Him he thanked and taught, expecting as crop
More esteem in him to have a good tomb.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
Thaw out frozen thoughts
shoulders hunched against the sleet
stride crunching on the downbeats
familiar haunts are blurring
Hurried northward daydreams don't
trickle south through Douglas Firs
But remember how our paths crossed?
Stargazers both--I balked first
4 blocks down, I'm held accountable
for crusade hypocrisies
I keep tucked in my back pockets
and rolled up in uprolled sleeves
The sun returns, or so I'm told
but it's been evening for awhile.
And, if they're wrong, where are we then?
Left knowing we're left under miles
of mounting snow?
Left knowing we've got to stop--
but not one clue how to cope
Wondering where hours, weeks and years went
counting calendars we've peeled off walls
Counting marks on records
marks on faces
Counting calendars
Tally scars--stubborn reminders
of how we got where we are.
Ground my skyward thoughts
in the grid of frozen streets
I'll sink deep in the hoarfrost
coats the ground, turns steps to beats
I'll keep time, now, walking westward
hands in pockets, eyes on feet.
I'll remember how your breath looked
off of Brooks Street walking east.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 9:07 PM UTC
It seems that every time
I get in trouble, it's my mouth
My brain is heading northward
While my mouth is heading south
You know when you say something
And the person's there...behind
That's me...daily
My mouth don't tell my mind
I'm the one who is the punching bag
I can't censor what I say
My mouth moves faster than
My brain, most every day
I tell a girl I want her
While she's holding someone's hand
And then I stand waiting for...
The first punch thrown to land
I never ever get a chance
To ever hit them back
It's over in a second
It's a one punch full attack
My mouth runs on a motor
That my brain just can not stop
I speak and then they hit me
It's ....over quickly...pop
I'm the one who is the punching bag
I can't censor what I say
My mouth moves faster than
My brain, most every day
I tell a girl I want her
While she's holding someone's hand
And then I stand waiting for...
The first punch thrown to land
I'm a punching bag most weekends
I just say what's in my head
I get knocked out so often
I'm surprised that I'm not dead
Most times, I hit on women
They're busy dancing with their guy
I got hit so much last summer
I thought I only had one eye
I'm the one who is the punching bag
I can't censor what I say
My mouth moves faster than
My brain, most every day
I tell a girl I want her
While she's holding someone's hand
And then I stand waiting for...
The first punch thrown to land
My mouth runs on a tangent
My mind is not as fast
I don't spend much cash drinking
My nights just do not last
I always end up battered
Never have a chance to see
The boyfriend or the husband
That went one punch with me
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
Unchained day beneath dumpling clouds in a baby boy broth
I tumble from the snake's mouth into the belly of the bullfrog
kicking across the river in fits and starts of sloshing and falling
great mirror arms reach imploring
asking the sky to see their brilliance
as steel-grey bracelets encircle one wrist and
then another
and skyward we turn
and vomited unceremoniously from the bullfrog's mouth
I slog easterly through the setting concrete of the new-fettered day
kicking across the avenues in fits and starts of staring and falling
shiny electronic arms reach imploring and
ask the stars to hear the cries
as invisible chokers encircle one's throat and
then nothing
and skyward we turn
and jostled and sweating as fresh popcorn into the gluttonous hall
I ride the current past the kiosks and shuttered kitchens of boutique cafes
kicking down the rapids in fits and starts of surfacing and falling
a majestic and world-weary arm reaches defiantly and
shakes a fist forever at one moment and
then knows
and northward we turn
and
the girl shared my Luna bar
and
the phones were passed around
and
the woman had no shoes
and
the conductor took no tickets
and
the women shared their seat
and
the man gave her cab fare
and
the woman went home with no purse, no keys, no shoes
and
the girl went back to Buffalo
and
still we turn
and
still we turn
and
our shackled arms raised against the sword reaches
necessarily and
blocks the blow as if we were one arm and
then holds
and
still we turn
Sep 7, 2011
Sep 7, 2011 at 8:08 PM UTC
Brown water, rocks and trees,
habitat of geese and ducks.
Endless ripples blur the water’s surface, and
no cloud is mirrored on its face.
The season of death
robs the color from this vista,
while snow paints majestic peaks
touching clouded skies.
Willows, with fall-rusted leaves stubbornly clinging,
sway like hair in the pre-storm winds, and
pompous grass banners bend northward
shaking in anticipation of winter’s cold touch.
Black-headed geese with white chin straps
bob peacefully on unsettled waters, or
stand one-legged – beaks buried ‘neath their wings
in Zen-like balanced repose.
Why doesn’t the wind knock them over?
A lone green-headed mallard swims amongst the geese
muttering to himself and looking for his kind.
He seems to know he is an interloper.
Finally he spies his clan resting sleepily beneath a spreading pine, and
quickly retreats to a more accepting place.
A sudden disturbance makes the geese run on water –
flapping wildly and finally lifting
into the sullen November sky.
© 2012 Michael Hunter
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 9:58 PM UTC
~
t'is some sorrow that cannot fade.
its inner sadness shuns the sun;
as hydra thrives in northward shade,
yet turns thy tearful drops to love.
she thy dark night's dew,
and from thy burning rain,
thy weeping cries of pain,
bears in brilliance, sunset hues.
attires her blooms in violet blues,
in soil giv’n she finds the way;
from alkaline, in colored sprays,
her floral pink she displays.
in acid of thy heavy tears,
she bears the blues of all thy fears;
and burnishes thy greying eyes,
with dazzling flame to lift thy sight.
she shows the inner strength that flows,
'neath bitter current lies resolve;
from teardrops come thy rainbow,
and morning dew in love absolves.
queen of mournful sighs,
she coronates thy dark of night;
from bitter groans she hope unfolds
she bears thy tears in floral jewels.
~
*post script.
(the hydra, more commonly, the hydrangea,
she rearranges her jeweled bouquet
based on her soil's pH.)
a beautiful post by Naimh, brought tears and this. i gift it to my dearest Becky, whose sorrow knows no bounds. and post it here dedicated to Naimh, apart from whose recent daily, i would not have known her sorrow. may it momentarily lift her sighs. and to the countless others, those i have come to know here, who share in this sad common bond... a mother’s loss; you have my deepest appreciation and concern for your ever-present tears, your unending sorrow... and your undying love!
please read Naimh's beautiful post, my inspiration, here:
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1637667/the-lost-rose/*
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 11:06 AM UTC
'TWAS THE MORNING OF CHRISTMAS
AND THE WORLD WAS CONCERNED
NO GIFTS WERE DELIVERED
WE WOKE UP AND LERARNED
WHAT HAPPENED TO SANTA?
WHY DID HE NOT COME
THE PARENTS WERE WORRIED
THEY WERE FEELING QUITE GLUM
HE'D NEVER FORGET US
ON PURPOSE, THEY SAID
PERHAPS SOMETHINGS HAPPENED
PERHAPS SANTAS DEAD
THIS SURE COULDN'T HAPPEN
OUR DEAR SANTA DIE
WHEN THE WORLDS CHILDREN HEARD THIS
THEY ALL STARTED TO CRY
ALL THIS WATER IS RISING
AND IT'S GETTING QUITE HIGH
THEY SAT AND THEY THOUGHT
THAT THERE MUST BE A REASON
THAT ST. NICK PASSED US BY
DURING THIS CHRISTMAS SEASON
PERHAPS WE'VE FORGOTTEN
WHAT CHIRSTMAS IS FOR
IT'S FOR LOVING EACH OTHER
NOT JUST SHOPPING IN STORES
PERHAPS SANTA THOUGHT
THAT THE WORLD HAD GONE BAD
WE MUST ALL HEAD OUT NORTHWARD
TO THE POLE WE MUST GO
WE;LL TELL WE'RE SORRY
HEL'LL BELIEVE US , I KNOW
WE'LL HEAD OUT DIRECTLY
BEFORE THIS DAY ENDS
WE;LL HEAD OUT TOGETHER
AND WE'LL MAKE OUR AMENDS
IT TOOK 14 HOURS TOGET TO HIS HOUSE
WE KNOCKED ON THE DOOR
AND WE SPOKE TO HIS SPOUSE
WE TOLD HER WE'RE SORRY
AND WE'LL TRY TO BE GOOD
WHEN BEHIND HER CAME SANTA
HE WAS DRESSED WITH A HOOD
HE SAID "THANK YOU FOR COMING"
"I COMMITTED THE SIN..."
"MY ALARM CLOCK IS BROKEN...
"AND I GUESS I SLEPT IN!"
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 5:27 PM UTC
Gray skies upward fling
In the vap'rous breath of Spring
Melting mounds of snow
Trickling rivulets slow
Lines of feathered travelers
Nature's hope inspiring harbingers
Vee Northward o'erhead
Calling high and loud and long
Their ceaseless journey song.
Houses buried far below
Including the one we own
Beneath the weight of heavy snow
Crack complainingly and groan,
Wait with unknowing strain
Warm sun's shine to own.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 1:28 AM UTC
Too saddest to tell you
today on this First Day of Spring
my Daddy has his Birthday
anyway
he cannot sing
not today nor tomorrow
you'll ask me why?
decennia ago he suddenly died
not of any stroke nor heart-ache
just wanna remember
that Today just One Day after the Northward Equinox
he'd have his celebrations
never congratulations anymore now
not today nor tomorrow
this is not a poem
just a statement
a human document
of one of the most gifted fathers
aquarelles, poetry or feuilletons
even performances at William's Theatre
his weekly sequels of the loving
and living Charlie Chan
besides earning much money
as the top-manager
of STANVAC, Jakarta
that big oil-office
with the red Pegasus
my Daddy climbed its back
and never returned
remembering his Birthday
emotionally on his epitaph
how odd
The Start of Spring
One Day Before his BirthDAY
the annual Northward Equinox
has just passed his graveyard
keep smiling is not here today
but grieving will be okay
he'd be no more a part of all celebrations
even though where he now is
he remains my Dearest Daddy and all there is
I remain, still with the greatest admiration
and his part of heart
still beats in mine....
Anno Domini 21 March 2018
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
We threw a mattress
in the back of my car.
Some clothes.
Some food.
I packed eight books.
He packed a skateboard.
We drove along
the freeway
behind a car
the same as my mother's.
I thought about when she left
and all the tears I know she cried
driving away,
northward bound.
She drove for five days.
That's a lot of tears
and math
I can't do.
The driver had the same tanned skin
my mother has now,
and sun-bleached caramel hair
I imagine she would have too
had she not preferred
the taste of licorice.
I've been reading
*the subtle art
of not giving a ****
and too many a-fucks
I've given
about her leaving.
Let me record
the last **** given
in poetry
and move on.
So my love and I
drove on,
together.
We're best together.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 9:28 PM UTC
Ectopic heart
beat. Acoustic
neuroma. Sleep
apnea. Getting
older blessing
against alternative.
Neither hate
nor repair.
Immediately
the woods were familiar -
bunchberry, clintonia.
Red spruce, yellow birch.
Heron rowing
northward overhead
a sign: good luck.
Or was it just
a crow. Rock thrown.
Don't know.
Life's ending.
My sons
have each other
for laughter
at their tragedies.
Avalanche, cataract.
Clean house or
run for president.
Power and talent
are bones in your feet.
Nature's the bed
you'll sleep in.
Thyroid storm.
Screech
of the long-eared
owl. Even if
portent of death,
it's welcome.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 7:26 PM UTC
*transformations
sometimes seen as
magical events..
but let's track
a northward unity
and southward split..
one becomes three
and three one..
constant motion
these sensational trips
pulsations
found in
the heart of
cosmos and cell...*
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 12:22 PM UTC