"sjr" poems
~
had i not known wrong
i had been the lesser man
had i not sung winter’s song
i had known no warmth to gain
had i never tasted blood
i failed to see fragility
and had i not these understood
life’s tenderness was lost to me.
~
*post script.
for Pradip who shared the only muse these words were wanting on this special holy-day. please read SJR's gorgeous post, but then see Pradip’s after-words here: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2246391/gratitude/
Epiphany: January 6th https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epiphany_(holiday)*
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC
for SJR
who lets me borrow his voices, a good man, asks for nothing in return
and therefore, is given all I got...
~~
“She's as sweet as tupelo honey
She's an angel of the first degree
She's as sweet as tupelo honey
Just like the honey, baby, from the bee
She's my baby, you know she's alright.....“
Van Morrison
~~~~~~<<<<<>>>>>~~~~~~~~~
*old folk listen to old folk
and rock,
stung and sprung
from Pandora's box
someday
maybe,
you'll understand,
certain phrases,
from certain phases,
first tasted at a flavored oxygen bar
where youth drank,
worshipped and adored
and when those certain
word combinations reenter,
slipping in from unawares,
recalling easy the first time
you tasted with your ears,
Tupelo Honey
but what you remember is
that differentiating phrase
and
what you believed,
what you needed,
why you existed,
all because there was a new knowing*,
that
an angel of the first degree,
was out there waiting for you...
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
artist working by candle light,
neon lights, coffee shop lights...
~~~
to, for & from SJR
~
this force,
burnt soul kindling,
rampant urges that bow a man's
spine
write write rite right
consumption of the soul
straighten up, flex,
flex to the curvature of the Earths
invitation to
write write rite right
cast my eyes to the mountains,
from whence will come my help?
street prowler, heart growler,
Art Deco lampposts,
the mountain range of east seventy second street,
begs the baggers question,
each a post
begging each other,
from whence will come my inspiration?
lick the stubbled sidewalks,
fall down living in their caverned cracks,
light needed needy soft heated
orange and green pizza neons
say here,
if you see upon what be,
your homelands colors of veracity
from
candle light,
neon lights,
coffee shop lights.
all queries so queer,
so cheerfully answered
in the ***** air,
in warped woof of
city write lights
he goes home
in the dark of a green moon,
and its delighting inviting
moonlight,
he composes
what is his eyes have
decomposed into a single memory,
and is satisfied
unto sleep
praising the eyes,
light lidded, but eager closing,
that
had wisdom given
to observe
light various by which to
write write rite right
4/16/16
10:30am
nyc
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 10:42 AM UTC
You come and go,
like a ocean wave, the victims of gravity game. I am a child running towards the water, as the moon pulls you away, but as soon as it comes rushing back; I am running away from the manifest roar of you:
It lingers in my ears, like a the ringing of a bell as you walk'd into my world. I can seem to escape you, you haunt me. Every where I look, run or go to hide you are there with your piercing words and lost smile.
Giggling like a fool, you soon stop and for a perfunctory moment, you realize I am not worth the chase. I am not worth the foot ache, the lack of breath, the wind stinging your eyes, that create golden tears that trickle down your face.
You begin to flow away, effortlessly gliding away from me, towards the moon. Your lost lover, the intruder in our game of two. I close my eyes, and take my place, because once again this is my game and you are mine to chase.
sjr 1/14/16
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 11:05 AM UTC
the elegance of truthful simplicity,
the sweet truths of elegant brevity,
the insides of insight
|||
~
Please Read
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2246391/gratitude/
for it should be the Poem of the Day
Dec 8, 2017
Dec 8, 2017 at 10:48 AM UTC
Natures Lace
All through the night she works, tireless never ceasing
To spin her silken threads
The perfect creation of natures Lace
A silken shimmering web
No hand of man could ever produce such a perfect work of art
With computers and modern technology he wouldn't know where to start
A silken thread floating on air is gathered and put in its place
All this in darkness without pattern or plan
She creates natures beautiful Lace
Each silken strand, stronger than steel
Stronger than anything man can produce
All this from one spider spinning her web
A product of natural juice
With the coming of dawn and a new rising sun
A sight that is sure to amaze
Every tree, every bush, every gatepost
Draped in a gown of gossamer lace
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC
hello, its me.
I know you don't want to speak to me, you've made that very clear.
but I just wanted to see my mother once, and listen to her call me her dear.
I want to know how you could deny me of my life?
How you could not even look into my unborn eyes and say "take it away, it doesn't deserve life."
All I wanted was a chance, to understand what happiness felt like, to see light upon someone's darkened day.
I wanted to wake up 4 years old with crayon stain walls, to run barefoot down a long back hallway.
I wanted to yell at the age of 24, front row of a concert, listening to a band I'll never hear because I wasn't born.
The irony in being dead at too young to even be considered old.
I won't get to learn to walk or play, have you told my father that he won't get to see his little girl some day?
I'm sorry to bother, but I just wanted to see how someone could get rid of me, and yet here I am, wondering how I could still love you even after you've killed me.
I understand you don't want to talk to me, but I haven't made things clear.
I guess this feeling inside of me is sadness, I can't really feel. How could you? 3 years down the road, with a kid to call your own, be able to wake up in the morning and not feel alone, like something was missing, a 3 year old.
I guess I will never understand and be constantly wondering why, that my own mother could sit there and lie to an unborn child, who will never get to see the outside.
You go run and sing with your new baby, show them all the things I'll never see, and know that your unborn daughter is waiting patiently, to the day I can look you in the eyes and ask you why.
sjr
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 11:19 AM UTC
I’m looking, for what?
I do not know. Maybe answers to the questions, I’ve asked you so long ago. Maybe a little hope or maybe a little love.
Or maybe a sign that can help me cope.
Maybe I need a little time to find myself.
So as I stare at my reflection all day, understand I’m looking for a stairway, to lead me to a world far away from all my fears.
Understand this is my window, looking upon my Manhattan view.
I know it’s not the same as the glass square in the wall but this is my window to a world where I no longer have battle scars.
I’m doing as you told, find the answers inside myself.
I know this isn’t what you meant but if it helps, it is.
In my darkened eyes, I see a world where flowers glow at night and the sun is golden and rain cloud drift far away, taking all my sorrow and pain.
So please understand, that I am ok, I’m just looking in a window, to a world where my darkness seems to hide away.
I’m finding the answers, inside myself, through the girl who has been diagnosed with cancers, the cancers of hating herself.
Understand, my eyes are the door to my soul that I’m searching for any remaining light that might glow.
So please don’t feel bad that this is my window, you see?
This is my safety and aren’t I lucky, that I found this inside of me?
You would be amazed that in this pit of darkness, you find hope, a tad bit helpless. Look into my eyes, like I do, and you will go to a world far away from the busy streets that run below.
They are not a window or a mirror, even though both are the same; each taking us into a world where fears hide away in coat pockets and behind the eyes of the innocent.
Sjr// 10:34
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 2:43 PM UTC
He was embedded in the plastic of a moldy lawn chair;
clinging on to his Newport and his facade of popularity.
Nobody missed him, nobody spoke his name, but you couldn't miss the manifest feeling of him that hung in the halls by rusty nails.
He is the feeling of a cough, but when you move your chest to remove him, nothing but dry air comes out and the increasingly haunting feeling of being choked from the inside out over whelms you.
He no longer stood in the back hallway, smoke circling around him as he stood observing, but every time you pass it you get a whiff of polo cologne and tobacco; The invisible memorial of him.
They said they found him, clinging to his heart, on the tiles of his upstairs bathroom. His parents say it was suicide, i know deep down inside he died from the hypothermia of isolation.
They called him crazy, they called him insane but that doesn't stop the fake tears that split from their faces as if they were empty glasses with a milk stain.
Although people can't seem to remember, they can't seem to forget, that the boy in the back of the chemistry class was now nothing more than the ashes of his unlit cigarette.
sjr // 12-18-15
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 2:25 PM UTC