Poetry, sweet poet's vain abusing of the form
comes from our first language
For there are three, no more, no less
Three ways we speak in space-time:
Third motivates, pushes, irrigates thoughts
Reaping where others sowed.
How? Why?
Second informs, describes, fills minds with sounds
Giving us names for things
When? Where? What?
But the first comes from our ancient womb
Our mother's amniotic tomb
Where we grew for Whom?
That cry when doctor spanked to awake
For him, for her, for pity's sake
That sigh when mother held us close
We suckled, cuddled, dandled there
Our coos, her caws, grandma's high-pitch wail
Grandson rides forth in his onesie mail
Other Granny smirks
Sweet giggles, gurgles, baby faces
Groaning moans of sorrow's bedside
Dad wept loud, mother sighed, holding close
We suckled, cuddled, dandled there
Yes, the first isn't unlike
names nothing, claims nothing for itself
No, the first is not like the others
She has no name or claim for herself
She's a tie tween you and I
A mother's sigh when all else whelps
She's the speech of poetry, a YAWP, a prayer,
A knowing grunt at failure or triumph.
A nod hello.
To Jack Across the Sea
We two met in the one Irish
New York pub known and still run
by Eires like you. Our talking it
turned up tragic: tuition, writers from
the thirties rotting. These thoughts comic, these
Interrupted oral momentums:
translucent roofs true to Spiderman,
blurred and iron // blank and fragile--
clichés are the things clinging life to
life and we make light of phrases
but are aesthetics made for easy friends?
When I say "Oh that's cliché"
I forget it undergirds life,
How "Don't Murder" deems being
Beats non-being. Be cliché, Jack,
And mend the maxims. Maximize the facts
For truism acts. Trace the shapes
Of truer beings -- tissue and pencil
-- Until their manner tunes you right
And let light come to loves you keep
Back in the brackish breezes of Ireland.
Braille
When night sex--lips to lips--
When wind hits open hands--
When whitecaps wash right over feet
that stand on laundered sands.
When chocolate after fasts--
When noodles for the poor--
When children who have found their meal
will beg summore, summore.
Mere inches from the lawn
my nose--on what's been mowed--
Or bottled wines and siloed grains
when smell of what's been sowed.
When symphonies unsung
before the present time.
When sudden lyrics overheard
disclose a metric rhyme.
Listory
My current shuffled mix
of songs tells stories:
Alabama, I won't let you down.
Buffalo soldier falling off the face of the earth.
Alberta, be not silent.
Hold on closer to the sun.
Life before aesthetics sparks late bloomer.
Not enough eyes on the prize.
Brooklyn with your highest wall towards the sun.
Harvest moon. Sister falling... parachutes.
You and me shiver.
Every passing day, Steven, we never change.
Mirianne miracle-cursing Pope Killdragon.
I live in your ghost before you accuse me.
Thunderbird--wade through the night, unknown legend.
Leave it all behind; carry the weight.
Such a woman out on the weekend one of these days.
Wise Old Owl kill Dragon.
Saint Cecilia, hold me near. Sharpest blade? Crash into me.
Broken hospital like minded fool: right on time.
Matinee bound to this world from Hank to Hendrix.
Layla, this and that open my hands.
Curbside--isn't it poetry?
Grandma Mary, head home.
Words? Fears? Beautiful boys and girls? A man needs a maid--let it go.
If you are the writer, that's how strong my love is.
Some mixtapes ring truer than others.
Mearcstapa in Emmerson's River of Man
find me in the river of thought and event
carried by the current of contemporary men
see me stack their pebbles higher into my modern wall
damming up their river into my waterfall
genius ain't meaningless
its genus is in genes from us
we can't be me
till me ain't we
original hearts make original starts
so take art, take heart
take it from from me:
you be you be you be
not me
mankind's eyes look onward unto my journey's end
church-reared, war-bearded, floured by what two states can give one another
between them strike my railroad, armistice reinstall
turn all their wood and iron into my shared prayer shawl:
come and pray together
come and play together
The human race went out before me
sunk the hills and bridged the rivers
men and nations, poets, sinners.
Women, slaves, kings and skinners
raise our wave, our tide of winners
from the cave of new beginners:
Anne Franks from Jewed Berliners,
Skywalked Lukes from Rancor dinners,
Jonah from the Lochness innards,
raucous bars bring Cohen, Leonards,
Shakespeares from the novel skimmers,
Beowulf from channel swimmers.
Our reception stacks the tinders,
starts the spark, and stokes the cinders –
worlds inspire us when they hinder
(Spring: it marinates in Winter).
All the pain and baggage triggers
of the world's eventful river--
let it pass to you from mirrors
through your mind and let it linger,
dim the lights, oh dimmer, dimmer...
Find one thought and let it simmer,
sifting through the world's litter:
when it hits it sends a shiver
up the spine and in the liver.
From mankind, the you considers
what your soul alone delivers.
Stack your pebbles in their river.
find me in the river of thought and event
carried by the current of contemporary men
see me stack their pebbles higher into my modern wall
damming up their river into my waterfall
Mystery of Seeing
When works of men have culminated in our ruddy sky,
When widows lay there destitute, abused in public eye
When we renew a simple call, a vain "hello, goodbye"
We all will trace it to our gaze. It is our evil eye.
At once translucent, sore confessions break from the blackened soil
Our Mystery will slowly see the root of Conan Doyle.
His whisper
s dimpled in our cheeks, his plots: tin torn from foil
And he is me, and we are he: all born from murder's toil.
But what if once our warbles silenced in the sounding sea?
What would become of ichor scents, of blinded potpourri?
If we would kill the vain suspense to turn from shade to trees,
Would ever any average man accept our bourgeoisie?
For if the middle class was next, and upper feigned the last
If poverty was possibly the first so quick and fast
Would tipsy-turvy works of men turn blue the ruddy sky?
Would widows change from destitutes to what we glorify?
But we can't see translucent pleas of guilt, of true avowals
It soils our brows with blister grime, and soaks our monogrammed towels
We drain it in the sight of sinners swimming in our bowels
To find we are the same as they: we consonants, no vowels
Yet once I heard of summer lads and lassies born of light
And once I saw a dimpled grin from renewed fallen knight
And with it spawned the sons of God, and gave this blind man sight.
Inflammation
I wept to see the autumn
I cried to see the sun
It rose beneath a clouded sky when you and I were young
I felt our slow subtraction
in every missing post
we knew we ached for every mention of The Poet's ghost
in that profound distinction
we bled the blood of youth
before our insides flushed out dry we heard a cry of truth:
A sound, a growl of sovereign
The six-string strums again
His ballad flew down from the heavens, filling us within
Our blood changed into nectar
our guts reformed to glass
and every gold prospector found his treasure cove at last.
In that junkyard
In that junkyard,
Snow covered debris
Like a soggy blanket
On a screaming child's face
Winter spit in oilpans
stark, gelatin contrast
Plastic tarp
Covering yesteryear's lies
He's the owner
The loner
The scoffing man shown for what he is in his filth
We're no different.
But we do hide it quite well under the lip gloss.
Locusts
How did it happen? How did the most
Important point and poem of sound
In our day indict dapper slices
Of itself and shrink slowly to the noise
Of phones buzzing? Petty to trade
The cuckoo clock or the bells
Of the belfry tower at the best hours
Of vigils and vespers or the violin my Great
Grandfather grabbed in the grey of dawn
To wake the women and the wider-eyed
Girls who had gone to the gossamer dreamlands
After they aimed amber shooters
At their mother's marbles and maybe she lost
Them as in later years when lights went off
In her mind's eye or the mixing swishes
Of the winter walk through wet snow
At an asinine hour to the outhouse door
Or the cheering crowds with their cheap beer
Showers shining at the shipping of balls
over the green outfield wall
To infinity from the finite. Find in me and drill
To the remnant of my ringings and require the miners
Of culture to core my cardiac sack
And my soul's one for the sake of the singing of old
Songs and their sounds. Seek this or, Dust,
Settle for the buzz and scuttle of locusts
That claim the culture's clanging moments.
Cold Fusion
At high enough speeds
rain on glass
jolts
lightening
itself to lightning.
The phrase "electrical
storm" means more
when
you've lived through
the deadliest twister.
Imagine: cyclones
inside one.
Now:
swap wind with
electricity.
I bet if you asked
him nicely
old
Pecos Bill
would rope'n ride it.
Planes are so funny.
Penance in Eastertide
The Rings of Venus
The Platonists pilfered impossible thoughts
From the tiniest things. How the thinkers
Mind a mouse or a mellon and dream
Distillate dreams that drink of the fountain
Of joy and justice that enjambs a row
Boat into debates beautiful and sailing
Or infers the fern from the foundry's smelt
Singed gold leaf. See me hold
The metal handle of a mace whose
Head is the heaven of this hard earth
Some call a subway. Its scratches belie
Stories of summers when sudden lovers
Engaged in the glory of good intent
And the premarital moves like moons in orbit
Will vow a voyage that varies only by starting
Again at the gate of good intent
After straying and staying and striving to fight
To keep their flight coming home
To their virgin vows and the rings of Venus
Who reminds the man he's married and tames
The maiden's makeshift men whose pretend
Strength and statehood would shift them to a seduction
Of meaningless "manly." Manful bands
And engagement rings go around
And around the rigid rod on their commutes
And scar it with star searing and the heat
Of homeward bound. Or the hapless and loveless
Rust that chooses to rest itself at the top
And hope that Heaven has homes for the lone
Celibates and their silent study of the
Music Of The Spheres and their many rings.
Communes
The phone flings beeps, fingers respond
By typing tamely, or the thumbs clanking
I love you in laminated
Golden age .gifs or emojis
Like knot-tying nubs that fumble
Half-hitches the harbor uses
In the nightly fog. We never meant
To replace our prose with power cords
Or whisper with widgets. Where did the letters
Get sold like slaves shamed and whose faces
Masquerade mainly became
For the overconnected empire of event
Notifications and newer likes
And videos viral? Verily I say
That he who hardens harolds into song
Samplers is sunk. Surely I tell you
That texts take time and tinkering like all
Ancient tomes -- oh, honey, did you
Think I was talking of texting on the phone
Instead of study? Standards will change
But Canon keeps and communes and abbeys
Communicated mainly in manful and better
Ways like wonder and wayward sleeps
That end in dreams. Even the vow
Of silence ensures sanctifying
Exchanges of meaning whereas checking the red
Number of notifs does nothing much
for the major minds. Remember how Antony
Said of the Pope: "If my silence doesn't
Edify him, oh how will my speech?"
Caged Verse
The free verse leaves out the back of the line, aim
lessly grieves until we hear it whining, wailing, singing for more, more, MORE. It has never paid nor gone without--a babe, a brat, a brawling rich twit.
But a verse that stalks
down her narrow lines
would never walk
through a crowd to dine
with her verses bared, unclothed.
Behind locked doors,
she opens her chest and sings.
The caged verse sings
downtrodden trills
of the hammerfells
on the windowsills
and her tune is heard
on the First-World hills, for the caged verse
sings through freedom.
The free verse floats, breezy, queezed by ethereal motion-sickness, a sickness that leads to his vomit on pages, he vomits and sees that all his might and all his dreams achieved no more than a dawn-bright antimeter in a world measured by metrics. And returning to his vomit, eats.
But a caged verse stands on the graves of pages
shadowed still by unsaid rages
her reservations mirror the actress:
smiling, though distressed.
The caged verse sings
downtrodden trills
of the hammerfells
on the windowsills
and her tune is heard
on a First-World hill for the caged verse
sings her freedom.
Dear Ozark Freshman Boy
You'll set out to save this sullied world
But the world it won't want the saving.
You'll choose to charter a change on the earth
But the earth it earned the old abyss
And its pain of unpleasure of purposeless clicks
Like clockworks corrupted. Cling to the other
clockworks' chimes: clean saving and
badder days blaming the rising
up of the earth on all of you.
If you want to weather the world and its stasis
You take time and tinker it up:
Broken cogs and brittle springs
Upward and inward on angel wings
Melting black marks to white
But the parson's grey pigeon feathers
Like a naked Franciscan -- are not we all
as nude as Francis? Nevertheless
Redemptive clockwork drains your winder
But it's worth the wait. When can the cool
Air of Elysium enter our stage
And dramaturge endure? Depends on the other
Actors and the aim of their aimless clock.
Making and mending. Maybe redemptive
Clockwork cleans not the cogs but the old
Watchmaker's heart, withering roots
Can bloom again and blackened logs
Tock to the tinker's time and value.
Saint Francis saw the church in
Ruins and reformed not the rites but himself.
The Righteous and Unrighteous Alike
Three hawks I saw & a crow on a day when the rain drizzled down from the shroud overcast on our hills, wings in spray, wings (brown tops, white bottoms, farmers's tans) weighed with water or now dripping, then dripping inken-black, now flinging ringlets of brackish wet as they dove into blades of the green or sopping crops (that needed those sky-slops) catching mouse-like-things-soggy in their mouths (beaks) and rising again to dead oak trees, truncated by light and fire or human hands in storms or for the "necessary evil" of power lines and waiting, waiting (three in the tree and the crow across the way) for the presence of life (life or lack thereof respectively) for a dive-dive-dive or a slow-flap after the remnants of overcast.
And I drive on past on the wet WW highway, double-yellow roadway upanddownandleftandright over runnels with far off woodlots pressing near and breaking out, flocking and parting and lighting (like I always envisioned a drive through The Shire might be) until crests the hill a red brick chapel with white-framed stained-glass and a white-box belfry capped in grey shingles indistinguishable from the asphalt heavens, grey gaps of God that break apart its peak into seen-unseen-seen-unseen and again seen until the cross tops veiled somewheres in them grey clouds, grey rain resetting the saturation scale of the world full to its factory setting.
Behind it, the cemetery of a small Missouri township of thirty-three homes.
Hawks and crow in the rain, thriving off of life and death and life again.
...wait, I'm sorry...
Rather, thriving off of
rain.
For Grandpa Schaubert, On His Eightieth
Like the time we made eight dozen swords
from scraps of short-term fences
like gardens grown in backyard troughs
require all five senses
like smells of Summerfest behind,
of corn dogs, sweets, Budweiser
like sounds of Glory up ahead,
of laughter, song, advisers
like sights of Gateway Arches,
woods, a Florida beach in winter
like tastes of dandelion wine,
of sawdust, sweat, the splinter
like feelings unrelated prior
to the time remembered
like stories told by fireside,
the zappers, s'mores and embers
are eighty thousand moments forged
of laughter, zeal and fable.
We're here to lap it up with you
as long as you are able.
Shrackle Seeds
"Sit down you Cack!"
The young Tish said
And tossled on the skrey
"I'll sit you hack!
When e're I please"
Said Mozzle to the prey
"You're blockin' view
of Glureon -
my source of tynsoday"
"I'll block and blind
and show you mozz
If you keep in my way!"
"My bag of shrackles
ranneth out
And not a splidget more!"
"Fill it with cackles
Dumb young rit!
Caprussule to the shore!"
So off went Tish
To Glureon,
A marnlin' in the reeds
And soon he came
Upon a qest
Of shrackle-spreading seeds.
"Oh sheer delight!"
The young tish said
"The shrackles will resume!"
And off he went
Back to the skrey
To end the old cack's gloom
When he arrived
The cack had died
A-shlouging in his chair.
He bowed and sighed
Tish Bowed and cried
to settle in despair.
As Tish's tears
Fell from his face
And settled in the Bag
A miracle soon
Took its place
To wave a hopeful flag
Light pouring down
From somewhere up
In cloud and sky above
Hit in the bag
To shrintle there
Out sprung a shrackle grove!
Soon then, it rained
with tynsoday
Upon the lifeless Hack
His fingers twitched
In joy Tish yelled
"Get up you lively cack!"
ランスロットの探求 (a heroic haiku)
Lance yawns
bed of leaves
nuzzling
dreams:
Go. (cold air
waking)
enters in
foreign woods
blooming
blooms too:
hot, high, hardy.
takes light.
gets "Go,"
harvest of Goes
brimming
costs cuts:
cold air comes,
steals Goes.
back again:
bed of blooms
waking
no more dead;
growing Man.
changed.
Inheritance: Part 1
Window in this darkened house
Three-feet by two-feet
Eight panes above their front door
Morning grey, images of
Wintered trees wander
in, framed by rules of thirds
But Phi also holds this light
Two-thirds in their lounge
Over entry way's one-third
It's not as simple as that
Math got left behind
But I am taunted to climb out the panes
Into worlds out there beyond glass
I've missed them in my work, writing of what the five-year-old
deep inside barely remembers...
Years passed
bare feet connected to my limber legs
wandered into the worlds lying just off
well-beaten trails (that
familiar meek feel of
inheriting the earth:
tender grass blades
underfoot).
In the Thirty-Third Year
Plants bearing seeds according to their kinds and trees with fruit with seed according to it and (GOOD!) evening and goooooooooooooooood morning Vietnam and
Third day.
Third river's Tigris.
Three sons: Shem, Ham Japeth.
This is how you build it build it build it: three-hundy [insert colloquial measurements] long.
Wife and three sons enter,
three sons from whom all earth is center.
Then a...
heifer and a goat, each three years old.
Three visitors
(three men)
who didn't want to get [radio edit]
by other men.
Three [insert colloquial measurements] of flour.
Third day: in the distance saw the place.
Three flocks of sheep.
Maybe her husband would love her some more since she bore him a live third son.
Third day they tell him Deceiver escapes.
Three-day lead between he and Deceiver.
Told the third servant forewarn his brother the presents came from Deceiver.
Three days later, all in pain slaughtered with pants around ankles.
Three months later the Lion finds out his sister's (the hooker's) preggers.
...and on the vine were three branches.
Three branches, three days.
Three days and the king will lift up your head and restore you.
...and three baskets of bread.
Three baskets, three days.
Three days and the king will lift up your head on a pole.
...and they all went to jail for three days.
...and he said, "Do this, that, and the other (3) and you'll live."
Three hundred [insert colloquial measurements] of silver in Ben's bag.
The poor woman by the end had bore their daddy thirty-three kids in all...
...and Jo saw the third generation of his boy's kids.
Preggers again, different gal, gave birth to a boy – "a fine child" – and hid him for three months.
Let us take a three-day journey into the woods to–
Let us take a three-day journey into the woods to–
Let us take a three-day journey into the woods to–
After getting interrupted three times the "fine child" no longer a child stretched his hand toward the sky and the world as they knew it went dark for three days.
No one could see or move for three days.
The kid (not a kid) then took all the slaves on a three-day journey into the woods to–
dang, no water.
First day of the third month, they came to the desert.
And they were supposed to be prepared by the third day because the provider of provisions would come down from the mountain to provide.
That meant no sex for three days,
totally weren't ready.
On the morning of the third day, thunder and lightning. Gooooooooooooood morning Vietnam!
"Screw up and it'll affect your family to the third generation."
So...
if Him don't provide Her with them three things, he gotta just let her go free.
Three times a year: party.
Seven branches on the lampstand: three on one side, three on t'other.
buds on the stand: third bud under the third pair
three cups like almond flowers buds and blossoms on one branch, three on the next
...of acacia wood three [insert colloquial measurements] high
curtains fifteen [insert colloquial measurements] long on one side of the entrance with three posts & three bases
third row'll be jacinth, agate, amethyst
Dudes in Levi's family followed the orders of The Fine-Looking Kid and three-thousand died anyway.
Three times a year ALL YOUR MEN show up. On time.
No one'll be jealous of your land when you do this three times a year.
(three branches one side, three on t'other)
curtains fifteen [insert colloquial measurements] long (that's a three-by-fiver)
burn the meat on the third day
but don't eat the meat on the third day
but eat it on the day you give it
but don't eat it after the third day
woman, wait thirty-three days to be pure from bleeding
and bring three-tenths of an [insert colloquial measurements] of flour
three years before you eat from trees
then on the sixth, three years worth'll bloom all at once
three [insert colloquial measurements] of silver for a wo-man, lad-y or other term for fe-male
Ephraim sets out third.
Eleb brought the goods on the third day,
traveled for three days,
golden angels before them three days,
"Come out you three!" Aaron, Moses, Miram come.
clean men make unclean men clean by sprinkling water on the third day
Three times a jackass talks to Balaam.
On the third time, he gets the picture.
Three days in the Desert again.
Aaron dies at 133.
Third generation can enter the temple.
all produce set aside in the third year
three cities east of Jordan,
three cities of refuge for falsely accused murderers
three witness? death penalty
set aside three more cities, while you're at it
Third day, they crossed east of Jordan and came down to their cities
(none of the three refuge cities that day)
third lot falls to Zebulun, they get some of the conquered land
they hid for three days
after three days, officers went through the camp
three thousand men took it
three thousand went up
three days... a treaty? A treaty.
three men from each tribe for the survey
three towns
three towns
three towns
three sons
Three hundred on knees who lapped like dogs
three hundred, no more, who would fight the hoard
three hundred, three companies
three with their trumpets
three with their pots
three with their lamps
Abimelek, 3 yrs
Tola was 23
300 years to occupy settlements
3 days without answer and
300 flaming foxes, tail-tied in the crops
third time he made a fool of her, then she of him
(1) tied him to the kitchen chair
(2) broke his word -- cut his hair
(3) from his lips she drew the hallelujah
3,000 to the cave afraid
of the enemy
3,000 in Dagon's balcony
One man, two pillars
ashes
ashes
all fall down
2/3 of a [insert colloquial measurements] of silver to sharpen
3-year old bull when Samuel was weaned
three-pronged fork into the meat
three sons, two daughters
lost donkeys three days ago
THREE MEN WILL GO UP TO WORSHIP THE lord
One with three goats
One with three loaves
One with the wine
three thousand divided in three divisions
an infinite foe with three thousand chariots
three detachments -- raids
Jesse's three oldest
Shammah, the third son, but not him, no not him...
David the youngest, three oldest met Saul
Saul sent a third prophet, all of them saying what he didn't want
three arrows to the side
Dave bowed three times before Jon
and ran
three thousand men to search again
(dave hid with the man with three-thousand sheep
he's hungry -- no food, water for three days, three nights
Egyptian shows up, left his master three days ago
Dave and his men reach Ziglag -- 3rd day)
The Three sons of Saul and Saul's armor-guy, Saul all died
Dave's thirty, becomes king
Dave's third son: Absalom...
every three lengths of rope, a man can live -- the rest die
Dave's men kill three hundred (and sixty) Benjaminites
Dave's reigning in the midst of 33 years
ark rest for 3 months in Obed-Edom's house
Absalom flees for the best of three years
Had three sons, a daughter named Tamar
tried to take over the throne
oh no
Absalom (third son) tries to take throne,
gets blonde locks stuck in a tree, and dies at Joab's hand -- three spears in the heart
Dave's words:
"Absalom!
Absalom, my son!
My son!
Absalom, my son!"
3-year famine, kills off Saul's grandchildren
300 [insert colloquial measurements] heavy spearhead tries to kill Dave
saved by chief of the Three which were over the thirty-three
three mighty broke the Philistines
risked their lives, fought lions in a cave on a snowy day, these were the three's exploits
"Hey Dave? You screwed up bad. Three options:
Three years of famine.
Three months on the run.
Three days of plague."
"I'll take number three, the plague." 70,000 die
His boy came, spoke 3,000 proverbs.
Lots of other sons-the-3rd
Third day's Esther with life on line in royal robes petitioning her king for her people
Shadrach, Meshach, Abednego.
Three men in the fire unhurt
because there was a fourth in there...
But it got so bad that Zeke found out that the place wouldn't get saved even if these three:
Noah
Daniel
Job
were in the city.
three against two and two against three
then
prepare the way
make it straight
pave the roads
"three" kings.
kid comes and at 3×4 years is teaching teachers
third day, a jewish wedding in Galilee
twice 3000 demons in a guy, sends them into pigs, off the cliff, in a graveyard, in the land ruled by the equivalent of "white trash"
inner three on the third mountain in the story
Peter
James
John
three men in the lightning storm unhurt
because of a fourth,
One man standing in between
(2) Moses and
(3) Elijah
"Jerusalem, Jerusalem. Oh Jerusalem!"
Then they flee.
"I woulda gathered you into my arms.
Under my wings!"
Denied him how many times?
Yes, three.
Flogged thirty-nine times.
Two in the hands, one in the feet.
Three kings again, but different now.
False trials from three slanderous witnesses -- remember the murder verdict?
Far away from three cities of refuge
One man
between two thieves
dying outside this city-of-the-third-temple's gates
three in the afternoon
destroy this temple, I'll raise it in three days
three days
"must be delivered, crucified, third day raised"
at only thirty-three.