On Poetry

I intend poems I write to be pictures of the thoughts of a moment. A small piece of something might come to me while I am working or in my daily activities and I turn it over and over in my mind, and it grows. I would consider this a sort of "cotton candy" method of forming a poem.
My poems often have little to do with the philosophies and beliefs I subscribe to. They are mostly unfiltered in that way. The idea of being "true to self" in the sense that most people see it means that they stay within the confines of their strongest beliefs, but it is a contradiction of honest expression.
The momentary thought that starts poems takes precedence over the idea of being "true to self". That is why my poems cover a wide range of subject matter; however, my thoughts often center on nature so you will see a return to nature often in my poems because one must return to nature in order to recharge and rest from the madness as Thoreau might put it.

The Prodigal Revisited

Thinking with a tired mind,
I am taken back to memories
of riding on my father's shoulders
because my legs grew tired
trying to keep up with the crowd
at the Boston airport.

How tiny and lost I felt then
amid the swimming sea of faces,
and yet aloft
moving to the buck and sway
of his sure steps
and unfailing stride.
I felt a strength flow through me
like a long thread
plucked and vibrating
with life,
like the star of a game
or a brave hero
hoisted high in celebration.

Now, I look for him--
just for a piece of his coat
to hang onto.
I find myself looking back instead,
to see his arms waving
because I have passed him by,
and he wishes I would come back,
sit awhile and talk,
but the world is moving much too fast.

That Crazy Boy

They said he went crazy in the lunchroom,
that boy in homespun green denim
with the curly hair.
He looks like a girl.
He talks funny.
He has a cockeyed stare.
He whacks off in the closet.
He shits his pants and sits in it.

All things they said about him,
that crazy boy
sent to the faraway desk
where he would not listen,
the corner
where he could not see,
the think room
where he thought of nothing,
the principal
who wanted him out of his office,
the nurse
who put him down for a nap,
the shrink
who only wanted money,
the mother
who screamed in his ear,
and the social worker
too busy to care.

He cries and squishes bananas.
He eats toothpaste wrapped in napkins,
pushes fingers in his eyes until they bleed,
hides in the curtains and talks to himself.
His words make no sense.

We know where he belongs.
So give him pills
to help him hear
and immediately obey,
to give him sight
yet see no more than what we show him,
to make him think
but not speak out,
to make him act
without action,
and quietly sleep
like a good boy.
Then send him back
through all he's been through.
Maybe then he'll change,
that crazy boy.

Malestrom

A summer sky walks out
with faded, orange glow
lined in elephant clouds
that move around
like heavenly chess pieces
being pushed
by invisible hands:
Rook takes knight.
Pawn moves forward.
Queen to D-6,
and the checkmate is made.
Black wins.

I am young again,
my bare back pressed
into a grassy hillside.
The clouds overhead
are dancing in ballroom circles,
preparing to make
the red sky pay its duty.
Orange gives way to green.
I lay in awe at the coming storm,
paralyzed in the back yard.
An odor of salt breezes in.
The wind sets the trees to dancing.

The wickedness of nature
revealed to me
sometimes moves inside
until I am unable to move.
Sometimes disguised in genius,
sometimes hidden in beauty,
in the tactless words,
in the senseless actions,
pushed around
by careless thought,
leave me still, amazed.

On First of Spring

The time is up and nigh
To toss the heavy coats aside
And see a changing sky.
Let winter cold in me subside.

The shadows stretching long
Reach ever farther West and East.
The sun is shining strong
And howling winds have been deceased.

No more the frigid veil.
The frightful nights are growing short.
To greening in the dale,
The wild birds return, exhort.

Rejoicing doe with fawn
In birthing bower nursing lays.
The snow is going, gone.
The pasture's dry and fit to graze

Unto the grey that girds the sky,
I turn a searching, wandering eye.
The open road is gaping wide.
I toss my winter coat aside.

Premonition

I have seen the whirlwind
on the water
dancing like two snakes
rising from a charmer's basket,
and in their turning, twirling
saw visions of things to be:
what is taken
given
or left behind.
A certain solace
came over me then
in this newfound knowledge,
but within it a silent fear
of which I must not tell.

There is terrible violence in the calm,
ominous peace within the storm.

On Hating Mondays

Monday: drum-day.
Ho-hum day that drags along.
Back to living weekday life
a teaspoon at a time.
I want to run away.
Today seems like a bad song,
filled with rot and rife.
Monday should be a crime.
If I could have my say,
I would declare, "The week is wrong."
and cut out Monday with a knife.
We plainly need more time.

Over Four Days and Future Passed

I heard you sing to the morning
long before you were formed,
before you could see.
Your voice was soft
as a drop of water
falling from a leaf.
And like that drop of water,
gone too soon,
your song left undone.

The sky opened with rain today.
I saw your spirit move
like a giant hand
through the tufted prairie grass.
A torrent hit my face.
You were angry at me
for hearing you too soon
and listening too late.

The next day was bright and warm.
You were hiding like a winter fly.
You made yourself so small
I could not find you..
I closed my eyes,
sat, waited, and listened
the way you taught me to,
and only then did you sit beside me.

We talked through the night
and into the dawn
as if we had lived a lifetime
sitting through sunsets
and mornings together.
You said that time was short.
You had to leave
before the setting sun.

Tomorrow and tomorrow come
and leave in their wake
a sullen, silent isolation,
but your song has just begun.

Limericks

Of course it has to be limericks this weekend in green no less:

The Happy Man

In retrospect of glee,
I think more that woe is me.
For when I am glad,
I wish I were sad.
Life is a cup of tea.


Ode to Dan

I once knew an African man.
He said that his name was Dan.
He rented a boat
That never did float.
I once knew an African Dan.


The Frolicking Otters

Beside the brookling waters
I watched the playful otters
In careless play all day--
A life of ease their way
Even in dangerous matters.


A Friendly Farewell

And now it's time to say
I'm on my merry way
To drink of green beer
And think more less clear.
Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Bread Day

Today is bread day.
The church doors are open
and we will pray
and wait for the bread to come
like mana from the sky
in the days of Moses
except on a truck
and it is day-old and older.
People think nothing of it.
They scheme for cakes and pastries,
rushing to the tables.
They think like thieves
with appetites for sweets
to fill their bellies.
Then there is the bread,
overlooked and tossed aside like chaff,
but that would nourish more
than the richest dessert.

Thaw

In the water,
the ice pulling away from shore,
I see a dark fish rising
that spent all winter
suspended in the depths
barely eating,
barely moving,
barely breathing,
and barely alive.
I think of the winter in my own life,
how long I have spent
beneath my frozen ceiling
floating hapless,
suspending in the middle waters
through months of hibernation.
The fish turned to swim away
as if to say it did not care,
but I had seen in its eye
a glimpse of longing satisfied.
The melting has begun.