Tag Archives: poetry

Old year’s resolutions

And so, the year draws to a close. Early this year, I made some resolutions, as did many people. And, like many people, I strove valiantly to keep them, and lost.

I did, however, write something almost every day, and end the year with just shy of 270 works of poetry, some of which are pretty good, if I do say so myself. I’ll be publishing them – most of them, anyways – on Lulu in a few days. And I wrote one short story, which I think is pretty good. I think I’m going to try to get it published – like, really published.

I took a lot of photos, but not every day.

And I read a lot, but spent the last half of the year on War and Peace, which I’m still only half-way through.

As for cooking, well, three out of four isn’t so bad.

I was also thinking this morning about whether it’s more important to me to make a bundle of money, or have lots of people read what I wrote. Since making a bundle of money seems to be nothing but a fantasy (I’ve sold a total of ONE copy of Trains.), and I really do want people to read what I’ve written, I’m going to make the PDF version available for free, under a CC, attribution, non-commercial license. You can get it from here.

Chameleon


Chameleon
5-18-07

They used to say that a chameleon
placed on a red cloth
would explode
because it would be
unable to become that color.

We often wondered
what would happen if
we put it on a tartan.

You are anything but a chameleon.
You change colors – orange and green and red
in response to some
internal sunrise and sunset,
and not because of me.

We each were once chameleons,
blending in with the
reds and plaids,
until we exploded
in our own technicolor ways.

And that was enough,
and needn’t happen again.

I sit now, boldly, next to you,
on the bright discordant plaid.
I am the color that I am,
an unflinching slate.
You, a brilliant cerulean.
Chameleons no longer.



Weekend Wordsmith
Photo CC by TwelveX

Boxes of years

Boxes of Years
10-Jun-2007

Boxes filled with years,
harmless as vipers’ eggs
waiting to be opened.
Some so old and dried up
there’s no more than a
stale whiff of decay
to make me wrinkle my nose
and look away.

Some are just ripe for hatching
and the serpents emerge
bleary eyed, but ready to bite.

Boxes filled with years
waiting to be relived.
This year, a good one, but
filled with pain.
This one a year of misery
but with enough joy to fill
a box, to be hidden in the closet
and opened when it is most needed.

Boxes filled with
all that’s left of wasted years,
time thrown willingly to the
locusts, and leaving behind only these
husks to dig through, in the
hopes of finding
a few remaining gems, untarnished by the years.

Boxes, now empty,
ready to receive the years,
so many years ahead
so many memories still to be made
and put in boxes
to fill up with the years.

Prompted by the Weekend Wordsmith

The Bear (Stopping by woods)

Ruth posted a Robert Frost parody.

I’ve got one too:

The Bear (Stopping by Woods)
10 September 2007

Whose woods these are I do not care
But I must run to ‘scape the bear.
He will not see me stopping here
To catch my breath, I briefly dare.

My little horse did think it odd
And now she lies there on the sod
The bear did make swift work of her
One gulp did send her to her god

And now I run, from oak to fir
The bear behind me, hear him grr!
I run, although I long for sleep
I run and run, my legs a blur.

The bear is huge, his roar is deep
But I have limbs I’d like to keep
And miles to go to reach my Jeep
Alas, I might not reach my Jeep.

Conversation

Conversation
Somewhere over the Atlantic
Dec 14, 2007

We flew right beside
the towering thunderheads,
dwarfing us in our puny
man-made tin can,
staying aloft by barely-believed
laws of physics.

Building-sized sparks
of lightning jumped from one
to another, across vast gulfs
of empty air
in a conversation unseen from earth,
eavesdropped on by just
the handful of us who were
awake.

Whispering past, hoping to remain
unnoticed by the giants,
lest they question our
intrusion into their parlor.

Inspired by the Weekend Wordsmith

Clouds

Together at the reservoir
Dec 14, 2007

Like fish scales,
the clouds plate the sky,
letting tiny chinks of blue
escape between then,
and the sun peek through
for just an instant.

I thought of showing you,
pointing out how much
the clouds made me think of fish scales,
how they reminded me,
apropos of nothing,
of fishing trips with Tony,
on spring breaks before
the world got complicated.

But you were still a mystery,
and I, still new to this
strange new world
in which my metaphors matter,
my free association is taken seriously,
my poetry not mocked.

So, that day, I kept it
to myself, and did not show you,
did not share that fleeting moment,
out of fear that you would laugh,
or, worse still, that you wouldn’t.

The scales collapsed into a
shapeless clouded sky,
and the sun hid from us
until we ran out of time,
and returned to our chores.

Now, it seems strange
to have not mentioned
even this trivial observation,
strange to withhold the
slightest poetic thought
from you, my other heart,
my other mind,
and tragic to have missed
the opportunity to share with you
the fish scales in the sky.

Prompted by the Weekend Wordsmith

Christmas Trains

Christmas Train

We set up the trains. I dig trains.

Trains, chapter IX
Christmas
October 1, 2007

At about that time every year
the trains came out,
Santa Fe and Rock Island
with their coal cars,
and Smuckers’ jam cars,
and the tiny red caboose
chugging among the
H.O. gauge houses and cows.

Taking up half the living room
and two thirds of our days,
these were as much the
harbingers of Christmas as
trees, or presents, or
the inevitable and pointless
wishes for snow —
a snow that would
never come in the
heat of the East African December,

The smell of ozone,
the whir of the engines,
the flash of the tinsel
as it fell on the tracks,
popping and sparking.
And the
circling, circling, circling
of the engines
as they counted down
the days to Christmas.

And although, without fail,
a cow wedged in the tracks
sent the train
tumbling from the table,
and perhaps a sobbing kid
running from the room,
it wouldn’t stay derailed for long
and would soon be, again,
rushing around on its
brisk journey to nowhere.

Across the years
electric trains mean Christmas
and Christmas means electric trains,
even as they sat
collecting dust and rust
in boxes somewhere in an attic darkness,
and I raced my own
circles ’round the sun.

This year, though,
they’ll resume their rightful place
as center pieces of the season,
and, once again the
same age as my kids,

I’ll watch them
rush around and around
and behind them pull
a full load of memories.

Dent

Studebaker

In response to the Weekend Wordsmith …

Dent
Dec 7, 2007

At what point is a
thing of beauty
allowed to deteriorate
into this —
this rusting hulk
that was such a beautiful car,
the envy of the neighbors,
turning every eye as it
purred down the avenue.

Was it that first dent?
The first scratch unrepaired,
after which each additional insult
was no big deal
because it’s already dented.

And so, one upon the other,
like the unchecked slights
of a souring friendship,
they build up.
Today a dent,
tomorrow a rust spot,
and 50 years later,
being towed down the street,
no engine, no hood,
no dignity.

Green

I haven’t recorded anything in a long time – primarily because Habari doesn’t support podcasting particularly well yet. But this evening I recorded a reading of Green, a poem I wrote a few days ago, which I’m actually very fond of.

I’ve often found the question “What’s your favorite {food, color, animal, song}?” to be annoying, because it is very specifically the variety of life that fascinates me, and picking one thing from any category seems almost a tragedy. This poem is a bit of reflection on the my refusal to have a favorite color, and almost-but-not-quite answers the question.

Here it is. Hope you enjoy it.