We whisper into the early morning hour out of respect for the dying night
I only want to write on an empty stomach, so to feel the urgency of hunger. I will sit with only five minutes left on the clock and write ceaselessly to see what it is that’s important to me. To know the pains clearly. To feel the heart beating.
This time of year leaves are nearly done flaking
I see faces in the streets lining the gutters
piled and on the sidewalk faces smashed and pasted.
In a stream belly-high nearly topping his waders
Indiana Jones looks up to see leeches drop
like catkins against a blood-red sky. His quest
is not for the Sankara stone, this time he searches
for the most precious of wild rice.
At the foot of the Himalayas the passenger
elephants absorb the attack, as do the branches and
bushes, grass, stone, and water. Halfway across the globe
I shudder as the whip cracks like lightning;
Mother is once again demanded to produce more.
Sons and daughters cannot afford to consume less
and this the most urgent kind of fuel source.
As the lash rings out feathered over the land
the sky opens and rains potatoes, lentils and
chickpeas on the populations below.
Indi smirks as Mother is once again brought
to her knees at the hands of man. This time
of year the frost begins to harden on the ground.
Faces in the pines, in pearls of dew hanging
on grass blades, faces in the passing clouds.
I look up as a sycamore thunders overhead.
We produce answers at an astonishing rate, and yet
here we sit on the side of the road, hood up, and nowhere to go.
If seeing clearly is the goal, why is it then that every time I see my conditioning clearly I muddy it in the days that follow.
Muddied by thought, by my search to know more, until its nearly forgotten. If it wasn’t for this ground that holds all activity the insight wouldn’t bubble back to the surface in time. And the process of muddying can start all over again.
To be able to write poetry successfully I have to do two things: give in to the experience. And give up assigning value to words; stay true to the story; give in to the music within the word. By giving in to the experience of course I mean the experience that gives rise to poetry, which is, of course, a poem in and of itself. I can write a poem about an experience while I’m living the experience, but I can far better write the poem, later, (or perhaps write a far better poem) if I’ve fully invested in the experience.
the thing I love about futballers is that they’ll keep running at and trying to beat an opponent, they rarely give up.
It’s amazing how quickly and easily their joy becomes your joy, your joy becomes my joy.
Casting thoughts of the future like searchlights
this is worship.
The halo of attention sits atop storms of desolate mindscapes
like little bloated O’s floated in bath scum.
Frosted CRISPR Cas13’s deployed
in your morning cereal. Dad says to eat up.
Viruses create havoc— an attempt to take control of the host.
Then ooze blob-like out of the light of attention before turning
into dark smokey shadow to regain the high ground.
With this my daily bread i shall take to infirm the wretched—
part of a complete breakfast!
halos shoot arrows with razor blade precision
germ warfare has been declared. But it’s Dad’s war, and didn’t
he also say not to fight in other people’s wars?
NOW WITH SPECIAL CHOCOLATEY CASING!
Snip the disease of our humanity
until we are no longer human.
Now we started a war
that we can’t win.
We have enough words, but have we got enough people willing to listen. To really listen. It’s easy enough to write them, easy enough to put them out there, but are we even listening. I’m trying. I’m really trying to read your words as if they were mine. When you read do you read just to consume more? I do that too. When you read are you rushing? Same. Maybe we should go back to writing on stone tablets so we can realize how precious these words really are. I’m trying, I’m really trying. How many of us read with care? Read someone else’s poem as if it was your own. Everybody’s writing, but who’s listening. If not you, who?
Poetry is a celebration of life.
Living poetry is celebrating the suffering.