POEM: There Is Something About Dusk

There is something about dusk
A gentle luminosity
Embracing the culmination
Of a day’s chores
Twilight invites any weariness
Into a slow motion space
Where tomorrow is unkneaded
That in-between place
Where light lingers
And shadows soften
As a sentient glow
Soothes the spirit
And vivifies the soul
Swaddled in the gossamer rest
That has no resemblance to sleep
But akin to dreams

This poem is is unusual for me in that it is not jam-packed with puns, with only one obvious pun and another very subtle one.  I wrote this poem last night after taking a leisurely stroll at dusk through my neighborhood, the Old West End historic district in Toledo.  I have loved dusk as long as I can remember.  I have long loved dusk because of its forgetful knowing.  I find a special feel in those in-between places that knead not the past nor the future; a gentle now suffices.  There is peace in being freed from any insistence to grapple with awe that looms.  Dusk offers a luminosity that is lucid but not urgent.  May such refreshing glimpses capture your tension, even if just, before you loose your soul…

POEM: Sex Before Marriage?

He in choired
So you think people should have sex before marriage?
My straight forward rejoined her:
Hell, I think people should have sex before breakfast!

This short poem is a playful response to the straight-laced attitudes of many religious folks surrounding sexuality. The “in choired” intimates that he is speaking out of a community, most likely a religious community. Ironically, a congregation’s choir is perhaps the most likely part of a congregation to contain gay folks, often condemned by fundamentalist or conservative religionists. In some cases, a congregation’s choir may actually be more gay than happy!

The leading question implies the desired answer and is designed to put the questioned on the defensive. The whimsical answer transcends the intended course of the debate, with an unapologetic celebration of sexuality. The “straight,” “forward,” and “rejoined her” implies a straight male responder — perhaps even myself — who is not backward, perhaps straight but not narrow. Beginning the response with “Hell,” playfully mocks the judgmental implications of hegemonic religiosity. The argumentative nature of judgmental questioning betrays the very tender nature of authentically intimate sexuality. As neither a fan of orthodoxy nor the dominant Catholic version of sexuality, I will not be drawn into the narrow and unwelcoming clutches of evangelistic mass debaters.

In the end, if this poem made you laugh, it has served its purpose.

POEM: Rent This Poem

Rent this poem
Call 419-244-2169

This simple poem is a parody of commercialism.  This poem mocks the lack of real content in many advertisements.  Unfortunately, countless advertisements bombard most any available space in our lives.  Such ads compete for our valuable attention and threaten to fill our minds with inane content  My poem does have some real content though — yes, that is my real phone number.

POEM: What Sup? — Owed to Michael Brown and Ferguson, MO

They come with walls of armor
And arms, oh, the arms
Ever prepared to do the riot thing
Will their fear be matched
By the fire in the bellies
Of protesters
Waving conflagrations
Or hands bound
Staring down such a dear accost
As inevitably meet
Each hankering in their own weigh
For just another
Setting at the table
Inescapably found
In the porous of communities
When poach talk
Left behind
In an escaping domesticity
Beyond bred and whine
And parting shots
Dis tending question
What sup?

This one goes out to all of those in Ferguson, Missouri, dealing with the aftermath of the murder of Michael Brown by a police officer — yet another young black male killed without justification by a white police officer in America.  Michael Brown is dead and racism is alive and well in America.  Much of white America is apparently puzzled by the outrage, focusing on how they can protect themselves from the rage of their victims.  The cries for security, meaning white security, overshadow the cries for justice.

This poem reflects on the militarization of law and order, which is more consistent with the crime committed by a law enforcement officer than protecting and serving the community where that crime was committed.  You just have to look at who is dressing for a riot.  Hint: it’s not the masses of peaceful demonstrators.

The main images used in this poem center around the home as the foundation of community.  The porch and the dining rooms where lives are shared and bread is broken is a glue that holds together community.  Still, when it is not safe to walk the streets, porch talk and a good meal are not enough.  There is a time to take to the streets and reclaim one’s community.  The good people of Ferguson and America deserve an answer to the question, “What sup?”

POEM: The Death of Poetry

A critic posed
A question
Is poetry dead?
But for the piles of dead poets
Worth only one read assent
A qualm comes
Over me
As death summons
Unwanted clarity
Between write and throng
Stern and bow
A demanding curt see
In deifying gravity
Those eternal questions
Only to pass a weigh
Into yawning darkness
And for what must be left
To others
Making light
Of unfathomable depths
Know less than a resurrection
Uplifting that which cannot be lifted
To be more
Than a fly by knight
Scrounging heir to inspire
Till the finality of our daze
Whatever
You call the question
Too the cynic
The answer begged is “yes”
To the forged quest in
At best a loan victory
To the poet
There is know
Question
And undying rejoin

This poem was inspired by an article, from no less than the New York Times, entitled, “Is Poetry Dead?” that was sent to me by my Dad. Fortunately, the subtitle was “Not if 45 Official Laureates Are Any Indication.” Nonetheless, that even posing such a cynical question can inspire poetry is answer enough to such a foolish question.

When the eternal questions wrought from the foundations of reality can no longer summon the slightest awe from which any human dare speak, then poetry may be declared dead. The death certificate will be signed by absolute prose. Such last writes will have no need of a wake, and nothing human need be bared. THE END.

POEM: As I Poor Myself

As I poor myself
Out into the streets
A pasture for the people
At ease with just us
Weather soon becoming
A torrent of change
Oar that which trickles our fancy
A tributary to humanity
That no’s know bounds
And has no interest in banks

This poem is about that which makes us human, which can run still and deep or as a raging river.  Much of life is somewhere in-between, yet hopefully that which reflects our passions and fancies.

This poem also weaves this being human into community.  We cannot be fully human alone.  Or better said, we are more fully human in community.  This may take the form of joining hands and hearts in working for justice or simply enjoying the company of others.  Such accompaniment breeds further humanity.

Since being human tasks us with the never-ending paradox of needing to be more than human, we face an eternal question of choosing growth or decay, participating consciously in the unfolding of life or feudally try to hold onto what is passing by.  Humanity is furthered when its members are self-transcendent and when humanity transcends itself.  This perpetual opportunity and call for growth seeds a certain rebellion into any status quo.  There are always frontiers to cross, new lessons to learn, and new experiences to take in.  The most vital moments in life cannot be banked, and this poem concludes simply with a bank shot.  The true currency of life is not money, status, or power, but courage, hope, and kindness.  And life is never so exacting that there is not change left over…

POEM: Double Oh Seven Up

Double Oh Seven Up

He bought
That violence works
Buy strong
Wield men
Where once lust
Now found
Like some secret
Agent of change
As if
Like first see’d
Bared in some virgin soil
Unable to grow any further
Only ending
With another stiff
Drink
As know other
Shaken
But not stirred

This poem melds the themes of mythologized violence, superficial sexuality, and substance abuse as ultimately ineffectual coping mechanisms to deal with narcissistic adventures that shake up others lives but are barren of inspiration.

This poems title, “Double Oh Seven Up,” is one of my poem titles that ends up… being a more integral part of the poem, elucidating further its overall meaning. The “007″ pun sets up the context for the poem by appropriating all of the glorified violence and easy sexuality from the Ian Fleming James Bond mythic biopics, where a license to kill and bonding one’s jimmy to anything that moves is the order — or disorder — of the day. The pop classic of “shaken not stirred” becomes a metaphor for the impotence of alcohol or other numbing escapes to soothe the real pain of violence, leaving us with mere Seven Up, like some taunting virginal martini falling flat at that. Indulging such lower ordered ways of being in the world — e.g., live and let die — represents a form of arrested human development. Such narcissistic adventures ultimately prove unsatisfying, that is, outside the timeframe of Hollywood and its cinematic consumer products. Maybe there is a reason that the term “theater” shows up in warfare! The “Double Oh” is a passing tip of the hat, a glimpse of recognition, that the merry-go-round of addiction to violence can only be escaped by refusing to order another “007 Up,” no matter how good it feels in the short run.

Combining violence and sex in such storytelling creates a seductive world view, at least for the alpha male demographic, creating the illusion that violence solves problems and that somehow chicks are attracted to bloodshed that does not foretell life-giving commitments. Mean wile, back in the real world, we are left with another stiff, soiled innocence, and soul-numbing coping mechanisms

As a bonus pun, the secret reference is also a reference to The Secret, a book and movie that almost fetishizes personal power, downgrading communal solutions and blending narcissism and spiritual enlightenment in a near perfect tour de force, which purely coincidentally harnesses consumer success in the US self-help marketplace. HINT: Never buy any product that includes ‘secret’ in its title or description, especially if preceded by The.  Of course, as they say, if it sounds too good to be true, you may have a self-help bestseller…

POEM: Quiet the View

Hope
Was
Present
On the horizon
South
East
West
North
into the fabric of existence
Be not afraid
Weather
Looking up
Looking down
Such peek experiences
Are awe ways just
Round the corner

I haven’t published a poem in a while.  I have been attending to other stuff, such as a couple of family reunions and moving my Mom from out-of-town to really out-of-town.  I have written poems during this time, though most of my poetry and verse has simply returned from whence it came.  I feel that I have irreversibly headed down the path of a poet.  My mind regularly (or irregularly) drifts toward poetry.  Most anything can trigger inspiration.  If poetry where a second language to learn, you might say that I am dreaming in poetry now, as verse becomes second nature.

This poem was written during a break from helping my Mom move.  We were in her 25th story corner apartment in a downtown Detroit coop apartment building.  Of course, she had lived there long enough that there was way more than 25 stories now.  I was enjoying the fabulous panoramic view when this poem sprung from the horizon.

As is oft the case, this poem is about hope.  Hope has always been.  Hope is present now.  Hope is always on the horizon.  Hope is SEWN into the fabric of our existence.  The phrase, “Be not afraid,” has special significance since it is the instruction that Jesus most frequently gave his disciples.  Hope, like many godly things, can be elusive.  Fear seems to be very effective at getting our attention; though much more blunt than the subtleties of hope, faith, and love.  Jesus leverages the palpability of fear to preface his deeper messages.  Fear is a great diagnostic tool to identify our personal blocks to experiencing hope, faith, and love.  If we can’t get past fear, then hope seems…hopeless.  Life inevitably has its ups and downs.  The difficulties in life can mire us in the rough edges of life, those corners that we can’t see around.  May you have the presence to seek peek experiences and find that you round the corner.

POEM: Sew Your Frayed

Fear takes you
Too the toil it
For those privy to life
If you have years, listen
Courage makes you
What sow ever the seasoning
Spring dew
Or winter flakes
You knead not be
Scared for life
Weather an incite job
Or out word bound
So telling
Down with that
Quizzical expression
Facing your maker
Sew your frayed
Stranded
Over looking
Needle-less to say
What will
It take
Enough
To send a chill down your spying
Feeling so
Small still
Voice
Which can knot
Be herd
In a big baaaaad whirled
Wear everything
Is holey
Flocked up
As you
Sheepishly secede
Just getting
Threw it
Wandering
If only
Poor Me
Might be
Better off
Dread
Then mined
Racing
As if
Possessed
Yet without
Apprehension
Shuddering your vary life
Frighting fore breath
Too feel the qualm
As dismay
Or may not
Come about
Or in courage found
A future borne
Weather bold over
Or destiny snatched
You will
In deed
Learn
To let go
And discover
Whatever
Attain meant
Having shown up
As fully present
Equal too
The fair and bizaar
Yielding
A candid life, sow sweet
On the up and up

This poem about fear was by request — yesterday.  I thought that it would take a couple of weeks to get to it, but the muse is fickle and demanding.  Thanks to my neighbor’s unduly loud alarm going off AGAIN at 5 AM, I surrendered to wakefulness and wrote this poem.

Fear and worry seldom pay good dividends.  I do find fear to be a great diagnostic tool to identify issues that I need to be aware of and work on.  Fears seem to populate the surface of life, often masking deeper desires.  One of my favorite quotes is by Amela Earhart, “Courage is the price that life exacts for granting peace.”  Our lack of peace is probably directly proportional to our lack of courage.  I cannot tell you what form courage needs to take in your life, but it is the engine of peace.

I often like to boil ideas down to their simplest distillation.  One formula for life that I’ve run across has impressed me with both its brevity and power:  Show up.  Pay attention.  Tell the truth.  Let go of the outcome.  This covers a lot of ground!  May you find wisdom and courage to secure a sweet peace.

Owed to Knot Rhyming

The ability to rhyme
Is not my paradigm
I brandish cacophonies
To unleash new homeys
Word
And soul full plurality
Welcoming that which can knot
Be beat

My poetry is offbeat.  That is not to say that it doesn’t have rhyme or alliteration, or rhyme and reason.  I brandish cacophonies to unleash unexpected cognitive dissonances that may provide momentary shortcuts and brief openings to our hearts.  Since the longest distance in the universe is from our heads to our hearts, there is great utility in such brain bypasses opening up the possibilities of new heart operations or inducing strokes of genius beyond calculation.  Cutting through such a knot is the metaphor used in the ancient Greek myth of King Gordius who set out a challenge to untie an incredible knot, promising great power to whoever could do it.  Many tried and failed, including the best and brightest.  Then, one man took out his sword and sliced the knot open with one stroke of genius.  The conventional wisdom of applying ever more clever brain power and ever more nimble hands missed the simple solution of using a wholly different tool.  Our heart is a holy different tool than our brains and hands.  As an organ of sense perception the heart can discern truths beyond sheer intelligence or brute power.  You knead knot believe this.  Though the heart may just prove a cut above the wrest…