Call to Fingers
Greetings from a gray-blue planet. Anyone who is reading this is invited to send poetry submissions to www.WordCatalyst.com. Send them NOW! Send your submissions to the attention of Shirley Allard. It's a great online magazine that provides you with airspace and reaches a readership that you had little access to before. We need to send a message to the world that there are real-life poets in the world who are ready to be read.
Which brings me to another point... I came across an article about a law professor who is representing the prisoners in Guantanamo. A worthy effort. He has put together a book of their poetry and it's being published by the University of Iowa Press. A questionable effort. If that's not insult enough to those of us who are trying to be published, it goes on. Robert Pinsky, a former US poet laureate, is writing the cover pr. I hope he's being paid well. If you wish to sample a few lines of the "poetry", it is quoted in a June Wall Street Journal article. You can draw you own conclusions of the verse. I am sure that in this group of men there is most likely a good candidate for a poet. I am also sure that there is probably a really good poem in the collection. However, just because you have lost your human rights, does not make you a great or even good writer. I know this makes me sound like a racist-bigot-nationalist. I am as left leaning as I can go without falling over. It's a matter of talent and pr. I also hate the "poetry" of Rod McWhatever-His-Name-IS. It's just awful drivel. But, he became famous for being famous. Could you image if Lowhand or Spires or Hilten became poets? They'd sell a ton, but it'd be just more cultural pollution. Contribute your stuff. Send notes to these cultural dunderheads. Act.
Song for Bob Dylan
I sing a song for Bobby boy
Which one of you do we think that we know
A young man creating a self in Minnesota singing Woody songs
Rhyming his way to stages in NYC
Finding his protest voice in winds of change
When the US tried to restart itself led by babes in genes
Changing times blew in changing rhymes
Turn the electric on and play it loud
We didn't hear you the first time
Quick shovel dirt on Masters of War and quit the Maggie's farm
Iconic hair and the spotlight was bright
It's alright Ma he's only bleeding
The charge was set, the time arise
Slamming motorcycles and hiding back with the band in a basement
Singing songs of baseball pitchers and outlaws
Laying ladies in Nashville
A fury past, the ins and outs and ups and downs
Have another cup of coffee as Isis ascends
We've all had to bend and tie our bootlaces saying yes, I guess
Huge stages grow small as his voice grows gruff
But the words, oh the words
Idiot winds releasing blood on her tracks in leopard pill box hats
Releasing everything broken on political worlds
He's still alias just alias
With his modern times singing working man's blues
When poetry sings it sounds like the mountain's alive
As the sun whispers shouts of glee
That jester's still in the glazed gleam of his eye
He waits alone in his house
Early Morning Blues
Another personal news year is almost here
Turn the page, clear the slate, cue the song, sing along
When I get out of bed I sound like a bowl of Rice Crispies
And my eyes focus like through the milk
But at least, so far, I have gotten up
And I'm not dead yet...
Muse along and follow the bouncing ball
Bounding down the hall and out the door
The grapes in the refrigerator have all turned to raisins in the sun
Bring me soda, ahhh my kingdom for a cold one
I only wish it were a hot one
If only I could keep my feet underneath me
I would dance a jig and greet my diddle diddle with a hi
I don't want any of it back
But I would like my back to be straight again
Ah but to be straight is another question that alludes
Some of the king's men
"Better to be silent than to be thought a fool"
I wish that I had enough breath to blow out all the candles at once
New PR Thrust
Today I start my own ad campaign to sing the praises of those poets and artists that I feel should be heard more. This is only my opinion and those that are expressed are mine alone. The artists that I will write about and sing their praises are in no particular order; although, I am starting with Walt Whitman because he is, was, and will be the biggest influence on my vision of the world. I will attempt either to write a poem like the artist or just use their body of phases. Some of those that I hope to cover include: Ginsberg, Frost, Sandburg, Snyder, Dylan, Reed, Zevon, and anyone else that hits my fancy. This is me trying to put my fingers where my rant was.
Song to Walt Whitman
I sing to Walt's inclusive humanity
I see Walt venturing forth each day and becoming
Teaching in poor lit chalk dust air classrooms, woodworking callus'd hands cover'd with sawdust,
Building framed houses on Long Island
Writing newspaper articles, gulping nightlife, breathing in late-night carousing New York City,
Writing, publishing, re-inventing ink stain'd new dandy self,
Moving poetry door-to-door, singing songs of the new rough and tumble Adam
Lifting all of America on his rugged shoulders, showing us the world of butteflies
Heading to the "west" to cover stories and creating himself as he went along
Tending the wounded and loving his brothers and men in Washington City
Hating war, but caring for the warriors, singing of lost captains
Finding new loves, fighting his fights for his dignity and his songs
Saying goodbyes
Editing, revising, and still singing of bodies electric, moving mountains
Concluding thoughts for generations to sing
Balancing loves and riding final ferry trips to Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love
Becoming the fine old Walt like wine that's been uncask'd
Hiding behind the good old gray poet's image even stroked out as the twinkle of his eyes
Belying his force of nature, using Twain's carriage to race around Camden
Foaming his horses, scattering people out of his way
Singing his way for over 80 years, going forth as a child would
Becoming what he saw, shouting its praises to the heavens, offering us a taste of it
Eating life whole, working with his hands in the dirt of our existence
I sing this song to Walt who taught me to be, to see, to do
Shout with me this chorus of living each moment for itself and of itself
Of facing life and enjoying it, of knowing love and loving it, of being a body in motion and moving it
Of becoming what you are and being it
Each moment alive, and reveling in it
A need to speak
OK, I've tried not to let myself control this space with editorial; but, I have to make a few comments here. Recently, I watched an interview with Pete Townshen. He stated that a 13th century Sufi mystic by the name of Rumi was the best selling poet in the US. I had a hard time with that... So after a bit of research, it seems that he was correct according to Amazon.com. I nearly swallowed my tongue. I've since looked him up online and read a few of his poems. Shirley, JO, and Billy write hand over fist much better than this dead dude. You guys have nothing to fear in the quality area. And how can anyone sell more poetry in the US than Walt Whitman or Allen Ginsburg or Robert Frost or on and on? How is this possible? Rumi's stuff is like reading Gabran. It's like fast food: the taste just makes you hungry for more. It's not good, it's not good for you, and it really has no substance. Yeah, Yeah, I read the reviews about how he helps connect to a higher source. But I gave up getting high on that source awhile back. We are truly a junk food nation if we let this kind of lint lead the way. I'm not against mystic poets. I've claimed to be one myself - going into fake trances to try and get a date and that didn't work out for me either (however, that's another rant). We need to get more of us into schools to fight this kind of fluff from clogging up the synaptic connections of people's minds. Slight change and then back...
The other thing that I would like to share today, is that recently I finished another book by Chis Moore entitled You Suck. I haven't laughed out loud at a book in awhile. This is continuation of his story line from Blood Sucking Fiends. Another great book that is extremely well written and very funny. His best book, according to me, is Lamb, the gospel according to Biff. Moore, Carl Hiassen, John Irving, Tom Wolfe are all some of the best working authors in the US today. Which brings me back to my rant, how is it possible that Rumi is even close to these working writers today? I've come across some of the best poetry that I've ever read on WordCatalyst.com How is it that these folks are lesser poets? Well, having worked in advertising and pr briefly (that's a soul sucking business - sorry if I offend anyone, but maybe it was just me), Rumi pr is the key. When any of us can convince pr folks that there could be a ton of money made from our readings, then we will outsell Rumi. Don't get me wrong, as far as 13th century mystic poets go, Rumi is worth a read. However, for him to be a best selling poet, I think that we as a nation need to take stock. Thanks
Beauty and the morning
I awake slowly and open my eyelids and can't believe that you are
Sleeping there besides me
Hair damp from the summer heat
Surrounds your face like petals of an exotic flower
Hiding the mystery of scent from a bee searching for pollen
Last night you took me to places that I had only
Dreamed existed
Our cells connecting passing love through osmosis
Into the realm of deep knowing
Past intelligence
Past the third star on the left
You opened a world of kindness and acceptance
I tasted your salts and felt your smooth skin
Feeling its glow on my fingertips
As we lay together our eyes had focused on depths
Within and on worlds of atoms without
The facets of your gem shone in colors beyond my silly little
Comprehension
This morning's sweet memories of time
Call for more than coffee
Tomorrow
On a table was a drink whose ice cubes were a distant
Memory
On a counter were empty pill containers
The body sat in a chair like he was expecting company
Except that his tee-shirt which was usually loose
Was tight on his torso
A syringe stood straight out between his toes
The coroner who'd been called
Stated that the body had been out of rigor for some time
A fan was running to air out the room
But there was no whistling of the wind in his ear
The two who were there were making little clicking sounds
With their tongues
And shaking their heads back and forth
He was no Rich Cory
They looked for a note that wasn't there
He'd left no rhyme, he'd long pasted reason
There'd been no 12 steps
Just the last leap
He had no tomorrow's left
High sees grifter
Jus a while ago I was stranded on the see in a george raft. Alone, by myself. I had taken out the marilyn mansion and put it over me, but it was the strangest flatuation device that I ever tried to get into. Then the pirates of alcatrash picked me up and took me to the bobby jones pick and put locker. I faced death and it wasn't very pretty starring down a nine iron. Let me say something. So I took the whole thing backasswards. And that wasn't pheasant neither. That's when I faught back. I wratsled with my conscience and beat back the creatines of the nite. I didn't go to the Jack Kerouac High School and was a figiting beatnit for no thing. So after the battle I headed for the paris ramadan and began the begin. I could only stay put briefs until provadance made me sign a diffident tone. So I stated singing in some riegne and the king, prince albert in a can, wanted out. After I got a guide at get a guide to let him out I was nighted. Then, ... Girl, I miss bing crossby sometimes.
Another Park Bench
He sat on the once bright industrial green bench
Now worn to a dulled existence
The bench's boards swollen into their chipped concrete holders
He spread out the stale popcorn in front of him
For the pigeons to peck
Their heads darting side-to-side looking for imagined predators
When he dressed in his suit and walked with his oldest friends
Words would no longer form in his head
About whiskey, war, and women
He didn't drink
He didn't fight
He didn't love
There was no use in telling the tales of youthful fulfillment
The stories were still there
Of nights spent swilling and singing
Of battles of fallen heroes and bodies blown asunder
Of women bought and bedded for moments or years
All of that lived in its own time
He needed new stories that would leap from his tongue
And sing from his eyes while he wove his own music
Into a tapestry of now
Ah, the bag was empty
Time to leave the park
Wind Swept
I would love to be the tall angular man striding on the
Craggy precipice
Holding my people back until I've peered ahead for their safety
Passing an outstretched strong hand over the yet
Unconquered lands
But I am a short jester in a fools cap
In someone else's skin that fits like a cheap suit
Wearing a clown's costume
I whisper into a dark night instead of shouting at the wind
As strong men do
I awake weeping at some frightful dream
Rather than striding from a sleeping place in command of the
Morning
No one hears my muffled whimperings
I do not voice opinions with convictions or bark orders for others
To follow
My obit will be two lines:
He lived
He died
There will be no pictures from my youth of a strong jawed player
Planting a flag, winning the day, tales from teary-eyed remorseful
Mourners
Those who have written their mark on future
With descendants and stories of their human dignity and
Achievements
When memory ceases of the few who thought that they knew me
Are gone
So will I be
The Blaze Died
The storm clouds that had gathered at his hairline
Parted
And gave way to the sunshine of his black eyes
He smiled from his ears
What drum beats came from his depths that made
The tic about his mouth worse?
His nose sat on his face like a disinterested survivor
Soon he would speak and others who drifted in and out
Of their time lost
Would listen
Not fire, not brimstone, no fear and retribution
That time had been
The dry cracked lips belying his solid message
Parted
As the second hand sweeps away the moments that were
He would move the "others" to reach
Something beyond their grasp?
Everything within our fingers
Another Storm
She was like a hot hale storm, short and intense
Destructive
But they fell in love anyway
He knew the risk
In the mornings her pale green eyes betrayed their fire
He was as drifty as a winter puffy-snow shower
But they fell in love anyway
She thought that she knew
In the mornings his dark black eyes hid the blowing snow
She burned through him like a lit cigarette that had
Lost most of its tobacco
He drifted away
She raided another's town
Starting Anew
Came up out of sleep almost laughing
Something at the end of the last dream must have been amusing
Couldn't remember what
Looked over and saw his new wife, his bed mate, the first ever
And she was coiled like a small kitten dozing in the sunlight
However, the bedroom was gray even though he could see the bright
Sunshine just around the edges of the dark shades that they had bought
She smelled like warm apple cider on the first day of autumn
After school
He slipped out of bed and using his hands made his way to the bathroom
It was already warm and he saw his pours glisten with the early oils
Before he washed
After splashing his face he caught the image of his mother's face
Staring him back from the dim reflection in the mirror
What would she council?
As he made his way back to the bedroom, he could see
Last night's argument
Hanging in the air as stale as last night's breath
She moved and sat up without focusing
He said he was sorry and that the day should start out better
Than yesterday ended
She smiled
It was going to be a good day
PBS needs you
Hi folks, my name is Os Mo Lifus and here at PBS WePOR channel 9 we bring you only the best in quality viewing. But it's costly to bring you nature shows like "How the Dinosaurs Have Feathers," "The Best Smiles In Peoria," and, "Hemorrhoids Are The New Bane Of America". We need your support and dollars. With government money drying up quicker than the milk from a former nursing mother, we need you to empty your bank accounts like you would for an on-air preacher. For only a pledge of $553.22 we will send you a months supply of Bubba's Hemorrhoid Creame. You can't get that any where but here and in Arkansas. And for only the paltry sum of $322.57 we at WePOR will send you a coupon for two months of dental floss. These offers are exclusive to us and we want to pass them along to you, our viewer, so that we can continue to bring you quality programming like your viewing now. We will return to our program, "The Greatest Hits of Estoban" in just a few moments, but first we have another amazing offer to chat about. For only $477.93, you can get both the Picture Disc of the program that you're watching, plus the LP version of Estoban's greatest hits. And you'll be able to sing along to songs like, "Your Mama Nearly Left You, But She Found Out I Was Married" and "Today Is Just Yesterday's Mistake" and "After You Buy This, I'll Be Rich". And if you only pledge $258.44, you can receive this quality black velvet picture of Estoban. So, please call now. We need to hear those phones ringing. There is only a few more hours of this before we return to the programs that we run over and over again. These new programs cost money and that's what we need. Remember, as program note, we will be running The Ruttles, "All We Need Is Cash" later tonight. So be sure to stay tuned to our endless begging. Oh, there goes a phone. We thank you and now return to Estoban for another 15 minutes before I start again. And if you just wish to join our station's family for only a one time pledge of $33.88 you can view our online guide. And those of you out there with a car that you no longer need, can also just drop it by the station and we'll auction it off to help us. Thanks and keep those phone's ringing. We have the folks from Harper's Ferry helping us out tonight and they all want to stay busy taking your money. Now back to the tunes from the almost known, Estoban.
Open Windows
I sit on my porch absently looking off to no point over the tree tops
The window is open but there is no human communications
Listen for the phone that will not ring
Wait on company that doesn't come
And the voices that do are unwelcomed whispers from some cold night
Breathe hot humid stagnant summer air that hangs
In front of me like ghosts from mistakes past
No need to obsess over deeds done but like the scorpion it's in my nature
There's squashed bug guts on my lounge chair
Try not to get it on my arm
Madness is creeping up my pants like late summer crab grass
Invading the lawn
A bright red cardinal swoops by on its way to...
What other creature fights insanity and stares off into clear space?
Need to shower and soap away these feelings
That bottle of pills yells out "harry" from the kitchen
And it's more than just my name on the label
Frozen on a hot summer's morn, that's as much sense as it makes
I know that if I can just make it to tomorrow I'll be better
But, there's so much of today left
Raptor
Stars fading dawn in a crystal clear cloudless blue
The raptor cocked its head unblinkingly searching the ground
Coldly
Eying prey
Shutter speed fast, only a camera could catch
Stabs at the ground and swallows its food whole
Life is in disjointed moments strung together by knotted thread
When our time is done will we end up as a robin
Feeding on worms
That feed on the flesh of the was
Our personal histories only visible in light
In stands of dna left with no memory of our selves
Aaah,
Better get another beer,
This one is warm
Rhein Oer Me
The air hangs visibly heavy with moisture over the ocean
A loud clap of thunder woke me from sleep on the porch
The heavens were angry in the distance, but heading for me
Lightening dances from the low clouds to the water
Like a gun slinger drawing and firing, crack, a single motion
Almost faster than the eye can see
Where the sea met the sky, lit up in ghostly grays
Wind blows the water against the sand
And it foams like a rabid dog
I sat up on my lounge chair and watched the storm blow in
Waiting for the wall of water from the clouds to drench the coast
The only resolution would be for the sky to rain itself out
The low-hung gray masses had spider vines dancing to a
Booming rhythm
While the rain blew sideways as it beat against the waves
Whipped by the wind
The crashing sound grew nearer
Until a bolt blew up the pole on the edge of the sea
And the rain blew at the house and began to make
Me wet
Surise Again
The fighting had been fierce last night
And he would have preferred that it'd been with his wife
One of the kids took a bullet and didn't fair so well
The kid stood up to shoot and before he could grab him down
The kid fell back and became just a body in a pile of gear
There'd be a knock on his parent's door soon
And another plane ride to Dover
The sky was lightning up
He could see outlines in better detail
Like darkened ghosts rising out of the distance
Soon he'd be able to get some sleep
Then there'd be the heat
And distances would shimmer like the light coming off of the lake
No dew in the desert
The only water in the air was sweat
He heard the slight hiss of shifting sand
In the ever so quiet wind
He could tell the difference between a step and the whisper of wind
Soon, one of his men would watch the sand, and listen
If this was not far from the cradle of civilization
He hoped that he wouldn't see its end
The sun topped over the sand and lit up the desert
And the sky turned blood red, burning
Cloudless, nothing to reflect its glow
He'd passed another night
There was nothing as far as he could see
It would be a good day
Poetry Cycle
I am making this entry to invite anyone who wishes to read the entire day cycle of poems that I have just finished. The cycle starts at daybreak and ends in the late night, early morning hours. Some of the poems I hope are uplifting as are others not so happy slices of existence. I hope that any reader who comes along, finds some of the images life affirming and others quite disturbing. I'm never sure where my stuff comes from, but poetry to me is not something that you just write. It is something that you are compelled to do. Poetry often controls you and not something that you control. It is not a leisurely activity. It is a full contact life style, for me. This is a great forum and I need to thank Billy for getting me involved in this and giving me a new outlet for writing.