On the Border

Just beneath my heart, is a place for you.

I had to remove you from my heart,

But I could only place you so far away,

So you landed right beneath the curve.

   They say if you do not feel your heart,

   You can not feel or receive love.

Just beneath my heart, is a place for you.

Where you stay in perpetual anonymity,

Without outside notice, with inside stamina,

Counting butterflies and whistling a tune.

Camping 4

The tent is an eminent, shining light,

Glowing within and without.

Only the thin walls of time

Exist to define its shape.

There is no heartland in the tent,

There is only the openness of

Air, Space and Time -

Heart flows everywhere with its

Motion in hidden dimensions.

Camping in the Stratosphere

My whitest bed is a speeding planet,

With memory and expanding space.

The sheets are layers of impermanence,

Peeled off, replaced by new, temporary

meanings.

The structure of the Hawaiiana, pineapple posts

Add the comedic element to the contemplative

Nature of the lightening way.

Though the space does not stop at the edge

of the softness,

It hovers in the emptiness of its own time,

With a specific permanence that transcends itself.    

Camping 2

I camp out on my bed at night.

Beneath the quiet stars,

Inside double sheets of cotton,

A soft light peeks into the tent,

And reminds me I am

Not in the forest of it’s description

But the forest of my dreams.

Camping 3

I camp out on my bed at night.

The trees stand huge next to me

The texture of cedar reassures me

The smell of pine scents my way

My hand touches the bark and

My sense corrects itself to nature

And the source of the planet.

I look and find the vertical stand

Making directional signage.

Further up between the circle of

Treetops, I see a patch of sky

Surrounded on the edge by

The far away shape of accumulated

Leaves - Waving slowly.

The clouds, lit by moonlight

Show the colours of  Prussian

and Zinc.

I sit in my tent of trees and clouds

And arrest the movement of time

And space until I no longer do.

Childhood

Up on the hill, above the White River Bridge –

On one of my daily, rambling adventures,

I would occasionally go to this cemetery.

I was welcomed by the thin, wrought iron gate,

That hung loosely on one hinge,

The trees shot up fifty feet on the perimeter,

Giant sycamores and dark hickories,

The dried grasses were yellow, tall and thick,

And fell over themselves like waterfalls.

The ground was deeply pocketed.

I always felt respectful and scared going in.

The markers were curved on top, just a

Couple of inches thick,

These worn limestone announcements

Stood slightly askew, a few had fallen flat

from weather, some were disappeared,

Many of the letters were blurry and hard to read,

These almost names, forgotten away with the wind –

It bothered me that I could not read each one,

To read their names and dream what their

Lives were like, even the babies.

To bring them back,

Even for an instant, through imagination.

I would carefully walk past the graves

Of the Indiana Brigade and

The smaller graves with only brief stays here,

I thought about those going South to Kentucky

And beyond; on foot to fight for the Union -

Wondering what that would be like.

Children who died of diphtheria, cholera,

Or other unremembered, childhood diseases,

And,

How easy it is to die unknown and alone.

In the world.

This is What Love Looks Like

Your hand against my forehead by my temple with a cooling towel when I have a burning fever, the soft white sheets that wrap our bodies with the fragrance of tiny purple violets that grow on the rivers edge, when you look at me with inquiry and tell me I am the sweetest person you have ever known,

When you took me to the hospital to have my ankle fixed and waited there all day to take me home in the new car; after another gym incident a repeat of the hospital trip,

your coffee; your tea, and then -

On the misted waterfront by the bridge – across the Seine to the Rodin museum you took off your shirt in the rain and put it over my head like a parachute – we laughed and took partial pictures of the sculptures in the rain, drank wine, laughed some more for good measure,

Talking on the phone for an hour and a half from downstairs to up -

  

giving up days with me while I work on one art piece or another, waiting for me for whatever I want to do, when late August comes; taking me to a cooler place for work or relaxing, remembering what I have been and what I can be, with a look on your face that says surprise and (weather you believe it or not):  saying my continual, changing art and writing amaze you,

Leaving me alone and understanding

No Net 1

No net. Nine bet. Lighting a set; Poet,  

Of the et tu, wild -   yet;  Kick it!

Jammin’ with the crowd, ja – et,

Writing, writing, loud, ja

Poets in the yaya,

Clip in, slip in,

Down to the

Final,

Dot.

---

Poem written from 9 syllables and 9 words, 8 syllables and 8 words = Nonet Poem

Luc Bat 1

Moment

The flowers of childhood,

Walking through woods and streams,

Footfall on cool dreams,

Apart from goods and notions,

On blue skies and devotions,

Colors, breezes, motions of trees,

The longing, just to be,

The moment of seas and wind.

 ---

Luc Bat Poem (Vietnamese form, alternating lines of six and eight syllables)

Haibun Poem 1

Early one morning, there was a half-sphere in the sky. It was an effusion of pinks and purples fading into a light blue. This looked like an area of spray paint. To the left was a completely different exhibit, a small area of a few lined clouds. Then off to the right, was another unrelated expression of blue and white clouds, holding their shape momentarily.

within the whole

great differences exist

unlike each other

Story Violence (two you's)

I thought that the pain of leaving you,
Would have been the worst thing.

But I was wrong.

It came like another nightmare –

My right arm numbed,
Like ice ripped from a winter river.
The unthinkable, the unknowable,
Plumed far off like a tornado,
Out from the red box of hell,
Then,
Ripped through my body,
Like a raging animal,
Trying to stay alive.

But then -

Never seeing you again:

My dearest heart.

Book Talk

Dedicated to Shulamith Firestone


The books on my shelves are constantly
Talking to me in a multitude of voices.
Hey! You only read half of me!
You know you like ancient history!
Read me again (The White Goddess)!
Bet you can’t write as succinctly as I can!
(The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson).

Late at night, between shelves;
Shulamith Firestone (Dialect of Sex) and
The wonderful Luce Irigaray (The Sex Which
Is Not One and others),
Are having their own cross-decades discussion.

Don’t be concerned luminous wave, no one cares;
You can write about your most intimate moments-
(The Selected Poems of Pablo Neruda).

Ten or so of Julia Kristeva’s books sometimes
Wake me up at night arguing with themselves;
It saves me the trouble. I just wait for the decision.

Then sometimes I hear;
…I dove into the wreck, come on; you can too!
(Adrienne Rich’s Diving Into the Wreck)

Almost always, my favorite voice…
…Fall into my mesmerizing, eclipless spell ,
Fall in love with me all over gain…
(Angst by Helene Cixous).

And the cry of the neglected -
You haven’t even looked at me sister!

(Probably a Hemingway that dropped off the back of the shelf)
A slight exaggeration, but not much.

Pressing on the Body

“Although your eyes were wide open, they might just as well’ve been closed”

The group of entangled, power-corrupters,
Controlled their multiple, re-dedicated crimes,
Endangering the lives of many crusaders,
Over the weight we bore through time.

I said there is no reason, and the truth is plain to see,
Then he wandered through his playing cards,
He couldn’t let her be…

And so it was that later, as the miller told his tale,
The games that he engendered, were bound by right to fail,
He lied in the face of reason; desolation, corruption was his trail,
The ones that held the burden, continued along the scale,
There was no twisting way out, more excuses were to no avail,
Something was changing,
Some people were delivering the mail, and…

Then his face at first just ghostly,
Turned a whiter shade of pale.



Cynthia Stewart and Procol Harem” A Whiter Shade of Pale

Your Sideshow...song

Hot is hot and you should know -

There ain’t no lie gonna’ make it so.

Science class was for the geeks

But your protons sure to make me weak

Seven times I went to the wall

Just to hear you say I don’t know it all.

You know there’s a shortage

Of my excited compassion

Heading for your location

Around the nucleus of action.

Crime don’t pay for sleezy guys

Who receive complaints from those with eyes.

Carmen Gia’s are pretty low -

But they ain’t got nothing on your side show.

Art and Music cannot hide your culture -

Of bullied people and the stance of  a vulture.

You know there’s  a shortage

Of my excited compassion

Heading for your location

Around the nucleus of action.

Description of a Painting  Nonet 7

Golden pond floating lightly overhead -

Soft-soft lighting sprinkles gold dust -

Over pattern in the water-soul,

Mist-fog standing off shore,

Begins to roll in,

Changing the gold,

To ochreness,

In the

Dusk

Monster, Nonet 6

There’s a Monster on the Loose, as 

   Many people reported seeing him 

   On facebook and in person.

He’s got our head into

the noose, tightening, 

(per The Daily Show) -

And he just sits

there watching,

Us to

See?

Cynthia Stewart and Steppenwolf 

On Stalking............

The voice

A voice from the far side of the vacuum:

To observe the obvious and leave me alone,

Your calls are not welcome and your

Constant messages are filled with self pity,

The blank look of implied concessions.

The love I have is mine to create and give

There are no coercions here, the bastion -

The night of light and simplicity of one

Are not won over, not twisted to new form.

Cast your shadow elsewhere, call off the wolves

Get thee to a nunnery, an abbey, a retreat,

And let your mind run wild there on meditations

That might clear your smoke and transgressions.

A voice from the far side of the vacuum.

The stalker

From your demeanor I get - what can I do?

Do nothing.

How can I change things, How can I control?

Go away is what you can do, control is negation.

Go away.

Let it go, you cannot control,

You can only arm and harm.

This is not the path for anyone,

Tunnel vision is for missiles,

That target and kill.

No Net 4

Up papers stacking, files racking,  

Poems climbing the autumn wall.  

Range beyond the monitor,  

Feeding their imaginary. 

Phrases. Open idea,

The bar of time

- extends – the arm.

Post, tweet, text 

Tea.

Tea.                

Between          

Two and Three

Memory, a      

Twice told tale holds 

The breaths of the depth, 

The depths, the blue-green sea,  

Slipping softly between waves 

Over the cresting slip that is me.  

  

Response to Potential Oligarchy

Revolt lives -

In a non-linear pattern,

And

The state does not respond -

In a rational way.

Resistance is belief.

And,

Change is possible.

Upon a Nod

I think Not, she said,

In Elizabethan dread,

Of the spark she felt,

Springing like a welt,

From upon her heart,

Hot upon the cool dark,

Clouds that ruled, spread -

Over the internal wed,

Of mind to body -

Heart to Head

Alters Shine

I felt the bone chilling emptiness, something like  numbness,

                                Heaven can wait,

You had not come home and I knew,

                                And a band of angels wrapped up in my heart,

You were not coming home again.

                                Will take me through the lonely night

After much searching for you the sergeant said

                                Through the cold of the day

Whoever had been driving your car was a victim of a homicide,

                                And I know I know,

                                Heaven can wait,

And the sergeant in LA said, was he an athlete?

                                And all I got is time until the end of time,

And the sergeant in LA said, was his designed ring silver?

                                And the melody’s gonna make me fly

And the sergeant in La said, was he tan?

                                Without pain, without tears,

And the sergeant in LA said: well, maybe you better come down

                                And I know that I been released

And I went down to the LA morgue at USC medical center

                                But I don’t know to where

At the end of a long, white hall, maybe 60 feet, a silver gurney,

                                And nobody’s gonna tell me now

Someone was lying with a white sheet pulled shoulder height,

                                And I don’t really care

And I walked what seemed to be the last walk I would ever want to walk,

                                Oh no, no

Until I could see your handsome face, facing up without sight -

with a tiny trickle of blood someone had forgotten at the crevice of your lip

                                I got a ticket to paradise, never gonna let it slip away,

I walked forward the last five feet and saw a ball of white light from your

body hit my chest                ,                                              

I got a ticket to paradise, never gonna let it slip away

All anxiety left, all bewilderment, all tension and pain dissipated

                                I got a ticket to paradise, if I had it any sooner you know,

I wiped the trickle of blood from the left crevice of your lip

                                You know I never would have run away from my home,

I sensed the compassion of the medical people around me, standing back;

                                Heaven can wait,

Their kindness made me feel like a visiting angel that had completed something,

                                And all I got is time until the end of time,

And upstairs, I signed your official death certificate that said “gunshot wound

to the head,” and I accepted with love all that you could give, your final gift of light –

                                And I won’t look back, I won’t look back -

                                Let the alters shine,

Let the alters shine.

Tree Poem

When I saw the paintings of Emily Carr,

I felt like I was up in the big sycamore,

Hiding from my mother’s calling voice,

And eleven again.

The wind that swept through the painting,

And myself were one in the same.

The adolescent passion fulfills itself,

Through nature and all its permutations,

And burns into memory like blood.

Tree Poem

When I saw the paintings of Emily Carr,

I felt like I was up in the big sycamore,

Hiding from my mother calling voice,

And eleven again.

The wind that swept through the painting,

And myself were one in the same.

The adolescent passion fulfills itself,

Through nature and all its permutations,

And burns into memory like blood.

(a quatern) The Making

 

Cars whisking, airplanes, hummingbirds,

The sounds of the day murmur,

Behind my work in terse banter,

Each singling out their purring,

I write blankly from memory,

Cars whisking, airplanes, hummingbirds,

On a white canvas of fragrance,

And semblances in categories,

Of song, movement and design, now;

Arranged on the page or not,

Cars whisking, airplanes, hummingbirds,

Momentarily caught in space,

For some time to lapse; hover there,

For those who want to look or read,

Of an experience beyond -

Cars whisking, airplanes, hummingbirds.

Floating

He strapped the blue balloon

To his shirt through a button hole,

Put on his mask, and slashed

The rope to the heavy anchor.

He floated up and over for days,

Viewing the world as design,

Colors, shapes and weather,

Before he reluctantly, sadly

Leaf-silent to the waiting earth.

When Love Goes Wrong

When love goes wrong

People put it to song

Like: What’s love got to do with it,

Or:  Love is just a four letter word.

About love I tend to like Bob Dylan,

Tangled up in blue or – lost in

Visions of Johanna.

Or Leonard Cohen singing

I’m your man.

Love holds multiple meanings,

For each person.

As long as you can work your life

Through love, then I guess

You’ll be all right.

Odilon Redon

The vague transitions of color

Your crisp edge, then disappeared -

Into pinks and oranges, fogged.

The outline of blue’s flowers -

Trace around the painting’s edge.

Love’s arms protect and warm,

Imagination.

Your use of the patterns like

A beautiful thought of all nature’s

textures, a combined effusion.

The overt standing of the sturdy,

White vase, it’s offering:

The magic of color arranged.

A color poem for the eye.

White Vase With Flowers, 1916

Milk as the Metaphore

Because milk is our first sustenance

On this earth place.

Because we are human beings and we

crave immunity from our mother’s breast.

Because milk is white and liquid and warm.

Because it contains the lock on our psyche.

Because it is like water and flows from

the female rock of pure giving and strength.

Because we look up and see our first face.

Because we seek everything through the

mother.

Because we weep and are comforted.

Because we are defenseless and mute.

Because we acquire strength to stand

And hear the beat of the heart -

Drawing us to the fight.   

Michigan Nights

Lucky people waiting for Friday -

To come and make them smile, giddy.

Down the highway, past the pear orchard,

Let’s go fishing! Get your tackle -

Fresh-fried large and small mouth

Bass,

Maybe a delicious crappie or two,

Brown and crispy,

At the local, bring-your kids, bar-restaurant,

On the other side of the silent lake.

You can row there in the evening.

Water like deep, navy-blue velvet –

Waving the lights on the surface – softly -

With each heavy, oar-creaking stroke -

Meditating on your way to fish heaven.

Connection

If I think of him,

Do his worlds stop and feel,

Blank intuition,

Invisible quick sensing,

Pausing, looking, windward gaze.

Memory

Very little fades away from me,

Love, details, people,

They are like photographic

Memories.

I remember the feelings I had

From times I rode a tricycle,

The Aurora in the sky at four o’clock,

The black cocker spaniel next door,

Who drank beer.

Your face.

All of my life is like a movie

Ready to be played back

At any moment

What others forget, fading as

Unimportant,

I remember like observations

Under a microscope,

With feeling.

Odilon Redon

The vague transitions of color

Your crisp edge, then disappeared -

Into pinks and oranges, fogged.

The outline of blue’s flowers -

Trace around the painting’s edge.

Love’s arms protect and warm,

Imagination.

Your use of the patterns like

A beautiful thought of all nature’s

textures, a combined effusion.

The overt standing of the sturdy,

White vase, it’s offering:

The magic of color arranged.

A color poem for the eye.

White Vase With Flowers, 1916

Vacuum

You sucked the life out of me,

I let you.

The wind came in and took everything

I ever thought would never change.

And it didn’t change like I thought,

The action just left a shell,

Emptied like a clear glass vase

Standing like a vertical, crystal vapor,

Knowing there was work ahead.

Shasta Moonbeam Queen

That is what we called her,

White with rusty spots.

An English setter, so smart and beautiful,

From a litter of eleven.

All at once I encountered them -

While picking out a puppy.

The owner had emphysema;

And said I can let them out - but I can’t pick them up.

(For obvious reasons)

They ran everywhere, noses to the ground.

I chased one into the barn and picked her up.

She was shy and warm, she was the one.

She hid under the seat of the van

All the way home.

When I got to the house, I took her out and

Put her right to the side of the studio door for her

To walk in and surprise you, but she was too shocked

So I gave her a tiny push, and she appeared to you -

Like a little, white spotted cloud.

Love at first sight.

Floating

He strapped the blue balloon

To his shirt through a button hole,

Put on his mask, and slashed

The rope to the heavy anchor.

He floated up and over for days,

Viewing the world as design,

Colors, shapes and weather,

Before he reluctantly, sadly

Without incident, floated down,

Leaf-silent to the waiting earth.

Odilon Redon

The vague transitions of color
Your crisp edge, then disappeared -
Into pinks and oranges, fogged.
The outline of blue’s flowers -
Trace around the painting’s edge.
Love’s arms protect and warm,
Imagination.

Your use of the patterns like
A beautiful thought of all nature’s
textures, a combined effusion.
The overt standing of the sturdy,
White vase, it’s offering:
The magic of color arranged.
A color poem for the eye.

White Vase With Flowers, 1916

Be Ready

When Hell was posturing as high water,

I got into the largest craft with the most lifeboats.

When Hell began to freeze over,

I shifted the direction of the rudder South

And lifted the second and third sail.

When Hell built its own highway for me,

I took a plane high over the dark pavement.

When my friend decided to descend into Hell,

I suggested he might drag himself out

In the emergency hand basket provided.

Although the road to Hell is paved with good intentions,

Heaven and Hell are often mistaken for each other.

There is always a fresh Hell to replace random Hells people

Might have missed. That’s why people say...

Run from trouble like a bat out of Hell and if not prepared;

Bloody Hell.

Milk as the Metaphor

Because milk is our first sustenance

On this earth place.

Because we are human beings and we

crave immunity from our mother’s breast.

Because milk is white and liquid and warm.

Because it contains the lock on our psyche.

Because it is like water and flows from

the female rock of pure giving and strength.

Because we look up and see our first face.

Because we seek everything through the

mother.

Because we weep and are comforted.

Because we are defenseless and mute.

Because we acquire strength to stand

And hear the beat of the heart -

Draw us to the fight.   

Being An Artist

He had words on his face,

Plain as any word conversation

He was talking about something,

I was seeing all himself at once

I had trouble not seeing himself.

I tried sometimes to pay attention

To those things others did,

But it was no use,

All I ever saw was the truth.

Free Stuff

Come and get these nightmares,

These ancient plays.

I have been trying to rid myself of them

For many years,

But they keep coming back,

In different styles of clothing,

With the same underlying stories

Hidden in the pockets like

Messages in a fortune cookie.

I have put up signs and advertised:

“Many Answers Can Be Drawn for a Little Piece of Your Heart”

Or:

 “Priceless Answers Can be Had for Many Without Responsibility” –

Or:

“Exciting CSI Investigating Tapes – Play Backward for Message” –

“Childlike Visions Able to Be Acquired If You Stay a Child” –

“Wrestling Match With Self Available Here – Guess the Silhouettes” –

But I have no serious takers,

People prefer their own tragedies,

Familiar is always more comfortable,

Even if it kills you, absconds with your dreams,

Prevents you from becoming who you might be or

Cancels your ability to pressure yourself,

Into whatever mould others see for you.

"There Will Be Cake"
It's worth a try.

(prompt about what a person thinks)

What Serial Killers Think

I am smarter than you (everyone).

All I have is what I have (everything)

I can control all things,

I can control nothing.

I am not attractive (to you)

You can not control me,

You can not stop me,

I will smash everything

You are.

I will escape everything,

I can manipulate everything,

I will kill everything,

I will watch you die.

It does not matter.

I do not matter.

Risk

What is at risk when nothing is at risk?

Nothing.

Therefore, when risk is evident,

Something is identified as if on a precipice.

It is this identified thing -

That inadvertently makes an announcement,

To the surrounding space,

Which is the answer to the condition,

Of the risk.