Getting There
This night is so dark or have I gone blind I falter and fall left my senses behind I’m drunk on the spirits that flow through my mind This city is covered in thorn I stumble through streets of every light cast shadows of sin on this carpet of night I taste every sample of tasteless delight And die wishing I were not born I turn into Crescent And look down the lane I see many doors there’s one that looks plain I fall to my knees and I wince from the pain this journey has brought me I’m torn I crawl very slowly up into the moon Its light is so pleasant Wish it won’t go soon I feel so much better My hope’s in this June I’m through, now I wait for the morn
Draw
Twelve-year-old drew this segment of our bedroom’s prairie-facing wall with incredible ease. I’ve got to get kid into an art class. And yes, I had to write something to mark the effort. Stain glass bowl By itself Sitting on The bookcase shelf Flanked by drapes Aegean blue Sheers white All watching you Draw them Shut
Humble Poet
Asking a poet to be humble Is an act supremely stupid In my humblish opinion For what tops in arrogance The idea that you let brain Sculpt the wretched pulp into words By the heat of spent synapses There is no humble poet Just pretenders: shy performers Ever wishing someone will Play out their craft for them Basking in the applause of their genius But if contrived verse with phrases Like “the heat of spent synapses” Keeps you from the snares of the forsaken Then you Must do Your thing Just be worth saving
I
All the things I think I get All the plans I think I laid All the folks I think I met All the hands I think I played Everything feels like a dream All suspended in the air I don’t hear it when I scream I don’t see it when I stare Then the I-ness of existence Hits me right between the eyes It’s the craziest inversion Of the sum of all my lies All alone with all my I’s
The 26th of Feb at a Panera Bread
“Go stand behind the guy with the grey hair.” “That’s gross. Did she actually say that?” Set my buzzer on the chair right next to me Among the crumbs where a crumbled someone sat I meander out of the loyal meter Of the country-western number playing back. Egg and cheese on an Asiago bagel Verse contrived like my Sunday morning snack. And this light roast blend Is sure to send My senses into spiral With no sobering end. Fake smiles Keep them together Moods change Like the Chicago weather. Got to go.
Song of You
I wrote this in honor of a friend of a friend who has entered the last stages of a 10-year long battle with Benson’s syndrome, a visual variant of Alzheimer’s Disease. This is dedicated to all those enduring the many forms of dementia out there. Peace and love. It doesn’t matter what it is It doesn’t matter why it’s there What it’s for or where it goes Or how it got upon that chair All that matters is your heart Playing softly in your chest Celebrating all you’ve got You’re so different from the rest Sweet and sinless is your breath Drawing circles in my hands Home is past the stream of death Where the sun is in the sands Let the moments come and go Each a lifetime on it’s own They don’t matter now, you know All that matters has been known Smell the flowers, grab the sky Hear the laughter, even cry God is greater than it all You will get to ask Him why As will I