The following poems are just the window opening, making that sudden jarring noise
that startels you after a long silence. These are love poems and the feelings when it
evaporates. Poems that will appear in the new poetry book:
“A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing.”
Beg and borrow
I think of the dead friend dying of cancer,
and the young unknown man about to be married,
so what is between the time a man launches
a dream to beg, borrow and steal we all
take life seconds and cook time like some
chef taking orders from things, events that
leave us with a dear bill to be paid, and
we’ve been paying it with small talk,
climbing long ladders you can’t go back down.
~ ~ ~
It’s a sentimental journey, poetry is,
something binding to another. Life is all that –
a sentimental journey all the time. Piano music makes a sense
beyond one’s life, then thereafter the difficulty to
make one’s music is sentimental after all.
~ ~ ~
Sometimes love leaves a blank stare,
so blank that no love can be made,
and only a goodbye, like sailors leaving on
a long sea ride, waving to the people
on the shore, something loved not seen for a
long time or forever.
this blank stare of love never solved is just
that, a distant shore sailed away. From
never to be set foot again. The sea, and its
endless horror of loneliness, bobbing up and down,
lonely buoy staring ahead into nothingness.
~ ~ ~
Does it really matter thief of people’s heart,
who takes nothing from everything,
but leaves the tendrils as if he never came
empty like the barrels of a gun chamber never fired.
Funny thing about love never realized,
it’s just that, a shot never fired, cold
shot in the barrel and that empty sound
is all the person will ever hear
the rest of her life.
~ ~ ~
Never will I write another love letter to
any woman whose heart is a closed orb
for that orb is frozen, and no pen or words of warmth
could ever penetrate what cannot be penetrated
and the love, and why love is not, becomes sometime
love cannot be. And this is why love is love.
~ ~~
The secular point of each generation is
to realize itself, and by the time that is.
It’s time for the next generation to judge.
~ ~ ~
Each generation is too busy making still life,
then to judge itself. That is the now, which
will soon be them. Human kind is a creature of sad light
always thinking of the past and how the future
will be affected. Like a long forgotten dream,
the future just happens each day next,
the way it’s supposed to.
~ ~ ~
THE RIDE
To gain entry into one’s soul can take a
lifetime, the arriving like a plants hystemic
growth, some storm or events sweeps you away.
Life can make no sense, except for each
moment, better to live each second in some
kind of better life than to dream in one’s
own perfect fear
Life is like that, will take you until
your last second, that’s why when a roller coaster
ride ends that kind of slow down to a step,
and just let you off kind of quick.
~ ~ ~
This thing called time which gives lovers
chances to meld together two hearts that
were once apart, as if people were objects
in museums, alone looked at with “do not
touch” signs hung on placards from their necks.
These placards written by others marked in time,
then someone rescues that museum heart.
To time which then carries away two lovers,
unforgivable time that spills forth in some chant,
a pickle to eat or throw away as long as time permits.
~ ~ ~
Underneath the silver moon, opaque
harmless, but menacing. These full moon come
and go, leaving the world a little more blind
each time. Some mercurial bind of little importance.
Just some marking of time, elegant time that
postures each second, stands still only in memory, can give lovers
one more chance to love, and the world revolves around
itself, an owl head spins and gravity becomes this woman’s
friend, keeps her heart on the earth, from flying away
To that place where time stands still only in memories.
~ ~ ~
The depth of beauty, something beyond
that never exhausts itself,
never changing, is the true beauty in a face,
more like a musical melody
keeps playing inside. The music
stops, but the beauty of her face
kept on unending. So this is
beauty that can never be loved,
only admired.
~ ~~
Like Montreaux was a place, and the
Dents du Midi was something for a
dentist, up alone at Caux, the maps
showed roads that only existed in
the minds of farmers. To find these
forbidden roads takes some skills, luck.
This is the beauty of the Alps, that
things, roads, divine hamlets are found
by accident, the same way two lovers
find each other, by some twining of time.
~ ~ ~
Saillon 2011
This thing in between Saillon, the fete
with all the noise, people, faries and nymphs,
chanteurs, but before time began there was
nothing, only a void called Saillon, a name before
names, where groves of vineyards just bask there,
when there is no fete, is the sound before
time, a vacuum of nothing, space, not medieval,
but primordial, before sound, and ears could hear,
lays quietness of Saillon. A dog barks, and
rain smatter hits pavement, and there are no
ears, only sound before time.
~ ~ ~
Monte Generosa 2011
Something about being a young man at Monte Generosa,
being in the grotto with the salty old Swiss Italian men,
who joke, laugh at life and everything, it’s all funny.
these quarter centuries are like mist, a tethered dream
woven by invisible rope of jokes and laughter.
Someday, in twenty years, I will be on the Monte
joking into the sunset as the younger people watch and listen.
~ ~ ~
The dark spot between the light,
eternal optimist thinks this
light will always be there, then the light
becomes a dark spot within the new shade.
To paint a light color, start on a dark background.
To paint a dark scheme, set on a white background.
To find love, paint it where it does not belong.
~ ~ ~
Some painting of long ago,
some dissection of mankind.
as if divine providence gave
the artist supreme reign
over right and wrong, and all
was to please the church over
the left shoulder, and the people
over his right shoulder. In between
was the artist middle that sold
out only to make some meager means.
~ ~ ~
The city becomes some dark hollow
hull of a ship, something where concrete,
wood fused together to hold man
in its belly. These people that
float by in some San Franciscan theater
where no one speaks, and no lines are written
for anyone to remember. And the crowd
just watches dumbfounded, waiting
for the applause signal.
~ ~ ~
Autumn arrives with its whisper
inside some glove its fingers fit,
take the pine needles that fall, sounds
rustle as if the wind, not air but a
shaking of things, as if the world was in
a tumbler, and we just tumble around.
~ ~ ~
Yes (The painting)
They painted in celestial gardens
angels giving arms to the blessed
righteous one’s, weapons lay on
the ground, and to the victor is given
a hat with plumes, and pikes draped
with canopies. A golden chicken on the
mountain gleams inside the sun. This
is what victory really is. Angels
come down and speak of love not
war, and the wicked loneliness of nothing
is gone.
~ ~ ~
The poet and his Pelikan pen is a fool
with an instrument that both creates death
and life with one line. Who says the well will run
dry, when the mind is teeming. Some poet said:
“Nevermore.” That is not a word but nevermore,
like something you say to a child who eats between meals.
Better to “anymore,” so I can deal my love pellets
Inside this “evermore.”
~ ~ ~
Smart bombs and apple plumbs,
computers and horses,
old songs that should never have been written,
banks, dentists and long highway to hell.
Some lady came in and stole all the unfinished
drinks, that’s the way it goes in the city.
My daughter’s eyes have turned from blue to aqua hazel,
so there is this beauty to life after all.
~ ~ ~
Sometimes a harsh upbringing does nothing
but teach that life is an unwanting,
something not to be lived, but survived,
some hard scrabble, footsteps echo on
stones, better to be left at home, then
go out into the dark night. All that
awaits you is darkness. The morning always
comes, and you can write until the pen’s ink
is dry, but there is always music to play, food
for the mind, people come and go, but to be
alive each day after day is a joy. And whatever
harshness from before can just hang in the mist.
~ ~ ~
Action speaks louder than words,
but in the city, love roams to nowhere.
Those misfits called humans frolic to
some lost heartbeat, a path that
gives, loses what rescues down a blind hole,
instead love wanders away each day,
no rapture, only feint memories of what
could have been. The end is never near
and love wanders away again. Always so
far away, as if there is a mountain that can
never to be climbed. No star light to show the
way, but then, when all is lost, here comes
love, and the special moments wash away
these things that roam to nowhere.
~ ~ ~
The funny thing about love is that
It’s fleeting, like some bird that flies
to your roost, then flies away almost as fast
as it came, like the sun that hits your face
between clouds, love can warm you between
the cold spots.
Almost as if life is just some
sex bubble, where everything in between is centered
on one act, and love is the facilitator, some
trick of emotion, attraction that keeps us
hungry, food down our throats, kisses and
deep chasms of love.
~ ~ ~
It’s like a flood the way three daughters
come at you, they all speak some unknown tongues,
and their music is something from bad syncopated
machines, voice changing devices,
Mp3, Ipod, clicks the door shut.
Each night, as the moon revolves around
in mystified fits over gizmos and gadgets.
It keeps the hands busy,
and the mind likes it that way.
~ ~ ~
Back at the Chez Steel
All hell breaks loose every
morning. Something about kids
going to school uses energy
reducers, taking over the stress,
as if a ‘bird in flight’ wavering along.
There are never any endings only beginnings.
That is what he opaque world teaches on
many levels
These insects undefiant, some kind of joke,
like a flat tire, but confident is
the insect carrying the morsel, like an
unbound notebook we twine away the hours
like some mindless fish.
~ ~ ~
The winds have some extra
sensory perception, and the sun is
a glove to change every day . Then the
rain becomes sheets of decay,
Sultry alone on the blank streets
waiting for the sun to dry this.
~ ~ ~
So weeps the river of time when love
Is lost or swept away, but time does
not care about old love never spent, only
In today and what stands for.
~ ~ ~
Some long time ago in the dark ages,
a man sat alone in a room with a feather
and pencil, after some time, the piece was
finished, since crumbled to dust, never to be
read again, this thing called time, what it
does is such a perfect gift for the last
to be unknowing.
~ ~ ~
What happened to values?
said the old man to the young man.
These values given
from me to you, sanctified to obey,
but love conquers all,
so what does love and age quantify
to anything other than what birds chirp, and
fly from tree to tree.
~ ~ ~
The best place to write a poem
is from the inside, if you can find
that spot, stay there and listen
to the nakedness of your face.
The truth blisters on, gone like
Some bird that flies away.
~ ~ ~
The selling and sales of life’s things
are just that, a selling and sales
of one’s life and things. It’s all
just a passing of intangible …
these things stay behind, and keep
passing along
~ ~ ~
The sun rises in the same spot
in the sky as only one place
as the moon. Same place, only one spot.
~ ~ ~
Occupation of one’s life by
the wrong person is the same
as stealing someone’s life away.
So better not to be stolen away.
~ ~ ~
Sometimes in the middle of the night,
people wake up to find nothing but
themselves, like some sentry, alert
as if in someone’s army. Then it takes
some time to find out there is no army, only
a million stars unseen in the night, like a
half-moon soon to surface. To fall back asleep
is the battle won against one million
stars, this unseen army marching you
to sleep.
~ ~ ~
In some place long ago was invented
Aa valley where the moon rises in the
same spot as the sun rises the next morning.
The pine tree anointed center of Earth,
axis of the universe, the Portuguese herdsmen
are up at 4:00 a.m. to move the cows, in some
dark portal, a lantern swings, a dog barks,
by 7:00 a.m. they are back up on the slope,
there is always a reason to move the cows from
spot to spot, and the water released into
the mountain, two cracks were heard, and
a spark brings death and life.
~ ~ ~
There is something about life on the lamb,
this suitcase and road, where valley
meets mountain, a husk of an old
beehive sits petrified on the door post.
Why be a wolf or a lamb, instead a wolf
in sheath’s clothing? Along the way, a
wolf is just an animal all the
same, but the lamb will always be
the lamb.
~ ~ ~
There was the light in her dark
eyes that stayed within me, like
a flute playing in the night, there was
nothing else but spastic movement.
Love is nothing without its mirror
reflecting itself on each other.
A flute plays in the night, sweet
power from the sky, and lovers
look that look, keeping love
what it is, a silent thing.
~ ~ ~
Somewhere in the heart of
humor lies a reservoir, this
force remains forever hidden like
a birthmark, something that comes with
you, like a long sleep, that you hope
to awaken from. The bells ring, the people
laugh, and the moon hides
away, half-full or whatever moon you
need.
~ ~ ~
Once upon a cloud long ago love lived in some place we look for,
when you find this place, stay there
as long as allowed because love is
temporal, this flutter and bird flying,
keeps flying as long as there is wind,
hope or fantasy from this cloud long ago.
~ ~ ~
Some time long ago people wore
fake hair, mops of silver and perfume.
Today, we wear fake brains, strange
thoughts imbedded from this place, this time,
there anymore, always something to hide,
one must find a way to be.
~ ~ ~
Sometimes the story is never over,
it keeps going like some flower growing.
You can never pick, only smell, and
that is the best part, otherwise, the
flower just melts away, and the story
is over.
~ ~ ~
There is something about going home
again, the forethought is there, and then you are
there also. Seems like shadows outline the
dark lines overcast skies always say you are
home, dim-lit rooms, dim-lit people, and
the crusty smelly chair you left. Kind of like
a spider spinning a web where the web once
was, disintegrated, but built up again.
Makes sense when you leave, but
only a home is a home when you make it one.
~ ~ ~
The funny thing about mankind,
rolling across the planet, invents animal
traits for protection, like the pike, some
porcupine, in the center, waiting for
some sponge to attack. Then a tribe
of amoeba on horses resemble
some moving stock of goats meandering.
Then comes the sheep, moving
aside for the goats, some procession of
animals, mankind in the forefront in control.
~ ~ ~
Sometimes the last orchard drops
the sweetest fruit only too fresh and delicious
to have, only pick-up, marvel at the facets
this fruit has. But what is a fruit if not to
be eaten, enjoyed. Its seeds lost forever inside.
Lost forever this planet never known, blocked
by the moon from the sun that will never
shine again. But who will pick up
the fruit if you pass it by?
Love is a thing known to
no other, so when it comes,
it’s always misunderstood.
~ ~ ~
Time only runs out
when we are out of time.
~ ~ ~