Archive for April, 1993

Dazzled Dizzy

Posted: April 6, 1993 in Poetry
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I have no gilded card to send,
no quill to write beautiful
words that still say I’m so sorry.

sometimes the daybreak dazzles me dizzy
but it has never been as beautiful as you, Dawn.

and what have I done? crushed the wings
of an angel like brushing powder from a moth’s;
I only wanted to help you fly as you should.

the closest pair of cupped hands
can’t hold water unless you work magic,
and perhaps what I wove was wrong
but not a lie; never a lie.

these same hands that I hold empty now
of you I hope to fill nowhere else but here
with bouquets and baskets of joy for you;
summoning dolphins to dance with you;
tickling babies to laugh with you.

Beating a Drum in the Woods By Myself

Posted: April 4, 1993 in Poetry
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a Man of Many Talents,
none too outstanding, but outstanding in having
many talents; things to choose from
but the worry is happiness and
peace of mind – though he won’t admit it,
he wants the instruction book:
he wants help in figuring it out
what goes where and which thing does what,
why this thing moves and this one doesn’t,
and why things are the way they are.

thus the poetry.
a book of lessons learned and notes,
ideas on what was going on then to be
hints on what to do if it’s happening now.
affirmations of belief to view
when unsure and vaccilating
about what to do.

Yet Another Untitled Poem Serving as a Journal Entry

Posted: April 3, 1993 in Poetry
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the wind left my door open
and in came the rain,
in came the rain;
he blurred my pictures of you
by dulling my pain.
and like Spandau Ballet: it’s true
that the wind left and
left my door ajar
and I never thought I’d go as far
to forget instead of coping.

Untitled Poem #157

Posted: April 3, 1993 in Poetry
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a car travelling with my soul
in the passenger’s seat: this is time
and I watch fields of wheat breathe,
amber waves of grain…

an organ plays melancholy from a building
and people pass, they do not hear,
too busy looking down when I have stopped
to listen for the sound of the wind:
echoes and ghostlike spirits of memories.

I cannot explain the music I hear,
be it cacophony or pure, ringing clear,
perhaps the different drum I march to.

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