Archive for June, 1993

No Trees

Posted: June 25, 1993 in Poetry
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he started to dream less
of landscapes
and found himself
a city that was tall
and bleak with
ordered rows of houses
and buildings to support
the orangish skies
of perpetual twilight,
one with distant violence
that would echo through
the straight streets,
cries of hope being lost
in a concrete strangulation.

I write poems
that nobody hears [yet]
silent songs
of ink and paper;
meaningful scrawls,
ideas I jot down.
they’re testimonials to me living.
I write these things down
because I don’t have a camera
or anything more high-tech.
I write because
my memory can fail me.
And when I get older,
I will look through these scrapbooks
and make my own pictures
from this black and white.

Dolphin Daughter

Posted: June 20, 1993 in Poetry
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A dolphin explodes from the water
because she is the daughter
of the foam that is flipped from her grey tail
flying skywards and seawards,
spraying dents into the surface of the sea.
she plunges back under the covers
of the ocean to meet the others,
dolphins which, not caught in tuna nets, are free.

Dr. Seuss

Posted: June 18, 1993 in Poetry
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I think people like rhyme and meter;
they like Dr. Seuss because he’s neater
than a long-winded poet of free verse
who sounds like he’s expounding on the universe.

there should be some poems that people would read
just for fun and think that could be me
that they’re framing with my own vocabulary,
not strings of obfusticated commentary.

Frog Philosophy

Posted: June 17, 1993 in Poetry
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A Frog can sit for hours
calling for a mate,
but I can sit for hours
waiting for you to call.

One Chickenshit Poet

Posted: June 17, 1993 in Poetry
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I can imagine the surf in my hair
and the chill of the air,
when I stand up from the water
so I don’t go into the ocean.

because I’m a lilly-livered chickenshit.

I’ll walk down the cool tarry sand
and pretend that I’m under a wave;
trying to feel the slick water bead
on my skin and drip from my chin

because I’m far too afraid to go in.

2 Stories

Posted: June 16, 1993 in Poetry
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I had a beer with an Indian.
he said he was an Indian
so I bought him a beer
and he told me about a ghost horse
who could run faster than the wind
who he was sure he had seen
in the long grass behind his trailer.
he bought me a beer and
I smiled and told him
that I loved him and
we drank our beers.
we left and I walked home
slower than the wind
to a bed of empty dreams.