Archive for November 6, 1993

Shopping Cart

Posted: November 6, 1993 in Poetry
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One more poem
before I drown into sleep,
filled like a shopping cart
full of food to cook
and eat and explore
with dreams of
department stores.

A Poem on a Note on the Fridge

Posted: November 6, 1993 in Poetry
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I forget the joy of writing
then reading what I’ve written,
curling like a kitten play-fighting
with the same gentle hands
that stroke poems from the sand
of the beaches that I walk on
when I haven’t forgotten
that I love to be alone sometimes
with my simple childish rhymes.

Untitled Poem #172

Posted: November 6, 1993 in Poetry
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This inexplicable heaviness of my heart
comes when it understands
and the remainder of me doesn’t;
yet it holds the responsibility,
and everything else must follow.

For Galstephus the Mage

Posted: November 6, 1993 in Poetry
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You dream like a king
on a throne;
you are not like the serfs
and servants of this existence.
This world doesn’t want kings and heroes;
rather, normalcy is enshrined
and page homage to with certificates of merit.
You are a nobleman
and your heritage is not acknowledged –
there is no room for the likes of you
among the jaded and the complacent;
these powers wear blinders purposefully
to destroy the talents
that could change their status quo,
that could threaten their idols of stability.
These same closed eyes cannot envision
the wondrous sights you see;
they cannot hear what runs through your mind,
the musical scales of rivers and windstorms;
they cannot feel anything anymore,
walled into courtyards, shut out from the street,
unmoving –
they cannot even dream on their thrones
where you, my lord,
belong.

I went to find my childhood
buried in the morass of my memory;
discarded in a moment of adolescence
trying to be an adult
before I knew what that was about.

So me and a shovel and a dream
go wading through the cattails and the frogs,
looking under lilypads and scouring the undersides of logs;
hopes waxing and waning with the flux of a dark moon
laying with my arms behind my head
in a dark room.

There was a little gold-gilded crown
once made of paper. . .
I thought I had drowned my youth
in a premature effort to be a man,
coated with cars, money, girls, sex, and truth,
white picket fences and two and one half kids,
a loving wife and instant happiness.

Ah, but so many can’t and so many others won’t
dig up the countryside grave of their little one,
content to weep and dream with a withered imagination,
or they chase ghosts of happiness in platinum nightdresses
taped to the part of the elephant they can still feel.

Four Hours, Thirty-six Chances

Posted: November 6, 1993 in Poetry
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I spent four hours
reading and rereading
these private journals
of people who I do know,
I don’t know;
and then, done,
I wept,
looking up at my orange lit ceiling
(I still can’t stand white light)
and my room smiled at my tears –
refracting them into stars and faces
– wiping them out into galaxies
and creating fantastic places
without my normal, everyday fears
where I felt wise and understanding;
understood, undemanding;
freely given, thirty-six chances
to let them know they are my stars
and they are all shining
for living and not dying;
the wink while I waver,
and when they waver,
I am so proud that I
have the courage
to wink.

[for my Zen colloquium Fall 1993, CCS, UCSB]