Posts Tagged ‘Beautiful’

Living a Steady Tautness

Posted: February 12, 1994 in Poetry
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Sort of a beautiful frantic hustle
Trying to be effortless;
Carrying motion into motion
From mailbox to appointment
To bank to work to a kiss.
At home to sleep to wake early,
Relax for a moment,
Gather those thoughts,
Hands around a cup of coffee,
Half-finished for a lack of time.
A free moment should show productivity
At least on paper;
Never allow for slack of mind
Because any lack of tension
Leads to play in the rigging
Which must be taken in later —
Running a watertight ship
Is a stair of preventative steps
To make living a steady tautness,
And dying a deserved rest.

Sometimes it’s hard to find myself,
camouflaged and hunting fears by
hiding underneath the lilypads.
Like fear is going to to assassinate the Froggacuda?
But the memory is that if that is what it is:
a feeling lost and sunk in the swamp it was born in;
a beautiful first and last of its kind,
bred from books and desires and pirate gold,
from lost helium balloons and forts under acacia trees.
The Froggacuda is nothing without
one poet of keen eyes and quick hands,
a child catching frogs in the bog alone near dark
with a flashlight and an overactive imagination
full of Dungeons and Dragons books and Lovecraft stories.
Nothing is the Froggacuda without the puppeteer
who makes the teeth snap shut
and the eyes roll,
the ears perk up and the lungs breathe.
But nothing is the puppet-master without
those teeth, eyes, ears, and lungs
beating, breathing
in his self-esteem, his soul.

Cozy Up the Rooms

Posted: June 6, 1993 in Poetry
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I thought this building was so strong
but I don’t have enough furniture
to cozy up the rooms.
Soaring to the sky, perhaps;
a beautiful glass and steel structure
but these changes are not a home yet.

Now I’m desperately searching for
cheap end tables and green-glass bowls,
wrought iron chandeliers and wall sconces for candles,
oriental throw rugs and complete boardgames.

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.

Untitled Poem #7

Posted: June 20, 1987 in Poetry
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When I start to write my poetry
A blank sheet of paper stares back at me.
So I let my mind run through many ideas
Like a daydreaming trance; you know how it feels.
And I’ll start to write on the spur of the moment
Not worrying about the meter, rhyme, or content.
But there are certain things I can’t describe
Too beautiful for speech; believe me, I’ve tried.
These couple of subjects, they are but few
But one of them has always been you.