Posts Tagged ‘Candles’

Like So

Posted: May 3, 2003 in Poetry
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Like so, breathed from a flute
Or struck from a drum
To hang in the air
And move slow or fast
Pitches as timbre would have it.
Sounded, whelmed, evoked
From skin or wood or brass
Shivers of torchlight drawn nigh by beat
Early evening mists rising
Called forth by the horns of hunters.
Resonation of hearts and minds
Against the thin foil of the ear’s membrane
One, then two, then a cascade
Of arpeggiating candle flames
Coax memories from elsewhere,
Common Akashic visions of yore.
Each strain frozen to fade,
Depicting the potential of now,
Then gone but for the susurrus of reverb
And that, too, away, replaced
By the next clear bells in the scheme
Or sawed bow over fraying, well-worn strings,
A clickety-clack of time on sticks,
The meter of midnight rain
Wet the senses then dries
With the voicelike sound of the rising sun.
Submarine bubbles sign seaward
The motion of all things growing up,
Roots digging deeper.
Life makes a cacophony of sound
But you can hear the symphony of always
And the contributing part you play.

a candle can
move its shadows
like the magic
of an angel
if you believe
that it might be so.

one word
one attempted
explanation
and it’s war
so I give up,
keep my mouth shut
and rot
from the inside
out.

page after page
of meaningless meaning
to myself
tonight
to forget tomorrow
to rewrite
tomorrow night.

Love is no longer
a good enough reason
made to bow to religion,
made to bow to science,
cheapened
and losing the battle
to the evolution of humankind
into the machines
they build,
the laws they build
to worship.

lost is the love of man
of woman
of children
and of God;
love is
the fountainhead
of meaning.

there is a love
for everything good:
if it is good,
then there is love.
some things that
have been found
to be good
are still used
but loveless,
lifeless,
perverted from
their original use
because
love is what
was original.

Balancing Act

Posted: January 27, 1994 in Poetry
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When does it all come crashing down;
a sawed-through tree trunk,
an old building downtown —
this balancing act of teacups and champagne flutes,
china, crystal, candles,
coffee, coriander and cinnamon.
Sanity on low wattage wire
heating up in the house walls
threatening to start a fire
when the force of gravity falls.

The Candlestick Maker

Posted: December 7, 1993 in Poetry
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Sometimes I come and I go
fall apart like a fool,
too cool to admit I’m wrong:
I’m no Annie Sprinkle
with a cervix to show –
I get stoned and believe in the Maker,
the butcher, the baker,
and I’m three men in a tub:
one with a sword,
one with a glove,
one with a half-cocked smile
and a shrug.

why can’t I
just be another guy?
but I’m a person
with a snake-sharp tongue
and I’m a ripped flannel…
I shoot my mouth like a shotgun.
riddles and rhyming and rhythm,
not taken seriously enough to stay honest
just another number in the GTE phone list.
I lie and I lie and I lie
to convince you all
that the poet is just another human being;
that I am just another guy.

I thresh through these lines
like a dog wrapped in seaweed,
thrown with stones in the ocean:
I can’t breathe –
there’s all the smoke from the fires I’m lightning,
I’m telling the sheriff that I’m struck by lightning.
when does it all stop echoing ‘round in circles?
I think it’s just another dream.
I’m on a porch with a candle and a carpet;
there’s crickets all around
and I feel wonderful without the world dragging me down.
look, I see you don’t understand with a frown.

I can’t even repeat what I’ve said.
I can’t think of a poem I’ve written,
then read,
and thought that this is it, this is perfect!
I’ve even given up trying to rework it.
I don’t want to write for a living anymore
I feel like the homework that’s always lost to the dog
and I don’t remember whatever
I expected from myself anymore.
these fireworks of joy that I wished to paint the skies with
are nothing more than explosions
of white-winged moths from a log
that I’ve kicked walking alone in the woods.

An Ill-Made Candle

Posted: September 4, 1993 in Poetry
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you almost caught your room on fire
with an ill-made candle;
but forever with me is
the image I have when you explained
that you rushed it outside
burning your hands
naked and dripping from the bath
and dashed it to the ground.
all I came by to see
was a broken ceramic plate
and an enormous water stain
on the walkway,
and you, with a burnt thumb.

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.