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.
Posts Tagged ‘Eye’
A Private Poem for Me
Posted: November 17, 1993 in PoetryTags: Beautiful, D&D, Eye, Fears, Froggacuda, Imagination, lilypad, Lovecraft, Memory, Soul, Swamp, Tears, Teeth, Trees
Playing Hardball
Posted: November 14, 1993 in PoetryTags: Cry, Eye, Rain, Salt, Shoes, Sound, Tears
The tears come hard and fast
mimicking the sound
of the sheets of rain
blowing over the cab of my truck.
They pool in my lap
and get cold running down
my legs, in my shoes,
cheeks caked with salt
from the crying,
wind chasing tears
from the corners of my
eyesockets.
And all I can do
is keep my head in my hands
and ask: why?
why?
why?
Patience is a Hard Virtue to Come By These Days
Posted: November 14, 1993 in PoetryTags: Drug, Eye, Happy, Patience, Tears
Patience is a hard
virtue to come by these days;
in many ways I thought
I had it down,
downtown, thinking I’m the clown
that, no tears in my eyes,
I’d surprise somebody
with the everything that I am,
a quick little flim-flam
and she’d be happy and high as a kite,
for everyone advertises
as the right guy (nice try)
but I am the drug that only I can supply,
and I love to treat
you like you ought to be treated,
in my eyes
and it’s not that difficult
in this day and age of phone-fuck romance
some people should take the chance.
For Galstephus the Mage
Posted: November 6, 1993 in PoetryTags: Alex Kohrt, Dream, Eye, King, Lord, Mind, Music, Power, Wind, World
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.
Pennywise as a Lover
Posted: August 30, 1993 in PoetryTags: Beach, Blue, Eye, Love, Ocean, Pennywise, Salt, Sand, Sea, Tide
when I am away
I know that I am in love
with you,
with salts and breezes
from the ocean
that would go well
with your blonde hair,
helium balloons
for your big blue eyes,
dripping sandcastles
in the reflection of the sun
on the sealskin sand
of the tide on the beaches.
and I am the mist
that crawls in off the old pieces
of the sea that were caught
in tidepool fishing nets last night;
I come wrapping, a stole
around the necks of the cliffs,
rising up from the beach,
heads sheared off like
so many broken Michaelangelos.
perhaps I fall closer to perfection
because I confront the big change directly;
I think that into it’s audience eyes
and court it with depression and teasing razorblades.
you who cover it with sheets and sweaters
to make it not what it is but more
comfortable do it a disservice
and it will remember;
it will use your own linen as camoflage
to catch you unaware and unprepared.
how do you
express the depths
of your heart?
as a black hidden lake
far underground
that I paddle around on
catching blind white fish
in the luminosity of my eyes
and croaking to my precious self.
As you go
I don’t know
where we stand
or how close you feel
to what I feel for you.
Sometimes this stands me still
wherever I am,
especially playing the piano.
I will suddenly think of you
and your mind,
then I wonder if I’m ever going to see you again.
If I’ll be able to touch your face,
hold your hand,
and be able to tell you I love you with my eyes.
I wonder how cold time can be
to the single struggles of a sometimes hardship friendship…
there are rats in the walls
of every relationship.
they knock about at night
or surprise you scurrying from the trash cans.
the glint of a narrowed eye or a chiselled tooth
or the sounds of skeletons being gnawed,
teeth clicking as they polish to white
the foundations of an unsteady heart.
I don’t have very many pictures of my life;
no cute heart frames around me and my brother,
no portraits capturing me with any of my friends
so I can reminisce about them.
nothing but my memory is left
of the times I’ve spent with some of them
whom I remember but have no proof
that I knew them at all
except for a story or two I’ll tell too tall
and sometimes that is enough
when I’m in good form mnemonically
and I can picture my pictures easily
on my eyelids when they’re closed,
when I’m quiet and smiling a little
about some shenanigans with a figure from the past
who’s bigger than Abe Lincoln to me
or George Washington and his cherry tree
because he or she hails from my history.
I’ll remember them all when I have the time
just to stay put and write,
whittling my own likenesses of them out of paper
and colored ink; phrases and expressions
that I stole from each one of them
in order for me to memorize them;
it’s something I’m looking forward to doing later.
Black Jack
Posted: June 6, 1993 in PoetryTags: Beach, Birds, Black, Cat, Dead, Eye, Fire, Flowers, Heart, Red, Rock, Skull, Water, Wing
I
and when the madness comes
she creeps around the corridors,
pausing to stomp on cats’ tails
pausing to drive in rusty nails
and slam subconscious doors
behind my eyes.
II
it would be easy one day
to fall down and stay,
not moving, wherever I was
and not respond to my rescuers;
to get placed away for refusing to speak
or move or do anything for myself.
so easy and tempting, just for a week.
I’m sure they’d find something to do with me.
III
I GO ON THIS VICIOUS CYCLE:
I love her forever.
Can I trust her?
I can trust her.
Will I love her forever?
I love her forever.
Can I trust her?
I can trust her.
Will I love her forever?
I GO ON THIS VICIOUS CYCLE.
IV
the air was full of birds,
these pigeons and seagullls
that I had disturbed
walking along the beach by myself
wondering if she’s all by herself.
but putting that aside
would we have walked on by
all of this wild-winged fuss
if it wasn’t just me but if it had been us?
V
keep on going until the pen runs out
and finally I might figure it out.
I’m pulling apart flowers for answers
and neither type of petal reassures
me of this thing I’d like to realize
is right or wrong or right before my eyes.
this pile of broken flowers, growing higher
is colored like a cheerful winter fire
but dead without the red that makes it gay
is my heart, ashen cold and worn away.
VI
I’m frozen in the moment
that I’ve jumped from a high place
trying for the water;
it’s not enough to miss the rocks.
frozen
in the
moment.
it is stealing over my face.
look closely. there’s the rocks.
VII
I made it to 21. like blackjack.
VIII
that Catholic skull that I dreamed of
at least once a year since I was seven or eight
was me, laughing at least once a year
that I was still stupidly here.
IX
the idea of breaking
so many hearts,
of making the many upset,
of shaking alll of these folks;
it seems like the ultimate cannonball
in the jacuzzi of life.
I found the violets
I want to weave in your hair
so that they knock it aside
to dangle in your eyes –
a halo of purple and ivy;
a halo to see for the halo I know
is over your brow.
Simple Things
Posted: May 28, 1993 in PoetryTags: Blue, Coffee, Eye, Flowers, Grass, Green, Mushroom, Pus, Red, Scream, Song, Tide, Trees, Zero Boy
so we’re not seeing eye to eye
I think I’ll go splash around in the tide.
you are so beautiful when you’re upset,
it always comes to me as a surprise.
I’ll watch your face turn red and green
and I will listen to what you’re screaming
and when you’re done crying and bitching,
I’ll take you to get ice cream.
such simple things will let you smile.
such simple things will let you smile.
such simple things like poking your stomach
and when I dance and sing you songs.
when you get free coffee at Roma
sometimes you forget what’s wrong.
(chorus)
so quit your sour-face nonsense;
the sunshine rains down like leaves from the trees.
let’s go sit on the grass like mushrooms
and smell the flowers like bees.
(accordian solo)
these silly things just make you madder
when you’re in a crappy mood.
but all it takes is a little persuasion:
you can’t help but lose your blues.
(chorus)
On a Driveway at Midnight
Posted: May 7, 1993 in PoetryTags: Blood, Crickets, Drink, Eye, Flesh, Home, Memories, Money, Moon, Night, Purple, Smoke, World
I
this poetry, on this midnight
runs through my veins:
all this hurting, my purple pen
is my blood,
each word a corpuscle –
and to let it out to the world,
sometimes my poetry is simple:
blood,
cut from my flesh,
bleeding my emotions free.
Self destructive
so that I can leave the world
with impressions of fire and intensity,
of feeling.
This is how I feel.
And a poet is a job of living,
breathing, suffering, sacrificing
money home security comfort
for the fleeting knowledge that I am writing.
II
I am smoking: I will die quicker.
I am drinking: I will die quicker.
But I am leaving what I have,
these words
the blood of my existence.
The blink of an eye
and the full moon is gone
waxing, waning:
soon so will I, another man
will die and fade into obscurity,
but these ideas, thoughts, memories
will not disappear quite as quickly,
eroded into paper or computer.
Crickets die – they begat children
to carry on their simple song;
this is human responsibility.
Treat this as information
of a life.
Swallow it whole or in pieces,
pass it along;
someone will find it useful:
the memories of me,
who and where I am right now.
Japanese Poem Imitations
Posted: May 2, 1993 in PoetryTags: Beach, Coffee, Eye, Flowers, Girl, Spell, Tide, Trees
I
when flowers bloom in
many fiery colors,
I imagine the
bright sparkles which I,
in your eyes, no longer see.
II
bamboo grows along
one part of the lagoon beach
where the iceplant twines
below it, a dress
around the feet of a girl.
III
at the end of this
I recollect the times I
have failed to achieve
the smooth of the tide
and the soft wind in the trees.
IV
coffee reminds me of
a brew of roots and beetles
which you’d make me drink
and I would cough to
say I knew your spellcasting.
Impressions
Posted: April 30, 1993 in PoetryTags: Blue, Cat, Dreams, Eye, Flowers, Fountain, Gold, Heart, Mountains, Sleep, Stars, Tide
you’re a kitten curled up
after a day of curious exploration,
ears twitching with dreams
and unconscious poise,
lulled asleep by the intricate rhythm
of your heart rattling in its cage.
you’re two shiny blue eyes like children
on Christmas day, lips slightly parted
and twinkles streaming like the stars
in the Milky Way, one languid arm
of our beautiful, beautiful galaxy.
you’re one sunrise that explodes slowly
over sleepy violet mountains,
the opening of a gigantic flower
or a treasure chest at the end of a quest;
all pouring gold in fountains and cataracts
into the tide around my feet.
somewhere I have left a coal,
a cancer, burning; fond memories
concerning my love for you
and I am loathe to stamp it out
or fan it into flame.
there is a sadness in my eyes;
they’ve watched the indecisions
that make me so utterly human
– this is how I make the time
that is worn on my face.
Rain Song
Posted: April 18, 1993 in PoetryTags: Angel, Clouds, Eye, Fears, Heart, Lightning, Pain, Rain, Sky, Song, Space, Storm, Tears, Thunder
I
I pray for rain nowadays when I see
Those dark clouds splayed above me, threatening.
I can’t always tell what rain will fall
Or what tears you’re crying to comfort me.
When the sunset’s burning and crowded for space
In the sky with your pain so apparent,
Your heart is tearing apart with these questions,
No answers; let it all fall as rain.
chorus
Go out and bathe and dance in those streetlights,
Let the nighttime come down as ink
With the rain, all your pain, it’s your tears, all your fears
And frustrations – they’ll leave you
Soaked and alone crying out for the joy of the rain.
II
Can you see the sky and how it mirrors your eyes
And your tears as they’re streaming down your face.
Do you think I can stay here and wait?
I’ve got to get up and play, get soaked and catch cold in your rain.
(chorus)
bridge
These heavens will fall like thunder but water
On you, so alone in your misery.
Drenched to the skin look within at your shine
Be an Angel and cry and it clears you inside
Just like the rain.
III
So when this storm has passed and
All the fury of lightning’s been spent,
Your strength may still ache but you’ll dry and be fine
Then maybe you’ll learn how to pray for the rain.
By Yellow Moonlight
Posted: April 17, 1993 in PoetryTags: Black, Cloak, Elf, Eye, Flowers, Graveyard, Moon, Wind, Yellow
I commissioned a cloak
black but lined with elf-eyes
to be able to stand still
in the graveyards I wished to wander.
The wind confers in my ears
then tugs like awkward bridesmaids at my hem
making parachute ripples in the fabric
while I ignore them, another statue
in this washed out moonlight
a faint yellow as watercolored flowers
licking the moss strands on the headstones of each buried poet.
Warm air flows, heat from the decaying memories
leaking from these toothy beds,
mixes the night air into molasses
thick and slow to breathe, supportive
of standing still in the mild curiosities
of the wind’s ivy tendrils.
one tear that came from the corner of my eye
balanced on the dry skin of my cheek; I
picked it up with my thumb and forefinger,
a prism of sadness in which your picture lingers.
I drew my eye near carefully enough
wondering if the force of my gaze was too rough,
then placed this halo in the sky as a star
to mark my Bethlehem: to let you know where you are.
$6.95
Posted: April 13, 1993 in PoetryTags: Charles Bukowski, Daughter, Dragon, Eye, Lizard, Mind, Vodka, Wood
In the back of my mind, you see,
I filed away that Gordon’s Vodka
was on sale – when the excuse came,
I bought it in a glorious name:
I signed my check Charles Bukowski.
the waves keep on singing
thrashing my shores with scourges of driftwood:
I pour the alcohol in nonstop
from a weatherbeaten clifftop.
a lizard glitters under a broad ivy leaf,
sapphires for eyes and mottled scales,
daughter of the dragons we murdered in Wales
with rationality as comfortable as grinding my teeth.
the waves sing because they are free
blissfully ignorant of the landlocked me.
I
I jumped into a ring of people
with a big friend to save the girl
who was elbowed in the steeple
of her nose – on purpose
by some insensitive ape
(the kind that argues justifiable rape)
who was full of muscles.
hit in the eye, though I ducked,
my buddy got up and knocked him down
and then I wobbled my way home
– sort of glad the guy was fucked:
men just don’t hit girls.
II
a little ice in a washcloth,
six aspirin and a cigarette
helps take the edge off
the pain of a swollen eye,
but not the sad disgust and pity
that I feel for that guy.
III
I’m sorry
I’m sorry
I’m sorry.
Yelling and Screaming About How Good I Am in Bed
Posted: March 1, 1993 in PoetryTags: Ape, Bed, Caterpiller, Dog, Eagle, Eye, Frog, Love, Pen, Power, Song, Storm
I
I am the poet that you long for.
I have powers seething in my pen,
Poems and poems as a storm-whipped sea,
Songs that make you forget to breathe.
This is the something to love, not fall for;
Pedestalled I glitter but don’t grow.
You don’t want to watch, you want to know
How I will surprise you again.
II
I have been elected a poet
While you have been chosen
As something equally important,
Perhaps a poet, too –
It all depends on you.
III
I was once a caterpillar, once a dog;
I was once an ape, then an eagle; once a frog,
But always you could tell by the
Shining eyes that it was me
Figuring out what I was supposed to be.
I’ll change again into something else,
Something new – write a poem or two –
Maybe I will try to be you, but
Remember, I remember who I am now
And who I will always be: myself.
Lyrics for Michael Stipe of REM
Posted: February 27, 1993 in PoetryTags: Eye, Michael Stipe, Night, REM, Stars
I have found my calling.
Perhaps I’ve found an avenue
to help myself understand the world;
I know what I have to do.
I must build until I find somewhere
where I think I’d like to stay,
harvest the land that I’ve chosen as mine
until my eyes turn grey.
I may be toiling past the stars
and plumbing the depths of night,
but I know where I’m going, not where I’m headed
and I know I’ll turn out alright.
Untitled Poem #148
Posted: February 15, 1993 in PoetryTags: Boy, Crow, Druid, Eagle, Eye, Heart, Sand, Tree
wherever you walk
I watch from treetops
still your little blue boy.
my eyes haven’t suffered
the same sanding that my heart has.
I see like an eagle hunts
and my heart heals.
I see a sad Druid.
the crows raise eyebrows at me
but I show them my eyes
and they understand.
we’re all watching you
from our treetops.
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