Once upon a time I wrote a story
Which caressed the face of the girl I love,
But the real life situation
Is untenable.
She has lost sight of what I once was
In my prime, in my heyday,
And this stubborn pride
Speeds my fall.
Once again, the impact will wake me
To a life in shambles;
Nothing gold can stay.
Posts Tagged ‘Girl’
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I ran across the street
with a golden-haired girl
to watch the grunion run.
She’d never seen it before —
I’d never touched one,
always too scared —
but for her I wrapped one in seaweed,
careful not to touch its skin,
and I returned it
to my Mom,
the ocean.
Wading Through the Cattails
Posted: November 6, 1993 in PoetryTags: Car, Cat, Child, Dark, Dream, Frog, Girl, Gold, Happy, Imagination, lilypad, Love, Memories, Money, Moon, Night, Platinum, Sex, White, Wife
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.
The Prince of Spring
Posted: May 31, 1993 in PoetryTags: Fire, Fountain, Girl, God, Gold, Love, Man, Prince, Princess
for all of my twenty years
I have had one healthy fear:
that Love will find me cold and dry
for being a Prince and held so high,
but my heart longs for fiery blood,
wide-open eyes and Love, true Love,
not courtships played to gain the hand
of the Princess with the tracts of land.
for Love that fountains from my soul
for the heart of a girl who’s honest, whole;
someone to Love me and someone to share
all of my fears with; someone to care.
for I am no better than any man.
a Prince or a Pauper, the same we stand
in God’s eyes you’re worthy or not,
it doesn’t matter, the gold you’ve got.
Love is life’s most precious thing,
even for me…
…the Prince of Spring!
for I am the Prince of Spring.
for I am the Prince of Spring.
for I am the Prince of Spring.
no sleight of hand by any season
could console me for the loss of your smile
of girlish enthusiasm if a trick of my own
has caused you some fleeting delight.
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.
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.
a little girl lies in
her room at night
and she thinks of me.
who can it be?
I know who but
I’m not telling;
I have the secrets but
I’m not selling.
it is whispered into
animals ears – they hear
and clap their hands
because they understand.
and I never thought that I was one
to spend all of my time writing dumb
things about being in love with girls
and how they mean more than the world
to me and even then some…
Untitled Poem #146
Posted: February 11, 1993 in PoetryTags: Angel, Cloud, Dawn Spinda, Girl, Grass, Rain, Sky, Tears, Untitled
I am free of ties to glide the skies
and romp and play like a colt in a field
of clouds and grass and care no less
for life is a packet of sugar I eat
while chatting with a pretty girl
on the sidewalk where an ice cream cone
has fallen and looks like crayon or chalk
the color of strawberry milkshakes, easter eggs
and we watch the rain come in and get us
wet and warm and tropical release of angel’s tears.
[for Dawn Spinda]
Rabbit Girl
Posted: October 22, 1992 in PoetryTags: Boy, Eye, Girl, Glasses, Heart, Home, Rabbit, Rainbow
wet rabbit girl,
where do you go?
know puzzle piece fits you
and my rainbow glasses miss you
when you’re gone so long.
private poetry
to roll in and chew
– a mouthful of wet paper,
foam caught on a branch
in a river.
I stand as a boy
with both hands
up and out, offering you
my heart
with hopeful eyes.
if not, I’ll go home.
I SAW YOU [believe]
run pitter-patter run
hide away, waterfall or
column of flame;
run along dream girl.
I caught you this time
(in the echo of your flowered footprints)
Untitled Poem #-22
Posted: July 5, 1992 in PoetryTags: Bones, Clouds, Feather, Girl, Untitled, Wind
bad girl
stole some bones
and feathers
to control
the weather;
to send the clouds
and the wind
to smell out
what her boyfriend
was doing.
Laura Swings Her Skirts
Posted: June 22, 1992 in PoetryTags: Boy, Butterfly, Dream, Eye, Flowers, Girl, Laura, Memories, Tears, Time, Tree
I will sing you a song softly
of a little girl I remember dreaming,
who would wink into the faces of
the flowers to see them smile,
perfume tickling her nose all the while
as she would wander secret places.
this little girl I did love
as I seemed to quietly spy
from the trees into which I’d climbed
as a boy, eyes opened wide.
dreaming her leaving colored footprints
skipping in the parted grass,
laughing like the flight of a butterfly.
and I’ve been dreaming ever since that time,
drugged with memories more precious
and sparkling than her diamond tears
of happiness when she chanced to find
the too-shy boy in the tree tops.
I
the wet skirt of a salt girl
looks a lot like
maybe, a fruit roll-up.
II
the salt girl
with the wet skirt
is Madonna.
I think of you always.
III
it is a pretty picture,
but now this salty girl,
whom you have thrown in the ocean
with your poetry,
must go change her clothes
and take a bath.
I saw a raindrop hang
from a second story rooftop.
as I watched it drop,
I saw the face of a little girl
in one of the second story windows.
when I looked up again,
she wasn’t there.
I’m sure she never was.
Mind Shaft
Posted: January 18, 1991 in PoetryTags: Dark, Dream, Girl, God, Innocent, Lies, Paper, Sick
he didn’t need to be shown how to do
things; he was good at figuring
them out – taking them apart and
putting them back together. he read a
lot when he was innocent and
believed too much for his own good.
too many times he became impatient
and cursed himself for imagined
wrongs, blaming his insensitivity for
his lack of social standing. he tried so
hard he made himself sick with lies
and falsehoods, having to artificially calm
the turbulence of his stomach with
deadened-nerves ignorance. he knew,
or rather hoped (he didn’t allow himself
the luxury of self-confidence) that someday
he would be given the chance to show
another human being what he thought
love was. it was too big, too heady, too
encompassing to try to contain within the
bars of paper and ink, but he knew
exactly what it was and how he would
go about making it work and dreamed
handsome times and admirable occasions.
love would turn some special girl’s eyes
to his if only he had the patience to
hang on to the blades of grass growing
in the cracks of the snail-track laden
sidewalk. he secretly prayed to a god
he honestly doubted and looked for
some reason besides cowardice to not
get life over with and found that he had
matches of distraction at the bottom of
his dismal mind shaft. every time he went
into the dark and felt the slimy pitch
of the terror of being alone, he could find
another match to sputter and flicker
in the cold depths to keep his faith until
someone would come along to crank up
the bucket form the bottom of the well.
Melanicus by Phone
Posted: December 27, 1990 in PoetryTags: Blood, Friend, Girl, Hacksaw, Kiss, Lead, Melanicus, September, Smile
Yes, Melanicus came to me
With a hacksaw and my jugular vein
He said that these belonged to me
Then smiled and said my girlfriend
Kissed him just last night.
First I said thank you for my hacksaw
And apologized for his neck wound
Second, I offered him a needle and thread;
He said “I’m fine, I have already bled”.
Then I took my jugular back
Replaced the lead pipe I was using
He offered me a rusty straight razor blade
I acquiesced politely with the flourish I made
Third I said she had already told me
About your dimension adventures in the roof of your mouth
I know you back from the 24th of September
1971 – you’re my father, remember?
The Late Night Michael Channel Goes to Test Pattern
Posted: December 9, 1990 in PoetryTags: Elephant, Fuck, Girl, Hawaii, Jesus Christ, Sea, Shit, Summer
Traipsing around
With Jesus Christ,
Shit, and fuckin-a.
Finding vitamin B-37
In liquid form with uranium,
Molesting the gals in the seaport
Village soap shop,
Seeing summer at the taste of Hawaii
Shave ice shop,
Decisions at the bathroom
Hand drying
Methodology offered, encountering (twice)
The dreaded and extremely rare
Elephant-eating white fleshy tree fungus
Looking for a commode.
But I Missed
Posted: June 23, 1987 in PoetryTags: Dark, Eye, Girl, Hell, Kiss, Laughter, Life, Love, Pain, Rain, Sea, Storm, Tears, Window
I’ll cry for her
I’ll die for her
Yet she sits there, deep in thought.
How dear she is
How near she is
But it’s all…it’s all for naught.
I can see the rain
Streak the windowpane
Like the tears glistening in her eyes
Anything I say
Makes her turn away
As she stolidly, silently cries.
But I love her so much that it hurts sometimes
For within my life she’s like a jewel that shines
And feel so useless when I see her this way
I wish there was something that I could say
Against the wall
Doing nothing at all
Thinking of her, alone in her chair
Never ending stints
Of vigilance
How much about us does she care?
What twist of fate
Does she contemplate
At times like this, that course is so easy
It must be hell
Locked up in that cell
Lost in the dark in such misery.
I’m awake all night because I love her so much
But now she cringes from the slightest touch
Oh let me guide her through these stormy seas
Let me help her, hold her, please
I will always love her
And I shall cover
My face so she can’t see my pain
She is so grim
Filled to the brim
With agony that drives her insane
She’s taken abuse
That’s much too profuse
For anybody in this world to take
And I’m not reassured
That it’s now up to her
‘Cause she has a decision to make
Won’t someone help her, don’t pass her by
This wonderful girl with the gleam in her eye
I would give up my life if hers I could save
But it’s no use putting lilies on her grave
She’s going, going, away on the sea
And I’ll never know if she ever loved me
That laughter I loved, those lips that I kissed
I tried to catch her fall
…but I missed.
A single red mitten
Lay upon the new fallen snow
Freezing.
Without the inner warmth
Of a radiant child’s hand
Lonely.
So I rescued the glove
And off to the lost and found it goes
Recovered.
A little girl inquires
And receives her lost red glove
Reunited.
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