Posts Tagged ‘Happy’

Postponement and Consummation

Posted: May 20, 2002 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,

A slight stirring of wind
Holds this gauzy curtain away from the window,
Reminders of a springtime outside, all green
And flowers and wholesome shit.
Me, I just want to get drunk
Feel the empty agony of my loneliness,
Postponed by the full bottle;
Consummated by another empty can.
I can feel, yes, I can feel again
And it is maddening, yea, sorrowful;
I did live all those years numb to it,
Became numb to everything else as well.
Successful, responsible, hard-working;
Admirable, overachieving, but never enough.
All exterior virtues for exterior opinions.
Something I chose to do to have somewhere to go.
I thought I was happy,
But now I really don’t know.
Perhaps I cut off one arm to spite the other
Now frustrated I can’t cut that one off, too.

Side Trip of Hyperspace

Posted: January 7, 2002 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , ,

I am small again:
Smell of closets, scuttle of spider;
Withdrawing as the fat withers from my mind.
Rediscovering someone vaguely familiar
Only from the corners of my eyes
In old photographs
Or in passionately scribbled lines.

In this transition,
Is it supposed to endure
Or is it supposed to break?
Phoenix, do you hurt when you burn to ash
Or when you rise to the sun?
Questions that reflect
My bewildered state of mind
What side trip of hyperspace
Oh what fortunate dilemma of uncomfort.

Forced to remember, to recall
Those unanswered playthings
With the back mirror-pooled eyes
Of teddy bears and demanding kittens;
Of imagined characters that were once so real
That I was them,
And more than that, happy to be.

Horse

Posted: December 9, 1994 in Poetry
Tags: , , , ,

There seems to be a certain point
where a great deal of intelligence
becomes a stallion too strong,
or wild to train, to ride.
Madmen have become so smart
that their brains have snapped:
the reins have cracked,
and they cannot let go, or get off.
Simple people are said to be happy —
their mounts aren’t unruly
and serve them well.
Those with the powerful steeds
that are still under control
are successful and productive:
the plows they pull are deep,
the furrows they plant are wide.
Yet as we pity the farmer
with a lame or weak horse,
pity the land-worker with
an unbroken or wild beast.
For we admire the size
and the strong shiny flanks
from over the split-rail fence,
yet the owner’s field is criss-crossed
with uneven and crooked berms,
or stand fertile and untilled
next to the brown-eyes
and restless
horse.

A Plea for Relaxation

Posted: February 17, 1994 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , ,

People treat themselves like natural resources
(yes we are as part of the ecosystem —
we can be useful)
but expenditure like the burning of a ton of coal
to light one lightbulb?
I ask if this is necessary;
there is a chorus of affirmatives
from the millions who know no better,
who know nothing else,
who bought and will buy again,
who sell this idea.
Accomplishment is one great feeling,
but conversion of a ton of coal,
folding your diploma of success
into the paper airplane of your resumé,
forwarded into the next office,
the next buyer’s grabbing hands
leaves little room for meaning besides
fleeting appreciation and a closetful
of dusty awards that mean nothing.
A rusty mailbox doesn’t care if it rusts;
frogs don’t care where they croak from
or where they croak to,
or where they croak.
Life doesn’t seem to care
scientifically
where it is going.
But I disagree —
Something knows and always has known,
and it watches
and has its own opinion.
God is dead or at best
holds appointments on Sundays,
priests just do their jobs;
it is a profession: their work.
God or magick or belief
is no longer a requirement
for happiness or success.

The Flavor of My Fault

Posted: January 17, 1994 in Poetry
Tags: , , , ,

Again on the wings of happiness,
Again from the one I love.
How much forcing, to and fro
Does it take to let it go?
And you’ll read this,
And you’ll roll your eyes,
Sigh and express your disgust
At my behavior.
Flavor it with examples;
Our life is rife with my fault.
Sometimes I can’t do enough.

Thinking About the Deed

Posted: December 25, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , , ,

I’m going to be married.
Sometimes I think it’s soon,
sometimes far away.
A quick decision?
The right one? Will we last?
Will we continue to be happy?
It all has to be waited for
and seen through –
there is no substitute,
there is no guarantee
that anyone can fully trust.
Love is a leap, a stumble, a fall;
a miraculous cartwheel
like you knew you could do it.
It seems to all be founded on
a paradox for humankind:
it’s all having to do with belief,
intangible, iirrational, immeasurable.
A human trait, regardless of
analytical lines, drawn to dissect
the whole of existence.
Belief unifies, explains on a different level
than we are accustomed to.
Our brains, our intellects are linear
and thus draw lines, cutting things
into pieces to chew on and examine
with precision.
The reunification after the repast
comes from belief – a gamble
on odds that have been thoroughly weighed.
And I believe
that I am going to be married
happily ever after.

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.

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.

yes I write poetry, I’m a poet
and I can’t crawl in bed with you
when I’m hurting;
my heart was shattered –
a wine stemmed glass on the freeway
a sheet of glass and a baseball
a face of a clock thrown to the pavement
into slivers
silver slivers
shivering silver slivers
and I can only think of
you lying on my bed believing
breathing your belief
that it will be OK
in the morning,
my friends outside
thinking that I’m OK
or will be that way
when I sober up
in the morning;
parents, separate, so far away
missing each other and still
hoping for me
to cure insanity
and be happy
with a world full of me.

I Want So Much to Believe

Posted: September 9, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,

I want so much to believe
in love that can be touched
and felt: something I need
to glue together all my heart.
each time I fall into that trap,
the sweetened chute of love,
some part of me can hear the snap
of metal jaws that slowly close and lock.
each time I fail another relationship,
a chisel chips another piece of meat,
a child steals another boardgame piece,
another chance for happiness thrown out
my throne of belief is whittled away,
the arms and legs are all but kindling now
and who would want such damaged merchandise
but in a lonely corner of an attic in your house.

Pocket Change

Posted: August 31, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , ,

I can feel the sum sadness
of everything, in each object,
filled tablespoons with a hose of sadness,
the impermanence of happiness
when good is how they are now;
in moments it is gone,
I’m watching the cherished abandoned,
and the whirl of the clock is
the blur of this sadness, this change.

The ice skaters turn and glide slowly
On the frozen ice
Oblivious
To the hunters, returning along the wintery road
Dejected and downcast
but the skaters go on skating
In their own little circles
In their own little figures
Some following and some leading
Under the grey, expecting sky.
Pausing at the outskirts of town
And looking at the scores of windswept roofs,
The lines of the gables braced against their burden
Of snow, falling sporadically,
Covering and blanketing.
Looking to the deceptively happy skaters
And those in the carriage or out on a walk
The happy cries of young playing tag on the ice
The hunter only notices; he can see the town differently, too
Huddled at the base of the hoary mountains
Rearing their stony snow-covered peaks skyward
Looming grimly, as the merciless wind blows about their feet.
Ravens sit mockingly in naked black trees
Rent of their covering leaves and stark against the snow
Or they wheel overhead, crying out harsh notes to the bleak crags.
Windows shut tight against the frost which daintily graces them.
The dirty, downtrod snow by the side of the road
Chilly air, in which his breath shows so well
And he scrunches a little deeper into his threadbare coat
And trudges after his miserably gaunt dogs
After his tired companions
Returning to a worn town
Bringing back only fruitless memories
Leaving behind only hopeless footprints.

Alone

Posted: June 21, 1987 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

I’m standing alone, hunched between the rocks
As the pounding surf breaks all around
Solitary, singly, lastly, only
Buffeted yet still very unfound
Surrounded by water, seething ocean.
The topmost point on this isle.
Crashing, flaring, thundering, churning.
A straggler misplaced from single file
But through the gloom and pouring torrents
A beam of light swiftly cuts
Piercing, shooting, arcing, crackling.
Into this figure it conducts
This person is lifted into the clouds
Leaving island and sea behind
Waking, blinking, staring, smiling.
I’m finally clear of mind
Into the arms of that special someone
The newborn man now goes
Happy, dreamy, sleepy, lovely.
I forget all these past woes
Even though it’s not too much
And looks like not a lot
Hanging, swinging, scrabbling, falling.
This love is all we’ve got
And even on this higher plateau
Comes bad storms we have to weather
Clinging, clutching, bearing, hunching,
Supporting, helping, surviving: together
Alone.

Untitled Poem #2

Posted: April 17, 1987 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,

Death is a lonely business
Bearing an hourglass
As the tide shall sweep the shore.
Shall I be no more?
Like a drop of precious wine
Life can pass you by.
Smell the flowers by the wayside
Happiness stays sublime.
Reaper with his just sickle
Doest thou be fickle
Within your reckoning
About your victim?