Posts Tagged ‘Home’

Home

Posted: July 9, 1995 in Poetry
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I should listen to the sea
‘Cause I’m never turning back
I’m not who I used to be
And I’m never going home.
I’m so hard upon myself
I cannot seem to learn.
At the bottom of the well,
I sit and shiver in my bones.
I really don’t know who I am;
I’m busy being someone else.
Trying on my different masks,
I lose my sense of what is real.
So I sit and hold my head
What I’ve done can haunt me still
Remember wishing you were dead?
Now how do you feel?

Hang On to the Rope

Posted: June 26, 1995 in Poetry
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I wish I could string and sell
These beads of sweat;
They keep dripping in my eyes
And leaping
From the tip of my nose.
I can’t stop pulling on this rope –
The mine car can’t slip any further
Down those tracks.
I don’t know why I took this job
But it’s a challenge
And I hurt in every bone.
I’ve found muscles I never knew I had.
They’re singing so they must be helping.
I know I am never going home again.
This firelight and the ring of the hammers
On steel bars punching through the rock,
They dance in the furrows of my limbs;
I’m drenched because my mind
Hasn’t grown into this wiry body.
Veins like gnarled ivy,
Tendons like Brazilian peppers’ roots,
Fingers and arms like acacia limbs.

Perhaps my only true loves
Are those that are inanimate,
Or are animated soley by my
Magical imagination.
They love me like a god –
I give them life, they give me
Love without strings attached.
They could attach their strings
If they ate from that forbidden fruit
That Adam and Eve partook of.
But that is the difference
Between mankind and animals,
Plants, minerals, Elves, Dwarves, and Faeries.
We know we do wrong – we still do it.
Some barrier was broken and we keep on breaking,
We made god to subtly blame for our position.
(We call him Satan)
We told him to forgive us because
It wasn’t in our own power
To forgive ourselves for evolving.
We are now the chosen species of the planet
And, collectively, we all want to go home.
So these inanimate things I animate,
Infusing them with imagination and belief.
I can believe in them because it was I
Who made them real in the first place.
God didn’t make me; I made him
Just like I make a dream a reality,
A story my existence, and item alive
And bounding to and fro with innocent excitement.

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.

Rabbit Girl

Posted: October 22, 1992 in Poetry
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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.

The Wind Goes Round

Posted: March 20, 1987 in Poetry
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The wind goes round and round the earth
Never slowing, never stopping
Seeing millions of people and millions of places
And rushing by, always in a hurry.
Always exhilarated and fresh, rejuvenated;
A harbinger of weather to come
Or a refreshing feeling, stirring the heat
Rounding the sphere we call home.
Moving, shifting, changing, revolving
Don’t you wish you could hitchhike?