Posts Tagged ‘Hope’

This is Not an Option

Posted: June 5, 1995 in Poetry
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Go now and learn;
The process never ends.
Go now and teach;
This is not an option.
You are the realization
Of the hopes and dreams of your parents
As they were theirs.
This is the way it has always been;
This is the way it shall be again.
To the children you will be perfect,
And you shall fall from grace.
You will be crucified for believing in yourself.
You will be denounced for telling the truth.
You will be taken to the temple
And tempted, seduced, and pressured.
Let your minds be your own,
Let your hearts be winged;
Lead your lives,
Don’t let your lives be led.

I’m looking at myself
in the mirror and wondering
who the fuck I am –
wire-rim glasses, two day old growth of beard;
cigarette dangling from my lower lip.
FUCKING POETRY – I’ve been gone so long,
writing to myself, watching
my pen bleed from word to word
across the page,
tasting every letter,
thinking every penstroke: the speed of poetry.
And fuck it if it’s not – it’s mine:
my thoughts, my wisdom, my reminders, and my beliefs.
Soon, the anger manifests in obscenity
and thinking of destruction and Godzilla,
not caring, not feeling anything but
pinpricks in my feet from stepping on rooftop antennae.
Flying like a bird, a beast, a leap
from a cliff, to die, to live, to believe
in myself and my vomit, my eyes,
my power to change myself, thus the world.
My wildfire magick of angels and cataclysm,
comedy, tragedy, hope, lightning flying
from fingertips and pen nibs.
It’s all the beauty of the plumbing behind the sink.

One Paper Airplane Left to Go

Posted: November 14, 1993 in Poetry
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Alone on a rock
at the sunset’s death,
I sit with a paper airplane,
waiting to throw it away;
an edge of a cliff,
folded paper and a hope,
both wishes for things to last;
a long flight or
a short plummeting fall;
either we go on
or we don’t
and I’m waiting for the sun
to go on
or I won’t.

Two Ten Penny Nails

Posted: July 1, 1993 in Poetry
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I know that my heart rests while I slog
Through glaciered halls that know of no such frogs.
I tire and watch my halo and my wings;
They start to melt away like borrowed things.
The nails sunk through my heart like lovers’ frowns
Reach steely through the clouds into the ground
Below me where they drag out furrows that
Can chart my weaving course without a map.
As long as I can flutter through the days
Of filtered sunlight, jellied skies and haze,
I hope that somehow I can be rebuilt
To use these Cupid’s arrows well as stilts.

No Trees

Posted: June 25, 1993 in Poetry
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he started to dream less
of landscapes
and found himself
a city that was tall
and bleak with
ordered rows of houses
and buildings to support
the orangish skies
of perpetual twilight,
one with distant violence
that would echo through
the straight streets,
cries of hope being lost
in a concrete strangulation.

Dazzled Dizzy

Posted: April 6, 1993 in Poetry
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I have no gilded card to send,
no quill to write beautiful
words that still say I’m so sorry.

sometimes the daybreak dazzles me dizzy
but it has never been as beautiful as you, Dawn.

and what have I done? crushed the wings
of an angel like brushing powder from a moth’s;
I only wanted to help you fly as you should.

the closest pair of cupped hands
can’t hold water unless you work magic,
and perhaps what I wove was wrong
but not a lie; never a lie.

these same hands that I hold empty now
of you I hope to fill nowhere else but here
with bouquets and baskets of joy for you;
summoning dolphins to dance with you;
tickling babies to laugh with you.

Song for a Bedsheet

Posted: March 24, 1993 in Poetry
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I am really wondering if I’m lying to myself – you see
I’m good at what I do and that’s lying to myself.
Oh I hurt and I’m torn and don’t know what to I can do
I need to talk-to-a-certain-someone and that one is myself

when does it end? all the questions and waiting
for the time to come when it has worked itself out;
I can’t stand the surprises, both the good and the bad.
I think I crave some stability – this now I can do without

…and my heart strains and pulls
– my mind says we’ll be alright
but I find I can’t hold on to it all now, tonight.
am I losing control? do I want to? I might,
my senses shrieking away – my hands clenched too tight.

I think I’m falling and falling –
I haven’t moved; I’m right here.
I remember when I went crazy,
I laugh at when I was clear.

I know I’ll continue at slugging away through the days
staying broke, lost and hopeless, just counting the ways
and the time that I spend, I record it and write
until I can’t stand my pen and I turn off the light.

Midion

Posted: August 26, 1991 in Poetry
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mud from the river-bottom
sieves through my heart
and dries brown tile
upon the sunny corridors
of hope.
shaken by the fist
of my own excitement
I feel my lungs
fill with salt
left by the cataracts
of beautiful plants
breathing.
to hold all of you
for one moment
would be to watch it crumble
and cry like
a waning moon
doused in the ink of the ocean.
little boy,
tiptoe carefully
through the echoes
of the fallen mirror;
the leaves
will put it back together.
the stitch of a sewing machine
manufactures my poetry,
sleep baptizes
my worried face into peace.
the dances of dreams
drum my skin into rest,
slipping me between the teeth
of monsters who plague my visions,
færies who cover my ears with storms
to mask the whispering
of nothing.
I fall without recollection
through cell walls,
shrieking with my senses,
soundlessly touching stars
with the shadows
of my fingertips;
hurtling at frightful speeds,
awed by the size of it all.
broken,
reflecting the trees
at fractured angles
agonizingly compounded,
the spilled eyes of an insect
encrusted with river mud
cracked and dry with age.

Butt’s Up

Posted: August 15, 1991 in Poetry
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oh yeah.
I wasn’t even
allowed to compete
in the darkie circle
where you were allowed hope.
my identity
was my glasses
and the computer
that was my entertainer.
all the people
I called friends
would have sacrificed each other
in a moment
for a turquoise ray of hope
at possibly being cool.
I wish I could honestly say
that I listened to the Cure
in my dark room
and was depressed,
but I was too busy
pushing away your laughter
by being the first
to solve Wizardry,
gaining some sort of recognition,
some sort of self-respect.
no I was less than cool
to identify with
the solemn cries of Robert Smith
or the wail of Siouxie
– it was beyond me
and my AM radio.
I couldn’t fathom
the courage it took
to compete for coolness
so important to the young
in the early hours
only the text of my
computer games
told me what was real
and how important I could be.
a graphics princess
couldn’t know how sad
her hero truly was.
butt’s up.

Hopes and Dreams

Posted: December 11, 1990 in Poetry
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There once was a little boy
Who had dreams which danced behind his eyes
Of magic golden cities,
People merry under purple skies;
The trees and hills behind his house
Where the young boy used to play
Would welcome him joyously
Into their arms most every day.
The boy would lay for hours
Watching people living and dying
Delighted in the magic spent
To dream without even trying
But as the boy got older
His imagination began to soften
And out to the hills and trees
He wouldn’t come as often.
Plastic guns and army soldiers,
Matchbox Cars and other toys
Stole the love and keen attention
From the helpless little boy.
The sun set silent one day
Over the lonesome trees and hills
The happy boughs and glades
Wept and sadly stood still.
No one heard their hearts break,
No one knows how they cried,
But some dreams were lost somewhere in time
When the child in Michael died.