Posts Tagged ‘Human’

I’ve hated myself for so long
for other people
other opinions, other lives:
here goes my hair —
look in the mirror,
watch your steely blue eyes wink:
lighthouses to steer ships by.
Bring them home.
Home is the sailor,
home from the sea,
and the hunter,
home from the hill.
home to your heart.
Quit renting the space from yourself:
laugh and languish
with the rest of the apes called human beings.
Life is a dualism;
you are understanding
dum-dum balancing act of whatever.
Equilibrium is so nice.
So is the shift of the teeter-totter but
gain control,
remain under control;
O Captain, my Captain,
you are not yet cold and dead.
Breathe in and out,
live until the end.
It comes not from your hand;
it is not believed in your heart:
the sides of life and death
are one shot kamikaze missions:
one, then the other.
Enlighten the lighthouse.
Strengthen the beams of your winks.
Find meaning in living
to bank hard against the 100% house of death.
The Love comes:
a white ship,
a black frigate,
the swarthy faces of dream-lands sailors
set foot on the dry land
of your once-fertile imagination,
bearing gifts of gems and spices,
flowers silks and brocaded tapestries
unique to your mind and your magic —
so you trade them to the rest of the world.
These gifts are your giftedness;
these waves are your talents,
and when your life is lost,
you will trade no more in this heady marketplace.
Learn to be a good merchant of your wares,
a good businessperson,
a good man;
everyone barters and sings praise and stabs.
Be better: be the best
that your will and imagination can conceive,
then focus your lighthouse lantern
to illuminate,
to enlighten,
and to greater things to believe in.

Coping

Posted: August 5, 1994 in Poetry
Tags: , ,

Sometimes I think about things,
and I’m embarrassed because
of the way I think.

I am just another person,
another human being,
and I’m sad because I’m supposedly
special.

I’m sad that I’ve been determined
to be smart or something.
I’m different, and that hurts,
and people need me because of my “gifts”
and “talents”.

I don’t refuse their necessities.
They need, I fulfill
and I’ll do my best.

But like any tool, my existence
is taken for granted.
We never thank the hammer
for hammering —
we don’t remember
how difficult a stone
drives a nail.

We don’t remember to thank ourselves for coping.

a candle can
move its shadows
like the magic
of an angel
if you believe
that it might be so.

one word
one attempted
explanation
and it’s war
so I give up,
keep my mouth shut
and rot
from the inside
out.

page after page
of meaningless meaning
to myself
tonight
to forget tomorrow
to rewrite
tomorrow night.

Love is no longer
a good enough reason
made to bow to religion,
made to bow to science,
cheapened
and losing the battle
to the evolution of humankind
into the machines
they build,
the laws they build
to worship.

lost is the love of man
of woman
of children
and of God;
love is
the fountainhead
of meaning.

there is a love
for everything good:
if it is good,
then there is love.
some things that
have been found
to be good
are still used
but loveless,
lifeless,
perverted from
their original use
because
love is what
was original.

Humbled in an Easy Chair

Posted: January 24, 1994 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Tonight the old feelings
come back;
the old feelings
of enemies — long ago
when humankind believed
and could see their mistakes
unclothed as Demons.
They crouch in tree foliage
and prowl like cats
or gargoyles on the roof;
they know they work through dreams
and they know we have forgotten
our humble beginnings
in the depth of an easy chair.

They come to crack skulls open
and to tinker with your subconscious,
safe in your self-imposed anesthesia
of TV dinners and microwaves,
of ottomen and furniture never used,
of blinders and bit and reins
grown familiar;
you’ve grown resigned.

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.

why can’t I
just be another guy?
but I’m a person
with a snake-sharp tongue
and I’m a ripped flannel…
I shoot my mouth like a shotgun.
riddles and rhyming and rhythm,
not taken seriously enough to stay honest
just another number in the GTE phone list.
I lie and I lie and I lie
to convince you all
that the poet is just another human being;
that I am just another guy.

I thresh through these lines
like a dog wrapped in seaweed,
thrown with stones in the ocean:
I can’t breathe –
there’s all the smoke from the fires I’m lightning,
I’m telling the sheriff that I’m struck by lightning.
when does it all stop echoing ‘round in circles?
I think it’s just another dream.
I’m on a porch with a candle and a carpet;
there’s crickets all around
and I feel wonderful without the world dragging me down.
look, I see you don’t understand with a frown.

I can’t even repeat what I’ve said.
I can’t think of a poem I’ve written,
then read,
and thought that this is it, this is perfect!
I’ve even given up trying to rework it.
I don’t want to write for a living anymore
I feel like the homework that’s always lost to the dog
and I don’t remember whatever
I expected from myself anymore.
these fireworks of joy that I wished to paint the skies with
are nothing more than explosions
of white-winged moths from a log
that I’ve kicked walking alone in the woods.

on my driveway in Point Loma,
smoking 3 cigarettes,
I thought it was my cat Ferguson
cracking bird-bones at four in the morning,
but the white and grey patchy creature
was a shiny eyed opossum,
who moved off as fast as it could
back down the sidewalk
after discovering its way back to its lair
in the college leaf-lined drainpipes
was guarded by a flannel-skinned human.
insomnia can be a great thing
when the TV isn’t running any Godzilla movies
or Kung-Fu Theater;
then the silence outside, the cool air
can be heard straining to beckon
with no mouth, no gestures,
just an often overlooked phenomenon.
some will travel huge distances
to find beauty in waterfalls and vistas
that are easy to pretend that no one else has seen,
yet the early morning hours of solitude
and a token nightlighting of vapor lamps on telephone poles
is the hush of the spectacular
that not many appreciate,
right outside their heavy-lidded windows.