Posts Tagged ‘Memories’

Stays the Same

Posted: January 22, 2002 in Poetry
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You don’t know what you’ve done
Wrecked the car by going too fast
And I along for the ride
Get the lash of blame
Because I pumped the gas.
Your shirt has come undone
These windows are steamed from the inside
Oh? What? This stupid game
That can’t survive the morning sun;
Now just memories from my past.
And as the tires start to slide
And as you search my fevered eyes
Bare shoulders spangled with drops of rain
Realizing that we’ve crashed
Because nothing stays the same.

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.

A Letter

Posted: July 28, 1993 in Poetry
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Dear Mom,
I was so stoned the other night
that I was at awe with the world
like when I was a child
light and airy, care-free
and drug-free.
It’s just the weight of responsibility
that turns me to substance,
matter rather than mind –
a little more of the Kind
can sometimes give me back my pleasures:
the realities of the memories
I’ve dried and kept as treasures
from a time when my world was bigger.

I write poems
that nobody hears [yet]
silent songs
of ink and paper;
meaningful scrawls,
ideas I jot down.
they’re testimonials to me living.
I write these things down
because I don’t have a camera
or anything more high-tech.
I write because
my memory can fail me.
And when I get older,
I will look through these scrapbooks
and make my own pictures
from this black and white.

The Memory Tree

Posted: June 14, 1993 in Poetry
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I don’t have very many pictures of my life;
no cute heart frames around me and my brother,
no portraits capturing me with any of my friends
so I can reminisce about them.
nothing but my memory is left
of the times I’ve spent with some of them
whom I remember but have no proof
that I knew them at all
except for a story or two I’ll tell too tall
and sometimes that is enough
when I’m in good form mnemonically
and I can picture my pictures easily
on my eyelids when they’re closed,
when I’m quiet and smiling a little
about some shenanigans with a figure from the past
who’s bigger than Abe Lincoln to me
or George Washington and his cherry tree
because he or she hails from my history.
I’ll remember them all when I have the time
just to stay put and write,
whittling my own likenesses of them out of paper
and colored ink; phrases and expressions
that I stole from each one of them
in order for me to memorize them;
it’s something I’m looking forward to doing later.

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.

Untitled Poem #157

Posted: April 3, 1993 in Poetry
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a car travelling with my soul
in the passenger’s seat: this is time
and I watch fields of wheat breathe,
amber waves of grain…

an organ plays melancholy from a building
and people pass, they do not hear,
too busy looking down when I have stopped
to listen for the sound of the wind:
echoes and ghostlike spirits of memories.

I cannot explain the music I hear,
be it cacophony or pure, ringing clear,
perhaps the different drum I march to.

Laura Moore in Red

Posted: February 5, 1993 in Poetry
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I
damn you and your love;
wouldn’t it be so much easier
if one of us hated the other.
I can’t hate you,
believe me I’ve tried;
I curse and strain
but I just cry and cry,
crying out for lost love:
to be able to love
and forgive,
forget.

II
I could drown in the tears I’ve cried
about loving you: I hurt inside.
the touch of your fingers, your time
are promises, memories from my mind.

III
I was clear, free from the haze
that characterized my early days
of loving and living, doing my forgiving
of all the hurt that’s ever been done to me.

whatever I need, stays.

IV
I slide from place to place
as worry gets ahold of my face
to sculpt away. I can’t stand
the tentative way you touch my hand,
that pleading look deep in your eyes
makes my foolish heart soar and dive.
I’m holding all my hourglass sand
in the useless sieve I’ve made with my hands;
the more of it that trickles away,
the bigger grows that personal haze.

Kitty Litter

Posted: January 20, 1993 in Poetry
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if I was a cat
I’ve chased a mouse of yours
chewed it and played
to your chagrin.

dragons care so little –
true dragons, not gold-hungry worms
– that they’re made from clouds
and always fly.

an orange lightbulb transforms
a room into a Wonderland;
I made a game of room chess
of all my memories of you.

I just tell the time around here.

the hardest things I ever do
hurt like the break
of billiard balls
in my ears.
like telling you
that I hate you
when really I mean
I love you
when really I mean
I can’t let you in,
not right now
when really I mean
that I’m going to collapse
in confusion.

I want you so badly that
I can’t have you so badly.

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.

Geoff Stearns rose dripping
from the ocean strung with
seaweed and shaggy hair
but without his glasses
which the mermaids claimed
for the memories.

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.

Upon the dusty linoleum floor
Lies a discarded coffee stirrer.
Weak and useless with a hollow core
Its memories only a blur.

It lies in wait for something new
Stepped on is a way of life.
A bottle cap with stripes of blue
Joins it in its strife.

Upon the ground, unnoticed by us
They stay without complaining.
Surrounded by motes of dirt and dust
Dents are all they’re gaining.

Lost and lonely, sad and forlorn
A plastic tube is all
What respect it ever had is shorn
In a world where all else is tall.

A bottle cap, just useless trash
Carelessly thrown away
It still feels humility’s lash
It’s chrome is dulled to grey.

Cap and straw, sitting together
Upon an unforgiving ground.
Hoping to love each other forever
Without ever making a sound.

But wind and nature will have their way
No matter what you can try.
The hollow straw was blown away
And a kid let the bottle cap fly.

So now among the piles of refuse
Present in all the world
A bottle cap’s silent tears break loose
And a straw is broken and curled.