Anonymous (Friday Poetically)

Why can’t I be anonymous?

Why can’t I

hide among two dimensional shadows of shallow minds,

walk in the world of me,

mumble,

drool, if necessary,

speak French,

cry for independence,

and ignore my fat cat neighbor’s  

                                                 intestinal woes.

I can still be invisible and listen to Jack White’s guitar,

even though Detroit is not synonymous with anonymous,

but the man has a gift of creative riff,

and if I don’t crank

                               too loud,

I can be nameless, still.

I can help the poor with money orders and cash,

and wear a mask to help dig through fallen rubble.

I can even send good luck cards to freedom fighters in trouble,

I can be anonymous, still,

                                        

                                        can’t I?

Or would I be a shallow minded

                                                   shadow

                                                              of self indulgence too?

No, I’m not talking about you.

Hello, my name is Henry Clemmons.  Comment vas-tu?

I Want To Be a Penny (for big tent)

I want to be a penny,

laying on rails,

waiting for a train.

Have you ever seen a penny after fifty grain cars flatten it into

    oblong coolness?

I’m tired

             of worthless,

collected in topless mason jars,

saved

         just to be stolen,

                                   for some blow and a little weed.

I want to be cool,

smashed into something somebody finds,

and says,

             “Wow, check this out.”

Instead of,

                “tails, bad luck,”

and thrown inside some bushes,

                                   to be alone;

a penny from hell.

I’d rather rain from Heaven on poor people with mason jars for food; with hope.

I want to be cool.

I want to quit smoking;

                                   kill two birds with one

engine

          pulling thousands of tons of

                                   oblong creating coolness.

I want to be a penny,

laying on rails,

waiting for a train.

Just thinking....

My Day (a thursday quickie)

Not all moments exist

                                  in black

and white’s

                  contrasting comfort.

Some moments b r e a t h e,

        some bleed,

some battle in layered

                                  shades

                                            of slate.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

Moment’s sum,

                        portray my day.

Respites (A wed. night short)

Some
Thought it
Strange
I could befriend
Both
High noon and moon together,
But
They represented
Respites
Where long ghostly shadows
Of tragedy and guilt
Could not smother me
In blankets of
Despair.

                                                                                                                                       Brian Scott (Colour Pencil) 

The Dusty Horse (Poets United)

                              Laurie Pace  http://www.lauriepace.blogspot.com/

The dusty horse stands lone with reins unmanned
Its saddle slants with bloodstains dried and brown
Sweat pours like mud from heaving sides distressed
The cowboy’s dead and lost on prairie’s land

A red bandanna dances ‘cross hot sand
It’s torn and damp from tears and sweat and fear
An angel’s breath blew home the faithful mare
The dusty horse stands lone with reins unmanned

A pistol lay uncocked in limp scarred hands
An ambush flashed from friends with smiles and guns
A prayer lay froze on lips now pale and chapped
The cowboy’s dead and lost on prairie’s land

The dusty horse stands lone with reins unmanned
A red bandanna dances ‘cross hot sand

Where Sharks and Whales Only Swim in Books (One Shot Wednesday)

A morn will break in life when you sense safety,
And they’ll be no safety,
Because there is no safety on a sea hiding monsters.

An altered, borrowed thought from Melville’s whale,
I took as prophesy,
Slightly changed because I will not live by the sea.

I sense land and know its land,
I live on land,
Way inland, where sharks and whales only swim in books.

It’s been that way ever since that poster sucked us in
To the darkened sea of theatre’s trap,
Haunted by the simple pattern of alternating notes E and F.

Jaws of fear forever chased me to the plains.
Quint’s scream echoed Ahab’s plea,
As they both drown in swirls of unknown depths in grasps of monsters.

I still see it hanging, taunting from theatre’s red brick wall,
The great white killer of innocent swimmers;
Straight up, mouth open, death stalking, a frantic thrashing,
Gurgled screaming, an eerie silence, a bloodied ocean, once still, once serene,
Once Safe.

There are no creatures of the deep in Kansas,
No Brady’s, Hooper’s, or Quint’s drunken songs of false courage,
No great white killer of innocent swimmers stalking my life from
Underneath.

The poster changed my life.
I live on the Rock, firmly on the Rock, far from a shore hiding monsters.
I believe in Amity, but not as an island, it can’t be an island; never an island.

I saw that film with my father; I was young.
It was the only time he ever took me to the picture show.
He was so strong, he would have survived like Brady, if not for the monster,
Not Spielberg’s creature, but a swift silent killer of cells from beneath the
Surface.

It was 1975,
Two alternating notes blown from a tuba,
And a large placard of a great white shark Mr. Benchley named, Jaws.

The Birth (For Poetry Pot Luck: Muse, Art, Music, and Poetry)

                              Painting by  Leonid Afremov  http://www.afremov.com/

Crying between rhythmic thighs

Stroked legato, gently

Uninterrupted, long and smooth

Then quickly, sharp, staccato

Pleasurable whines, whimpers

Strung tight, perfect fifths

Passionate fingertips caress neck, glissando

Rising, falling, seamless

Air flows, in and out, of F-holes

Her bow, a perfect touch, taut

Orgasmic vibratos

They’re one.

Muses celebrate in multi-colored frenzies

Symphonic life, birthed

Forcing art forefront

From muse's womb

Creation’s water breaks

One last push

Angelic face free

Umbilical leash cut

A slap

Fortissimo

Life born



Thank You (One Stop Poerty Photo Challenge)

 

Thank you

    for pushing me.

I’d hate to miss Easter services.

I prayed all night

    for help to get there.

I’m surprised no others

    are going,

    unless, I’m late,

    or early.

It is Sunday,

    isn’t it?

I like your after shave,

    so fresh

    like someone left the windows opened last night.

Better than the usual here, you know.

I’ve never seen a volunteer so tall,

    strong,

    and young.

I don’t understand the sword though.

Are you security?

You know I write poetry?

I see things.

God speaks to me.

I need people to read them.

Could you help me?

It’s been such a battle to get them out of here.

Thank you, Michael.

When Blooms Explode (My Easter/Spring poem from the devil's POV)

http://promisingpoetscafe.wordpress.com/2011/04/25/the-thursday-poets-rally-week-42-perfect-poet-award/

I nominate Kim Nelson at Kim Nelson Writes

Thank you Vinay and Jingle

I hate the season

That grows between

Frozen beards from winter’s treason

And

Summer’s sizzle with heat so mean

I can’t even say its name

I hate the odor

That screams from green

April’s warmth stalls winter’s motor

And

Summer’s drizzle defeats a dream

I can’t even say its name

He rose again

And breathed once more

And freed my slaves

From Hell in scores

Proclaimed my death

And slammed my door

I can’t even say His name

I hate the trouble

When blooms explode

And ice sheets warm to shallow puddles

And

Tadpoles turn to frogs and toads

I can’t even say its name

I hate the season

That lets you know

Jesus lives and is your reason

And

I with demons have got to go

I won’t even note His fame.

But,

He rose again

And breathed once more

And freed my slaves

From Hell in scores

Proclaimed my death

And slammed my door

I now have to say his name

I’ll bow my knee

And must proclaim

He is the Lord

That rose again

And

I am defeated

In the spring

When blooms explode

And He

Is King.

Before (For Friday Poetically)

Sleep whispers delicious dreams

Pools of sour green sweet

Treats of blue moon pools

Sunny sounds

Magic beans

Funny friends

Dance and drink

Ride yellow balloons

With true love

Above teardrop clouds

Before old sounds of

Cold rain

Today

Carry her from here

(Note: We had to write based on a list of given words.  Quite fun.)

Behind the Barn (For Poets Rally Week #42)

Sky blue flies
  a kite
    of gold
Sparrows sing
  of lilac
    bloom
Sons smell leather
  tossed
    in glee
Old bike rusts behind the barn

Wrinkled hands
  work soft
    a broom
Puppies yelp
  inside
    a box
Bumble bees bounce
  roses
    pink
Old bike rusts behind the barn

Awake
Awake
My Schwinn of old
Arise
Arise
And pedal bold
You can
You can
Shake off the mold
Awake
Arise
You can’t be old

Lonely leaf
  waves bye
    to green
Daylight shrinks
  in evening’s
    yawn
Windows close
  to battle
    chill
Old bike rusts behind the barn

Scarecrows pout
  out on the
    farm
Sweaters
  grow down
    children’s arms
Sons move south
  on beaches
    warm
Old bike rusts behind the barn

Awake
Awake
My Schwinn of old
Arise
Arise
And pedal bold
You can
You can
It’s not too cold
Awake
Arise
You can’t die old

Blankets white
  lie still
    in sleep
Barren trees
  no nests
    to keep
Echoed boys
  sleigh down
    hills deep
Old bike rusts behind the barn

Calendars thin
  one page
    left
Sons send gifts
  quietly
    wrapped
Silent Night hummed
  damp eyes
    close
Old bike rusts behind the barn

Awake
Awake
My Schwinn of old
Arise
Arise
And pedal bold
You can
You can
Shake off the cold
Awake
Arise
You can’t die old

Sky blue flies
  a kite
    of gray
Robins sigh
  a song
    of bloom
Sons travel home
  dressed
    in black
Old bike’s gone behind the barn

Wrinkled hands
  clasped stiff
    on breast
Church suit
  starched
    inside pine box
Pink blooms
  wilt
    in watered vase
Old bike’s gone behind the barn

Awake
Awake
My Schwinn of old
Arise
Arise
And pedal bold
You can
You can
In Heaven’s fold
Awake
Arise
You won’t be old

The Unannounced (Revised)

Her face visits
In the dark
When I'm unarmed
Parked
In sleep

Her face visits
Draped in angel blonde
Eyes sparkle
Lips part in whisper
I love you

Her face visits
Slices my
Beating heart … into thin pieces on a paper plate

Purled Legacy (Revised)

Knit, gnarled fingers, until broken shards of sunset fade
Join day
With night
Purl two together, pull through loop.

Stitch tight evening's cool breeze silk
Amid
Roses upon rows of faith's red yarn.


Kiss light the lips of morn's moist face
Grandson duels with death's embrace.


Pray, gnarled fingers, until scattered stains of sunrise stray
Join day
With night
Purl two together, pull through loop.

Stitch tight soul's fabric freshest scent
Amid
Roses upon rows of faith's red yarn.


Kiss light the lips of morn's moist face
Grandson reaches for beckoned grace.


Knit, clasped fingers, until hostile storms of panzer's calm
Pray day
And night
Purl two together, pull through loop.

Stitch tight far stars you cannot see
Amid
Roses upon rows of faith's red yarn.


Kiss light the lips of morn's moist face
Grandson's warm
In your gnarled embrace.

Golden Bowl

A golden bowl in twilight’s gleam
Reflects the day’s remaining life
A dying breed of sunlit streams
A golden bowl in twilight’s gleam.

With folded hands in evening dream
Forbid the night’s resurgent strife
A golden bowl in twilight’s gleam
Reflects the day’s remaining life

A Pig's Rebellion (For One Shot Wdnesday)

In the depth of a pig’s heart

there’s a place,

quiet,

between the rapid

contractions

and expansions;

in that slice

of silence,

that knows …

It is loved.

A Pig’s rebellion,

if it only relied on it’s otic regions,

hearing:

“Unclean … Unclean … Unclean,”

could be

dangerous

for mankind

and swine.

Herds of Pigs,

“hoofpeding,”

through abandoned streets,

echoing snorts,

sneering oinks,

sty mud flying,

scaring young children,

screaming,

“What’s wrong with Elmer?  Are the piggy’s going to market, or we-we-we’in all the way home?”

It would be,

in a word,

crazy.

Headlines would scream:

Porkers Gone Wild

Newsmen warn,

“Rampaging razorbacks on the attack.”

Pigs proclaim into padded microphones,

“We’re not a dirty animal. We’re not a dirty animal.”

Commentators opine,

“It’s not good for the pigs to lose their cool like this.  When they get to Boston it will hurt them in the end.”

But,

praise the Lord,

this tragedy of rash reactions

and thoughts of angry pigs unclearly expressed

will never ever happen because God is good.

Thankfully,

for us and the Pig Nation,

we know

and can sleep peacefully

because…

In the depth of a pig’s heart

there’s a place,

quiet,

between the rapid

contractions

and expansions;

in that slice

of silence,

that knows …

It is loved.

I'm Not Dreaming Anymore (Tuesday One Stop Poetry)

I’m not dreaming anymore.

I am a player in Dr. King’s sequel.
I am a member of God’s Church.
I am created equal.

I’m not dreaming anymore.

I’m not a token in an organization.
I’m not a statistic to be bussed and moved.
I’m not a minority in a congregation.

I’m not dreaming anymore.

My eyes are blind to all complexions.
I will not judge the color of skin.
I don’t worry with ramifications.

I’m not dreaming anymore.

I toil with my hands.
I patrol the streets of freedom.
I bleed in foreign lands.

I’m not dreaming anymore.

I’m burning my excuses in a new day’s fire.
I’m boycotting false role models.
I’m tuning out the stereotypical liar.

I’m not dreaming anymore.

I’m a pulse in the heartbeat of prayer.
I’m a note in the symphony of brotherhood.
I’m a pronoun in God’s voice declaring I care.

I’m not dreaming anymore.

I’m a part of freedom’s toll.
I am ringing freedom’s bell.
I’m wearing freedom’s clothes.

I’m not dreaming anymore.

I can still feel the crack of a whip and burn of a rope.
I can still feel the sting of a tongue screaming nigger.
Yet, I feel the healing of a sunrise on the strength of a new hope.

I’m not dreaming anymore.

I still hear the shot that silenced a King.
I still hear the prayers of Frederick Douglas.
I still hear Clara Ward sing.

But, I’m not dreaming anymore.

I am free right now.
I am free right now.
Thank God Almighty.
I am free right now.

I’m not dreaming anymore.

Monday One Stop Form – Shadorma (Dustus Poem Prompt)

Runaway

Rain soaked Jersey dreams

Of escape

Pout alone

Cheep café caffeine stain sleep

With Springsteen echoes

PS Hope Annie gets feeling better.

Unannounced (pot Luck Poem for 4/18/11)

Her face visits
In the depths of dark
When I’m unarmed
Vulnerable
Parked
In sleep
Unannounced

Her face visits
Draped in Heaven’s blonde
Eyes adorable … emerald … sparkles
Smiles … innocent … lips part
Whispers
“I love you”
Unannounced

Her face visits
Slices my
Heart … a beating heart … into thin pieces on a paper plate
Unannounced

First Taste

I broke a dish once
My grandmother’s
Boží Milosrdenství
It was older than her
Shards of royal blue scattered the floor
One of a set of seven
Irreplaceable

That was my first sadness

She told me
Stand still
Let me sweep
I don’t want you cut
No need for your blood here
She kissed my cheek

My first taste of grace
Off broken china
On a kitchen floor

Whispers

Winds whisper her name
Through budding treetops
In full moons light
I blow the glow off candle lit
Swirling smoke
Spirals into illuminated night

Punched

Breathing
Used to be involuntary
Begging
Is how I get air to my heart

Blood
From my nose

F
l
o
w
s

Down
My
Chin
And d
        r
        i
        p
        s
            in red splats
On
The
White
Tile
Floor
Next to my black polished shoes
With a lone blade
Of green grass
Stuck to its
Sole

Your departure punched me in the face
Paralyzed my lungs

Breathing used to be
Involuntary

Love in the Scent

Mother: morning comes with heavy humid breath,
scorching horizon’s hills with red warning fire;
northerly breezes carry the scent of death
marching to the drumbeat of Yankee desire.
Still, I smell your sweet potato pie when I close my eyes;
brief seconds remembering kisses on my cheek
before I’d go to the fields where I’d try
to fill father’s worn out shoes and seek
work to help ease your burden and blistered feet.
And, I hear your prayers, Mother, and I cry
because I know I must die and not cheat
reasons I carry the Rebel flag and cry
the rebel yell to help stem the invading blue tide
from flooding our land and your garden of greens.
I could care less about the “Southern” dream,
or slaves, I just protect my daddy’s bride; my
Mother: Dawn’s final day has winked at me
I see Daddy waving with a tear in his eye
Blood, from your womb, pools at my knees
And I savor the love in the scent of your sweet potato pie.

But, On This Morn (For One Shoot Photography Sunday)

Photograph courtesy of James Rainsford
                                                

It is the odd occasion my face forges a smile
Forgetting granite stone
Above my only child

Not often stringless hearts like mine compose great symphonies
Joyful rhythms of the shore
Melodies from sea

Hardly ever dawn’s warm sun will burn up all my mist
But on this morn in memory's scorn
I venture out and kiss

A scent with lips so soft
Drapes me like a shawl
Makes my soul sprout wings
And fly with gulls aloft

It’s not a dream but real
Grace with warmth adorned
Soaring high in your embrace
A chance to truly heal

Seldom love will open all my dusty window shades
Allow the day to march in
Like a band and play

Rarely clumsy feet so cold can be convinced to dance
But with cymbals crashing loud
Strength leads me to chance

Stubborn shadows whisper a haunting echoed hiss
But on this morn in memory's scorn
I venture out and kiss

A scent with lips so soft
Drapes me like a shawl
Makes my soul sprout wings
And fly with gulls aloft

It’s not a dream but real
Grace with warmth adorned
Soaring high in your embrace
A chance to truly heal

Birthed from rarest moon azure I sit by a new beach
With breezes singing in my ear
I permit my heart to reach

First time in seven years I throw sunglasses off my eyes
I sweep death’s darkness off the grave
Along with Satan’s lies

I know one day I’ll see my son it’s more than just a wish
In Heaven near the throne of gold
I’ll hold him close … and kiss

A scent with lips so soft
Drapes me like a shawl
Makes my soul sprout wings
And fly with gulls aloft

It’s not a dream but real
Grace with warmth adorned
Soaring high in your embrace
A chance to truly heal

But on this morn in memory’s scorn
I venture out and kiss