Sunday, October 29, 2017

The Far Horizon, or the Photogenic Generation

Here's one I worked on and am still at. No guarantees.

The Far Horizon, or a Photogenic Defenestration
When was the building raised?
Who taught us the lie and promise of a profit?
I only remember the gracious living of a yesterday on the sea,
The 38th parallel at a sweeping fifty-foot height above O…

Ours was the salmon pink, squat home, with a small
herb garden to the side, a patio out back looking to the mountains,
and on the porch, a lemon tree and table.
The Sea stretching to the southwest-
No sun or stars; only the waves, the wind and the forgotten beginnings
and pits from rotten fruit.

The smell, heavy and grating
as only industrial sound in recent memory
is dropped like a piano from above.
The rocket is my only inheritance,
my only table on which to create any broad stroke and lasting impression-
this fear is Olympic-sized and as deep as a well-
an extended stay, a frequent flyer,
posi-traction for the paralytic soul.
So now, as youve already disposed of the label and wrapper and receipt,

we wait for the darkened show to begin.

It's sort of an perturbed feeling;
low-down and resonant, like the rumble of low-flying B-52s.
...Only much deeper.
An emotion raised in water and brought down from high snow-
it's still good, walks long and far and remains deeply aligned toward the future, 
but perhaps not-
because food for thought isn't always food for the soul, 
and vice versa.

Sunday, October 8, 2017

A Deep Cup- it's a poem...

A Deep Cup

Every breath is an act of defiance,
and each thought an undertaking of reclamation
because your words weave through,
like Kevlar and super-strength cordura strands
bolstering moth-eaten wool and well worn, faded
canvas duck to itself anew,
keeping life and body from a brink too often
imagined in this twilight between day and night

When sawdust comes off as dust, it’s not good
and each wee blade needs be sharpened
so that formerly diaphanous and gravity-defiant comes off as
shavings, chips, and leaves lungs and eyes
to their normal business
and logs cut like butter, or at least like thick crusted bread-
then work goes well, back don’t twist and strain,
and I think, “Is that all it takes?”

So your voice remains through it all,
with offered thanks, praise, science, and laughter,
Like divine hope or stew or some blended dessert wine
from a deep cup of your own make
and under a sky of violet blue, yellows, and cherry blossom pinks
I know well and good from these twilight skies
as portent and joy or, sometimes,
the loss of will in the face of inevitable darkness
and the eternal views away from our sun-

but really, you always make it good again, so we’ll sleep well tonight.