Poems

Nice People

People seem so nice. Perhaps

The crazy ones may be.

But what's beneath the surface of the others?

Tearing off the masks -

Kicking over rocks -

It isn't just the indigent

Who sabotage all love.

8-2-13

Real Freedom

Because I want to, not because I must.

This is love. A freedom

Yankee patriots and Christians

Never knew existed,

Never will. They'll only die.

Their jingoistic gibberish,

The stickers on their cars

Promising perdition to

The ones who disagree,

Voting for Republicans,

And thinking they are rich.

They love the things Republicans hold dear.

8-1-13

 

Ode To Age Spots

An ode to age spots.

That's a song

An unsuccessful poet

Getting old and at it still

Would think was inspiration.

Wry and droll, insightful chuckle

For posterity.

In the know, resigned and cute

Amusement for his wife,

And in the local paper

Like so many poems before.

This is fame, limited,

And no longevity.

What have I that's better?

I don't want such local fame.

7-31-12

 

Plans

I can plan, control, all in

A modicum of safety,

Relying that I shall not be

Disrupted or disturbed,

Waylaid and driven from my sole intention.

I shall write some poems,

Drink some coffee, pay, go home

And type them,

But I think they never will be published.

Written underneath a rock

And hidden by a bush,

While others write of Brooklyn,

Ugliness and rap,

Covered with tattoos and guns and

Deathless Jesus Christ.

Jupiter and Zeus. How long

Did they control the earth?

7-31-13

Mother's Praise

Sweet mother with her belts and sticks

Was absolutely right.

Although you weren't intending to give praise.

How do I know? You never did.

Except with mockery.

I have gotten better. Now

My poesy is good.

Little gems throughout the years.

And now I've struck a vein.

A hundred veins. For several years.

She said, “You're getting better.”
An inspiration mother didn't give.

Like breaking loose from ropes that tied

A fagot in the sun.

But Christians wouldn't care.

The fagot died.

7-31-13

 

Waking Up

Waking up! Waking up

Is my inspiration.

The poems come profusely with an edge.

Through a fog of bleary eyes,

A milky cup of coffee,

In a booth at Denny's, I

Like Dickinson imagine,

Never stepping out of my demesne.

The world? I do not know the world

Or anybody in it.

Cats are easier to understand.

No bigotry or wars. They fight,

Then fall asleep together,

An inch apart,

As though they never fought.

A plethora of riddles pouring

Out of my cerebrum.

That's an concept.

What's inside my brain?

7-31-13

 

Worlds

Keats was a musician. I'm a painter.

Music flows from phrases. And a

Couple strokes, I'm done.

I never thought I'd know when I was good.

I'm 66. But I've been good before,

In spasms mixed with garbage

Over 57 years.

Keats was dead at 24.

But I am still alive.

Not born in 1820. Stranded

In no world at all.

8-1-13

Imagination

Instinct! Intuition!

They reveal the soul.

Why Man? Not life. The universe.

The distant cave of god.

Imagination knows

Where otherwise there's only words.

Only pictures then?

Sensation is the art.

Whence this poesy? Sweet Jesus!

Fiction for a thousand years.

Two. The earth is crawling in its tomb.

There is more to life,

As Shakespeare said, than what we dream.

That was Hamlet.

Shakespeare didn't say it.

Tattoos, wrinkles, age, senility.

Death's a rock. The sea, the sea

Ought to be forever.

7-31-13