Some Sort of Love
Some sort of love with a
camera and lens- Ugly is
interesting and interesting
is beautiful
Produce something all
yours to put out in the
world as a freshly shared
experience
Protected at first from
light in a dark plastic
box the project waits for
perfect moments
Children playing, lovers
holding hands, beautiful
people and beautiful things
worth remembering
Never fed grime but kept
clean until the filth has
saturated and turned
to art
Darkness and meaning wait
as the impurities are then
rinsed away for a long,
cleansing bath
Then to develop into
some sort of love
on a 5 x 7 sheet
of photo paper
(11/27/05)
Modern Medicine
If happiness could be discovered
in that hole in the wall where
even non-believers are stunted
by magic,
if lasting health could just be turned
on with the flick of a switch when
modern medicine isn’t enough to give
some control to its patient,
and life closed to a cover of
glitter and diamonds we would look
at our bedrooms from all angles and be
very thorough spring cleaners.
(From “The Modern Way” 11/23/05
rev. 2/11/09)
No Sense of Time to Dwell On
Watching my feet come up as I
fly through the air, I notice the playful
squeals in the background blur and it's
just you and me in our dirty soccer
uniforms with muddy cleats and scraped
knees and your father is
clapping for you with lessons for
you on how to fly higher and lessons
for me on how to be a kid for a while so
I own the wind as I pump until the world
is reduced to one box of tanbark, untied
shoelaces and no sense of time to dwell on.
(org. 11/23/05 rev. 2/11/09)
fly through the air, I notice the playful
squeals in the background blur and it's
just you and me in our dirty soccer
uniforms with muddy cleats and scraped
knees and your father is
clapping for you with lessons for
you on how to fly higher and lessons
for me on how to be a kid for a while so
I own the wind as I pump until the world
is reduced to one box of tanbark, untied
shoelaces and no sense of time to dwell on.
(org. 11/23/05 rev. 2/11/09)
She Waits
With knees tucked in
tight from the curb, wide eyes
eye as the cars keep
brushing by.
A woman with a bushy hairdo
and too much makeup comes
to lead inside that poor little
girl she could not recognize.
Into the evening the child
waits- calling a dial tone for
a mother, a father,
a loving embrace.
(org. 11/23/05 rev. 2/11/09)
Ting-A-Ling
Rain's becoming to my face, the
misty winds: a cold embrace.
Faeries ting-a-ling little bells on
the toes of little stockings. The
noise's too soft to be heard. Frost
spreads over the ivy. Ting-a-ling!
Trees dance barefoot
under piles of leaves. A
small, white paw tosses the
decayed leaves away for the toy that
would be favored anywhere. Seasons
changing. Ting-a-linging.
Rain's becoming to my face, the
misty winds: a cold embrace.
Ting-a-ling! Sprinkles of sparkles step
up to the crossing, racing frosting
forests from this juncture all the way
up to the hills.
(org. 11/12/05 rev. 2/11/09)
Reality
You lose the feeling, ever so
often of some driving force which
compels you to ride off road, but they
say the only sure path to happiness is
to let go of the blinding focus because
a tight grip on reality always leaves
imaginary friends unsatisfied.
Mr. Moon follows your stare through
the car window until you're drawn out of
your new sandals,
and maybe the quickest way across
the sound can’t be a free stroke, but your
Great-Grandparents wonder what all that
rush was about in their youth.
(From 10/1/05 "Imaginary Reality" rev. 2/11/09)
Enclosed
These broken blinds won’t shut all the way.
Yellow streetlights bounce their glow
off the browning leaves
onto the wet concrete. Through
the crack of naked glass are
deserted children’s toys, a lush lawn, and
a bird’s nest balanced bravely on a branch.
Every fresh drop of dew can be seen
sparkling so clean, and clear, and
crisp out in the air. Inside
the room is unruffled, but stuffy.
Comfortable, but way too safe,
Full of technology, scented candles, the
common cold, a stiff neck, and an
overflowing trashcan.
To live in a world of deep breathing, to
stretch out in the cool grass, to run in
the wind; it must be nice.
(org. 9/27/05 rev. 2/11/09)
When We Get There
You stand on my doorstep one day
Sun kissed glow
No idea of what
lies ahead as we both stare
awkwardly smiling
Come in while I get my things
We've no command of
this path
But there must be
something
better waiting for us
when we get there
(8-31-05)
Company
I forgot such a functional family existed:
Immature kids and parents alike. The gangly
daughter gripes at her little brother as we
pass many signs, across a dry freeway-
caking piles of dirt crumble to dust as
the wheels turn over the covered
pavement and I point out an Arizona
license plate four cars up, stealing the
lead with 400 points and I surrender my
battle against the sun on my knees as the
daughter gives up on her pointless fit and
rests her head on her shoulder while she
reaches for the bag of chips in the back
seat and lips form the word “noun” as
the older sister writes something out
of our view so as not to spoil the story.
The young boy has fallen asleep in the
back of their trash-filled station wagon
with his face covered in crumbs and
the hint of a smile as a cracked window
up front whistles, bidding speedy winds
fly in to make a stressed mother’s ponytail
even less structured with her dark hairs
whipping around unmasking streaks of gray,
once veiled and an aroma of green
apples greets us as the sun through the
window, not tinted, borrows a square of
pink on a fair-skinned leg, which could
only belong to me and even the food wrappers
and empty Capri-Sun bags seem to bask in
the warmth and the car purrs steadily
with the sleeping child’s breath.
(org. 7/29/05 rev. 10/9/08)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)