Tuesday, September 29, 2009


I heard a song today about leaving
and a friend read a poem about the road
where the wind insistently repeats
gusts of approval to the grey clouds.
It’s 50 * but it looks like snow.
The leaves are still green and
refuse to submit, so the wind
claims the dead branches,
the birds nests, and the rummage sale signs.
It isn’t even noon
I’m ready for bed.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Black holes never cry.
A stone was a rock
when it was young.
Arrows of love from
the Gods of war, away!
Away! Away to the space
between mine eyes and
save me from
lisping Shakespeares.
I was joking with my friend the other day
‘bout smoking stale tea, how tea was a name
for pot ‘way back, beatniks drinking wine and smoking’ tea.
Giving Bourbon as a cure for cowlick, whining,
or to counteract a sugar buzz; this is okay.
But joke about smoking’ a little Gange, some Buddha,
or Humboldt County homegrown and Holy Shit!
Smack me upside the head with a fry pan!
Didn’t matter her and I burned one together.
Ain’t my fault her father called and ruined her buzz.
I guess respectability will do that to ya.
And me, old reprobate, part hippy and part biker,
part stoned seer/prophet/poet
still willing to let my freak flag fly.
Starting to write poetry wasn’t
the best idea I’ve ever had.
It all seemed so innocent.
A limerick or two, a lousy ballad,
love poems so bad they hurt.
That is all it was ever meant to be.
I would have been happy with that.
Then the poetry turned into songs,
each one filled with its own music.
The words became Shamans, holding
mysteries, and the answers to mysteries.
Suddenly, it seems, I am become a midwife
trying at the least to not drop a poem on its head,
at most hold it up to the sun and announce
“ Here is another.”