Each month, write a new collection.
Going to YouI feel summoned by youBut am I summoned to you?;Going to you, I feel as though I'm gaining everything.I"m getting everything,Everything I always wanted.There are times I wonderWhat I'm leaving behind,All that I'm leaving behind.I know there are dreams to come true there.But what about the dreams that are still to come true here?How can I just let go,When I haven't even let go.Leaving dreams and lovers for no reason.At times I find that reason,You,And am filled to elation.Forgive me for ever wondering if these thoughts make the gorgeous statues of my past jealous.I thought I could make them come to lifeAnd breathe as I do, As they could,As they really did in my most beautiful daydreams.But it hurt to return to statues,Over and over againLike idolized DavidsWho kissed only in fantasies.
Great poem. I really love that last part especially!
fascinating use of the statues. love that.
‘78 packed the housedog at our feetcats in the bughooked to the truckOntario to Portlanddidn’t miss CaliforniaI was with mybest friendfell more in lovewith my loverfell in lovewith Oregon‘82 packed the apartmentbug in tow Dad, Mom,Sister, her husbandrescued both of usOregonalwaysin mysoul
this is an abbreviated version of a poem I wrote a few years back.
It's a great poem man. I love that last stanza. I think anyone who's spent any time in Oregon loves it except for Lewis and Clark, who hated it. What did they know anyway?
but Portland didn't have the Blues when Lewis and Clark were there, or Powell's Books.
cool, bluesy poem.
Racing PigeonsThere was a hobby he hadRacing pigeonsMy dad was taking the cratesto a far away placeto start the raceAnd driving to get backbefore the homing pigeonswould returnto clock in the birdsEvery race had a seasonAnd every flock had a championor so you hopedIn this raising there was one birdthat stood out from the restand I got to name it AliAfter Mohammad AliAt the time he was on topof the fighting world this time he was on topof the loft, the first bird backFrom Weed, ORFlying all the wayback to TehachapiThe trip we took to take the flockup to Weed was a long trip and gave us time to talk and get to know each otherThere was the talk of responsibilityBut that talk was a broken recordThere was the talk on politicsand the way voting was separatedfrom the total vote to the delegatewhich went over my head at the timebut I didn't want him to think I was confusedThere was the talk just to talk and keep awakeHe was a good man and I learned a lot of being A man and how you make decisions in lifeWe seemed to endure the trip But it was enjoyable at the same timeEven though we both knew it was longjust to see who had the fastest birdsWe did clock in Ali being back first of oursAfter he came into the loft to eatAli had a rubber band attached to his ankleWith a number on itand you take the band offand put it into the timerand turned the key to stampthe exact time the bird clocked inWe didn't winWe were not even close to winningThe neighbor down the street whomade the same trip with his birds in crates in the back of the truckhad a better timeBut the time to compete and drive your birdsThat time seemed likeit was what the race was aboutI think about him and the difference he made in my life
That's a great memory and a great poem man!
"i didn't want him to think i was confused" = awesome
We're Stranded on the Side of the Road... and it's all your faultsmack!Ow! Stop itNo, you stop itI'm tellingSosmack!Mom!You two better knock it off!Mom, she's touching meNo I'm not, she's stupidYou are!smack!Stop hitting me!I'm not, she's lyingNu-uh, you hit meShut up both of you, or we'll pull over and leave you hereSilence...smack!Mom! That's it!sob...We're lost!It's all your faultNu-uh, you started itHow are we gonna get home?I don't knowsob...50 yards away...How long should we wait, before we go back and get them?
That's a powerful memory! Were your quiet after that?
Ha! For a while...
I could travel with Sal Paradiseon a flatbed out of Cheyenneheaded for Denver in the coldhobo night drinking whiskeyI was once on the road alonetoo hitching rides from Seattle on the way back to California,a dozen rides and as may stories I guess I was my own versionof Dean Moriarty wanting tohead out with nothing behind and everything ahead of meWhen I think of what I left onthe highway in those strangechromed adventures howlingthe raggedy madness of youthI think of Jack and his noveland what America looks likewhen the sun goes down uponanother day of forgotten words
That's a fantastic poem. Send that to the Chiron Review. I had all those same fantasies as a young guy! Still do sometimes.
Some very interesting concepts for travel poetry here.
Yeah really but they're cool!
THE FLAT CIRCLEShe stands thereIn the crypt of a broken novel,Waiting, at the peak of her potential,Personality growing. Learning.With all her life ahead,With all her plans and yearningTorturing her heart.The seed of a half-formed thought taking shape,She prays, unanswered, forsaken.Abandoned.Perfect.
Great poem man. It was a good poem, but that last word really made it!
i was about to delete this one until i added that last word and then I realized why I had written it. It defines the loss I feel for that character who to me is a real person but at this point I realize is unlikely to be born into the general conscious and so in a sense will never have lived because the architecture of the story itself is unmarketable (something you warned me about long ago when you read the first section). But yeah the rest of the poem would need work to get it to where it needs to be. I feel very unsure of myself in revising poetry btw. It feels like handling something fragile and I'm afraid to break what's right about it. It sure is different from editing a novel. At least it feels different to me.
I think it is different. The shortness of a poem is often a gift. You can break rules and mess things up and there's still power and beauty in a way that doesn't work with fiction. I always keep the drafts for that very reason.
Also it seems like often the power of a poem is in the ecstasy of that first read which depends on a subtle balance of words or rhythm which can be easily lost with edits. You can no longer re-experience it for the first time to see how it compares to the experience of the first read after you adjust it. Leaves you in a wierd situation of losing the ability to evaluate the edit. It's sort of like when I used to smoke. That first puff is always the best.
i like how short it is too.
This beach was magic and then it wasn’t She and I— we lost something and that process of disappearanceGot documented in my car trips to this strip.You — who have lost your house, your husband, your dogAnd even the keys of your broken computer — you get this. We sit and watch The waves and you offer me a joint and sympathy. You don’t try toMake it right. It isn’t. It can’t be. That trite tragedy of how youCan’t make someone love you rolls over me as the waves beat backThe sand. We sit and smoke it down. You are broke. I am bereft.The water works its way back and forth. We inhale the last of the hitThe bitter smoke that never gets completely exhaled.
I love this: "That trite tragedy of how youCan’t make someone love you rolls over me as the waves beat backThe sand. We sit and smoke it down"It is trite, and it is a tragedy. Nice.
The Ride Home from TownI curl like a cat into the warm basin behind the passenger seat listening to the low roar of the road belowthe ding of tires hitting gravelrocks pinging against the chassis. My parents’ voices form the melody to the road sounds’ bass line as we move along the night roads. I feel us sway toward home and try to read every turn after the railroad tracks’ bumps – this is where we leave the town, this is where that big tree stands, this is where the big kids wait for the bus, this is where the road changes from smooth black to bumpy gray, this is the dog running out to greet us and we’re home.TM