Month: July 2008

I Have Died for the First Time

poetry

“I think of you as a brother,” SHE says

The words-like a spell-unlocked FEAR

Which attacked my heart relentlessly

To the point where I have now died my first death

*

I am dead inside

My heart bleeds profusely til the blood is no more

MY FEAR has taken solid form

And now exists to torture me

*

“I think of you not as a sister,

But something much more than that,”

I wish to say, but

My heart’s voice is being strangled

*

Did I speak far too soon?

Or did I speak far too late?

Did I release myself too quickly

Resulting in not relief, but the emptiness I feel now?

*

The Hurricane of Tragedy has broken

The Levees of my heart

Which suppressed my innermost emotions

Now the light which should guide me

To safe ground, has been Relinquished

And through the dark I must move alone

quality poetry? for the first time in weeks

poetry

rime:
fabled lake of western lore
blue, green moss of sandy shore
joy and smiles none the more
laughing at my face of bore

hike you:
loss came to me once
with blackened raven – ed poe
he stabbed it dead

limb er… rick:
although i never kicked him down
along the river did he frown
by brook and stream of moon so bright
bore he my burden in pants so tight
and smiled as he ran aground

cup lit:
epics are oft too long
to ever be made into song

tripe lit:
carp on log
and cooked with frog
smells like bog

and fine all lee:
on discovering chuck norris could whoop my ass
i discerned my calling was not to ask
him if he could or not.

The disunity of 3

poetry

creature born out of spite
contemptuous flesh of mud
How long before the garish sun
turns you to dust?
How long before the teary sky
washes you out?

contemplate him not,
Heed not his shrill cries,
abomination is upon him.

creature born out of grace
luminescent piece of heaven
The jealous moon turns pale at
the sight of you.
The wind weeps in awe at the
touch of you.

Revere him,
seek his warm soothing embrace,
God is on his side.

creature born out of a random drop
innocuous crack on the surface
Puppet in the circus of life
Pauper on the floor of the world

Trample him not,
feed not his ravenous sorrow,
time will spit him out.

I shy away from …

poetry

There exist
stares, glances
which break silences
or spoil mornings
when she seeks a soft word, a loving word
at the foot of the bed
where only used slippers should lie adrift,
out of choice.
She said she dreamt a hope and hoped a dream
where I could be her protector.
I grimaced a smile while shamefully wishing
her to fade somewhere beneath the pillow or the carpet.
I can’t even snore in peace anymore!
She is always on the lookout
for a slip up, but
I was a faux pas from the first day we met
She mistook my drunken cheerfulness for a pleasant personality
She even thought me a sweet thing or maybe a sure thing
These days, she just pokes, pinches me at the crack of dawn
hoping to catch and squeeze my vulnerable self before the sourness kicks in.
In my long short life I’ve never been big on refunds or exchanges
once something is in my hands,
no matter how chipped, dysfunctional or useless,
I still keep it.
But that painful light
so heavy under her eyes
she calls it love; and I want it away.
I want to bring her back to that street, to that time
where her smile was full and her eyes less needy and sad
I could bathe in chocolate and strawberry creme
but I would never be the satiating treat she craves;
all I can do is give her up.

keyboard!!! the new and improved pen of the future

poetry

They say that the pen is mightier than the sword
and while that may be true
it is unfortunate that no one uses pens anymore
at least not for any important business,
except for signing documents, created on a keyboard.

So I’ll interchange the words,
pithily creating a new truth, saying
the keyboard is mightier than the sword,
albeit much less sexy and less like a sword,
for have you ever tried to stab someone with a keyboard?

hymn

poetry

the darkness of my blackened soul
what fear of love
and shame of loss
that i should forth my self its lame
but wallow in this earthen fame

you grace my heart rejoice my weakness
given my pride
and forthright guile
if i should seek myself once more
you should turn your face and me abhor

oh life of loss
so filled my fears
that i called out in shame and tears
to know my life a passing shame
to know your son for me he came

Why I should (but inevitably won’t) teach the poetry of the sieve and the sand

poetry

Beginning tomorrow,
for a limited time only
I will for the first time ever
teach two groups of students about
poetry.
And while I write a poem
nearly every day I do not feel
that i know the first thing about
poetry.
Except that it sounds good
when rc creates beautiful phrasing
when roger plays with words’ meanings
when ned tells poetic stories
when freaky challenges expectations
when tucker speaks from his heart
when josh creates vivid images
when tim stops slacking.
Thus I look to the sand and the sieve
for most of what I know and like about
poetry.

The man in black

poetry

The man in black walked along the highway
swinging his black cane with each step,
not for stability but for style,
searching for what had not yet been found
along busy highways, possessing only
haste, pollution, and trash,
feeling the hot sun furiously
beating down on his black, leather jacket.

here’s to you mr. and mrs. r.c. ribay

poetry

seems like only yesteryear
you wandered on to a field
of tall uncut green
to join us in a game
while wearing your fatigues
thrilled you had fulfilled
your calling to the ROTsomething or other
and hoping for a future

music and poetry
made you dream of
leading young pupils
to find the truths you were taught
did not exist

but you dreamed big and up you went
in status and down you went
in location
from mountains to crime
you found your home

and in teetering on the edge
of destruction found something better
perhaps even smarter
(spit out of harvard afterall)

but i still remember
you asking if i had seen the turtle
you found by the lake
and thinking you vulgar

but friendly
as we toured the scum of the earth
and dreamed of better times
you no doubt
have found.

Emotional Revelation

poetry

Lying awake at night

I ponder another’s words

Filled with strength and meaning

Two-plane reminder of my love and opener of my eyes

“Try to say goodbye and I choke,

Try to walk away and I stumble,

Though I try to hide it, it’s clear

My heart grumbles when you are not there”

Sung by one of my Mom’s favorite’s

Now these words speak to me,

As they traverse through my mind

Like the current of rushing rivers

Gathering from the deepest crevasses

Beautiful memories, purifying them

And carrying them to the surface

Where I now have attained a new level of sight

Sight through an opaque film

Made from the very substance it later shall shield from

Which should clear my vision of sorrow

P.S. That was a quote by Macy Gray from her song “I Try”

En Passant

poetry

In Passing

Me or Her or Both or All?

Do I pass through changes

As She passes from Life to Death?

Or does She pass through and through My mind

As I did pass through Hers in Life?

How many paths for passing do cross in this present time?

Can I hope I’m with Her now?

12 Jul 08

poetry

was it the night
we sat on steps avoiding
others so we could speak secrets and dreams until 4am?

or was it the time
we walked in the park in
autumn sat on a bench beneath
the night acutely aware of our hands and the distance between them?

or was it that Thursday
the first time my lips fell into yours
in the background the treading percussion of Explosions in the Sky?

or was it that Sunday
at circle of hope when I calculated the exact pressure
of your hand on mine to equal the love of God and kept it to myself?

was it in old city
beneath the din of eighties hip hop
when I told my friends I would marry you someday?

was it in spanish
stumbling mispronunciations and incorrect accents
in an attempt better know those who mean the world to you?

was it in harvard yard
dressed as wizards wandering and wondering
where we could find the best butter beer in cambridge?

or was it the summer
we spent unemployed reading and mastering
the NY times crossword puzzle then emerged, merged adjusting our eyes to autumn?

or was it that night
in central PA when you showed me how
to cup both hands to carefully catch these drifting constellations?

I cannot say exactly
when
only
somewhere
between my hands and yours
between sunset and sunrise
between the top and bottom step
between the mountains and the atlantic
between jersey and philly
between te amo and mahal kita
between the upbeat and downbeat
between the first and last page of this notebook
between one thousand and one days ago and today

I fell in love with you.

and even to partially properly articulate this
it will take my entire life
an infinite number of pages
and perfectly placed kisses
(which is part of my plan)

but something tells me
nothing will match
the simple eloquence
of your hand
in mine
some evening
fifty summers from tonight.

GOD’S playing field

poetry

imagine GOD
floating above
HIS playing field
manipulating every
piece and creating
incidents and accidents
all at once
the greatest creator
the greatest craftsmen
HE is flying high above us
looking down upon his model earth
but does HE, GOD have regrets
to some of his creations
and the manners of how they act
and the way they destroy
and the way they hate
and the way they corrupt
when are the coals of GOD’S fire pit
going to heat up and be ready to
torch this model and start anew
on city where GOD exists
to tell HIS tales to the people
who believe in HIS plan
and are blessed with eternal life with HIM…

The Vanity of Fancy Food

poetry

I watch a lot of foodnetwork
a channel that often emphasizes
the presentation and beauty of food
however, today the epiphany struck hard
that no matter how good a piece of food looks
the next day inevitably it looks the same
dirtying the waters of my toilet bowl
floating/sinking     liquid/solid
black, filthy, wretched poo