Monday, April 30, 2007

a cluesless Sister Leo

from The Fatman In The Mirror (c) 1997 - Pygmy Forest Press (Leonard Cirino, editor) comes todays poem .... one i wrote after reading Paul Zimmer ... he is a wonderful poet, well worth your time in discovering. This and next update will be from published books. Then, as i mentioned in an earlier post, i will go into some poems published only in small press magazines, before getting back to unsolicitied and unpublished stuff again .... anyway - such is the plan ....


even Sister Leo had no idea how dismal
her dreams of salvation appeared
to the sinners of the world -
we who had come to know tobacco & sex.

she danced, rather poorly, on thin clouds
with angels that appeared to be moths,
rosary in her stubby fingers,
as if a rip chord.

we laughed at her sincerity, almost envious, as we danced in the haze
of warm kisses
& the ambiguous promise of night.

Sunday, April 29, 2007

indentations rather than centering

and yet, another completely unsolicited, unedited & unpublished poem, written between 1987-1989. again, some formatting issues - so i've done the best i could within the confines of this blog, by centering what is normally indented. Oh well. i am certain there are greater problems in the world to worry about ....


of perfect diamonds enlayed
in 14k gold
mean nothing ... really
They are symbols
easily discarded
temptations always evident

i have layed my love
the essence of photons
in the wave length of rainbows
and x-rays that penetrate your soul
what are you
weeping for tonight

we each wear the thorny crown of loneliness weeping in our own misery unable to see the obvious alternative

Monday, April 23, 2007

unsolicited, unedited, unpublished

another completely unsolicited, unedited & unpublished poem, written between 1987-1989.
probably no updates for the rest of this week, unless i get an amazingly (and unexpected) easy day at work ... not bloody likely.


Cats that dance
that leap (for the simple enjoyment
of flight) and cry when no one
holds them as thunder rattles
the proverbial tin roof
Cats that smile
with their eyes that
dance (for the sheer
joy) and cry when no one
caresses their beauty ....
..... cats, yes,
they are in your eyes
in your heart
dancing as they do ....

Sunday, April 22, 2007

strike one, strike two? and there she goes, another update

another from Humbly, I Offer These Awkward Poems - unpublished manuscript (but it was accepted ... oh yeah, i think i mentioned that once before .... so much for that. can't change the histories.) Anyway, it's baseball season, and well, this one has a reference to a baseball god (Joltin' Joe hisself!!) ... well, baseball is my favorite sport ... and we're still working without a contract at the papermill. all sorts of comparisons to the 2001 season, and the strike that changed my universe ....


the three dogs of summer (Sloth,
Lust & a freshly mowed Outfield)
insist DiMaggio is not dead
& Ezra Pound still writes Cantos they will
never understand but continue reading.

there are snakes in the hour glass again
& all the prophecies they tell are lies.

the mirror becomes a doorway.
i still cannot time curve balls
& Ezra does not respond to dinner invitations.
the three dogs of summer remind me
of the wind through platinum hair.

the snakes have comet eyes
& i am afraid
all their prophecies have come to pass.

Friday, April 20, 2007

an outline for future updates

another of my prose poems ... this one has never been solicited (and hey, that means it hasn't been rejected yet either. ha!) in the updates to come, i will be sharing more of these "new" poems, except, they are anywhere from 10-20 years old. i've just never tried to solicit them, or have shown them to anyone. i will most likely mix in some poems from failed manuscripts, and some of the poems published in my books. i also ran across some poems that have been published in small press 'zines, but never included in any manuscripts. i will include some of those at a future time as well. anyway - some of the things that are in the works for future updates.


you take my hand. it is an insignificant event, as the rain falls. the wind misquotes the branches of trees.

i look in your eyes. the world is unchanged as the river dreams of being the perfect mirror, but settles on being the finger of gods who have forgotten what the ocean looks like.

you whisper. the words are unimportant. i hear the sound of rocks growing old, even if unnoticed, unappreciated.

i answer with my fingers. night is the sound of dreams given wings for the first time. tomorrow is a promise i have never accepted. tonight is all i ever understood.

Monday, April 16, 2007

another montage poem, from an unpublished manuscript ...

this is another montage poem ... older posts are no longer showing up on the main page - i guess i've been adding often enough to have a real ARCHIVE!! Whooo-hoo! You can always click on the BLOG ARCHIVE button on the right side of the screen to read these earlier posts. You can leave comments, or email, and i guess you can do the hokey-pokey, if you wanted to ...

todays poem is from an unpublished manuscript - Night Of Hobo Dreams, but it was once in Humbly, ... as well (but hey, that's unpublished too) ... so who knows ... guess the bottom line is, it's unpublished, but one i feel belongs in a collection someday or another ....

-concept from Brenda Fleet
-after William Doreski

she wrote: i am essentially a romantic:
in love with flowers, pastel paints
& the flesh.

i adore wetness - the fog, mist
off the surf, rain or (if you must know)
the way water rolls off my breasts
in the shower.

it is understood i am no longer
a spring flower, rather a garden
that has been untended too long.
if there are dreams in your fingers,
if there is rain in your laughter -
i wait to grow old & romantic together.

he answered: i am essentially the rain,
falling straight down, cold - hard -
a January rain that no one enjoys, believing
eventually in the dark ocean.

but, yes, i do have dreams -
rusted & bent slightly out of shape.

there are few things i love
more than the smell of morning in autumn:
dew on lawns in need of mowing,
sunlight changing from one undefined color
to the next, half sounds that echo in memories -
all before the alarm clock of Mr. Wonderful Neighbor rings
with the odor of his dandruff shampoo
& his French Vanilla Coffee
& that damned diesel truck of his that needs to be warmed up.

for those who believe growing old is romantic
i send them swollen knees & arthritic fingers
that bend the wrong way, much as sunflowers
after the sun has gone down.

i send them old books of poetry
that no one has bothered to read.

perhaps, it is obvious it is not the romantic
i seek, but the romance.
i do shave in the mornings,
mostly because i find stubble annoying.

she responded:
rust is a sign of neglect. maybe what you need
is not a matron, but a mechanic.

water is the source of life. i would never
allow it to be a curse in my life.
while i would agree to send you poetical references
i do not believe you will ever encounter
the ghost of Walt Whitman (the body electric),
not as long as you allow your heart
to dwell in self created cancer wards.

there are red roses in my garden, not one blue one.
they are a symbol of my passion.
the twisted sunflowers you speak of ...
perhaps you are in need of planting new seeds.

Sunday, April 15, 2007

hey look, it's a new post, but it's an OLD poem

Hey, look, it's a new post, but an old poem. this poem is unpublished, unaccepted. in fact, it was solicited a couple of times and met with that ever proverbial rejection letter. Oh well, it holds a bit of special memories for me, so here it is for your observation ... don't know if the formatting on the original will come through on this blogger thing ... it sort of did, but not exactly. good enough though, i guess.


i ran my hands through her hair as if the wind
& when she reached to hold me
i was merely the moaning
through twisted pine

bones of the baleen upon the beach
tourists taking photographs
not even knowing
treasures stood upon igneous rock
just out of their focus
her long hair in the fog
as if an apparition

Saturday, April 14, 2007

where ya been, mister?

Sorry for the lack of posts lately. haven't dropped off the face of the planet, not just yet anyway ...
and haven't forgotten the blog, just been busy with other minor things, such as overtime at work, and most of it on night shift, so haven't gotten around to adding anything to this. This afternoon, i not only prepared this update, but also worked on a couple of other things to add in the near future.

i do read ALL the comments, even if i don't respond to them. If you want me to respond (or correspond) leave your email address - or email me - the addy is in my profile.

Here is another poem from the Humbly, I Offer These Awkward Poems - an unpublished collection. Actually it was to be the last poem in the collection, at least in the last edited version i had worked on.


i do not think Nostradamus
predicted the world would end
quite like this -
Thursday afternoon
with rain
turning to sleet
just before the 4:30 traffic jam
on Belt Line West.

perhaps he knew
beautiful women with intellect
would remain untouched
except by magnificent poets
admired by too few critics.

i doubt
he believed the Devil of the East
was the offspring of Union Officials
& their followers
were to perish carrying coffins
of false promises
spoken without apologies.