a REAL snow day

a poem from Jan 93.

just a quick update, so the world will know i haven't dropped off the face of the planet. well, i sort of have .. at least metaphorically ... dropped into the abyss called overtime and lack of sleep. more of it starting tomorrow. in fact, i get to go to work twice! ain't i lucky, ZR?

and today is a real snow day ... about 6 inches fell this morning. this olde town ain't used to the white falling stuff, and is at a stand-still. Emergency snow measures are now in effect, no cars allowed to be parked on certain streets, that's to allow emergency vehicles and road clean-up, and oh yes, the buses access. Anyway, it's certainly is a slippery mess with more of the same for tomorrow. the weather gods finally got it right, said rather sarcastically.

well, that's the news today. again, it'll be a few days ( a week most likely) before i get back into the blog world, as the overtime hath been scheduled and that is as close to being etched in the stone of Moses as you can get.



FOR SUE

1
gulls dance in the salty gales of january
their laughter is pure & simple
their elegance obvious to the trained eye

in the ever fog of uncertainty
beams the magic of your smile
i believe it is a beacon with a purpose
even if i cannot decipher it

2
poems are like dreams
i sail as multi-colored kites
in the winds of disenchantment

reject poems are like smiles
that fail to bring joy
it does not mean they are not magical
it means only they are unaccepted

3
i stand a statesmen
guts over glory
& the ability to harbor dreams

brown & dirty gulls are my poems
i would like to believe
someone smiles in their approval
at such strange convictions

singing in the rain

this poem is from Oct. 92, a highly prolific time for me - often 3 or 4 poems a day, not that many survived editing. Ah, the good ole days!



WE SANG

we sang - in dark thickets - songs of our youth
under an unknowing sky
beneath dying mountains that didnt even know it
- songs of our youth:
full of bravado and dreams -
dreams as frail as morning frost on picket fences trying to stop the wind
dreams as far away as stars

we were alive, no skeletons in our closets to slow us down
no miracles seething in our pockets for explanations
we were the essence of wind:
over the rocks, or through them if necessary, caressing the mountain
even as it crumbled, brushing our hearts, but never really noticing
until later:
much later

we were eagles, or at least hawks
knowing the skies were merely avenues

& somewhere, i cannot be certain if it was a thursday morning
or tuesday night, the dreams turned into nightmares
& curses became reality - curses of forgetfulness:

the skies became miracles waiting discovery
& the mountain was no longer old
it was dead.

a rhyming poem (has this been posted already?)

Today's poem is from late Oct 92.

Today i was also given an invitation to participate in the new Max-Rex created blog "Madness Is".  i humbly accepted and will attempt to add something later this afternoon, though i suspect my additions will be few and far between. (A link to that blog  and some other poetry related things is on the right side of this post, in of all things, the LINKS section. )

still have a couple of days off before heading back to night shift, and some wonderful overtime.
i doubt there will be any updates when i hit the overtime. 
if this blog is silent for a week or more, have no fears, i am just in the "zombie" 
cycle as we call it here. i will attempt to make at least one more update before then, but no promises. Sometimes life just gets in the way of creativity, as i am certain you've noticed in
your personal affairs from time to time...

also, worked on a few older poems this morning (98 & 95 era) - they are just waiting to be added down the line. so, unless i totally lose interest, or life hands me one of those hands where doom & damnatioin are my only options, looks like i'll keep this up and running for a while.

I WISHED I WERE JESUS

i wished i were jesus walking on the sea of galilee
with 13 ignorant disciples following me
right into damnation

always rain on the horizon
stirring the troubled waters

i wished i were armstrong aboard the lunar eagle
or at least darwin on the deck of the beagle
waiting to discover truth

always storms in the offing
distorting the troubled waters

i wished i were caesar before the rubicon
meditating the significance before a spectacular dawn
ready to shed the gowns of innocence

a short prose poem

from 1-93 - another prose poem. sort of fitting for the weather we've been having here in the Pacific Northwest lately.

not much going on here today.  i'm on a few days off, before more ovetime on the night shift. that needs no more comment than that.




SONG OF THE DEAD

nothing in the ice & snow but cold. no one visits these frozen outposts but the doctors of lunacy & adventurers seeking free shelter. & we think of ourselves as ancient gods waiting for admiration, when we are in fact nothing more than relics of an age that no longer exists. we are ghosts, shadows upon the tundra no one sees, lost to brilliance of northern lights.

another work related poem

last poem written in Dec. 92. Just a reminder to myself, don't forget to get back to the papermill in the morning .......




WEYCO POEM FOR DENNY LONG

1
a light frost clings to broken beams
that were once sites of steady employment

i watch two shabby crows pick at the rotted timbers
believing yet in the american dream
wondering if it is fate or effort
that speaks the distinct language of success

gaze for a moment into uncertain skies
& then turn around to the sound of the paper making machines
questioning how long these can continue
to produce magic

2
the sound of the river
adorned by a blue heron
the whisper of thickets
housing night creatures
the jingle of loose change
in a once empty pocket
the laughter of comrades
in a world struggling for the ideal
the ability to pursue dreams

3
gospels are written in eyes & hands
are spoken with action

we celebrate in union
(sometimes less than holy)
an attainment
of common dreams
(in theory at least)

set goals that require
the best we can offer
until the plug is pulled
by someone who has never
soiled his hands
from tanks of overflowed pulp