another from Nov. 92 - the 92-95 era was one of my most prolific times. This poem expresses the way a lot of people seem to be feeling at work - as well as life in general.
No news from the reported sale of Weyco containerboard …. Things seem to be pretty much the same as before the announcement. Lots of concern, lots of uncertainty and simply nothing that resembles facts. Both Weyco and our dear loving union plan seminars on the retirement issues before the sale is finalized. As of yet, no dates for those seminars has been set.
The cold seems to be fading, slowly. Still have a lingering cough, but it is less frequent and less hostile than the past week or so. The chances of survival seem to be extremely high at the moment.
THE ANGRY WEAR MANY MASKS
the angry wear many masks, each of broken hearts & dreams as vague as miracles.
dying is no easy task. but the dead are boring & become accustomed to it.
the angry smile through clenched smiles. curse with laughter.
& saints be beautiful - even if invisible. they radiate as a comets across desert skies.
the angry stare with stone eyes. hearts of iron, warped & disenchanted. they are flowers never to bloom & are walked upon in irreverence.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Sunday, March 23, 2008
no rumors, just some bitterness
another poem from nov. 92. the uncertainty and to be honest, bitterness at the current dealings of the Rogel led Weyco - it seems rather in tune to my feelings at the moment. Of course, i am not privy to the wonders (and dollars) of how big business deals with profit margins ... only how it affects the lower tear levels of mankind - ie the workers.
we really know nothing new about the sale situation. IP has gathered enough funding from 5 world banks, and US government approval (IP would become the leading paper manufacturer in the US) is easily expected. If they will keep our mill running, or if they will sell us, or shut us down in favor of other mills is one of the great unknowns. Another of the unknowns is how any of this will affect retirements. After all, i'm only 6- to more likely 8 years from that magic time .... more as it unfolds, but i really expect no REAL news or updates to be clear until about the time the sale becomes final - which is expected to be in the 3rd quarter (June to August time frame).
now, onto the real purpose of this blog ... the poetry.
NO ONE DANCING ON MY GRAVE
no one dancing on my grave. i tells you. ashes
in a daisy scented wind.
i admire the laughter of stone. pristine women
passing. not a miracle to be savoured
as i lay in waiting.
st. pete was not a friend. best or otherwise.
rolling loaded bones in dirty corners of paradise,
hookers on his arm, as was my watch.
st. pete snickering. me a lonely broke
counting loose change for pleasures
not to be granted.
you tells me it pays to be idealist.
god fearing weenies laughing
in dark rooms of heaven
ungranted.
we really know nothing new about the sale situation. IP has gathered enough funding from 5 world banks, and US government approval (IP would become the leading paper manufacturer in the US) is easily expected. If they will keep our mill running, or if they will sell us, or shut us down in favor of other mills is one of the great unknowns. Another of the unknowns is how any of this will affect retirements. After all, i'm only 6- to more likely 8 years from that magic time .... more as it unfolds, but i really expect no REAL news or updates to be clear until about the time the sale becomes final - which is expected to be in the 3rd quarter (June to August time frame).
now, onto the real purpose of this blog ... the poetry.
NO ONE DANCING ON MY GRAVE
no one dancing on my grave. i tells you. ashes
in a daisy scented wind.
i admire the laughter of stone. pristine women
passing. not a miracle to be savoured
as i lay in waiting.
st. pete was not a friend. best or otherwise.
rolling loaded bones in dirty corners of paradise,
hookers on his arm, as was my watch.
st. pete snickering. me a lonely broke
counting loose change for pleasures
not to be granted.
you tells me it pays to be idealist.
god fearing weenies laughing
in dark rooms of heaven
ungranted.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
stage two for the rumors
well, one part of the rumor mils was put to rest yesterday. The mill is no longer for sale - upon government approval - we will soon be IP (International Paper) . If this is a good thing or a bad thing remains to be seen. Certainly a lot of fodder for the rumors to get going until some things, such as, if we will continue to operate, job selections, pensions , vacations and minor issues such as those get resolved. The buy-out is expected to be finished in the 3rd quarter (June to August). i'll keep you posted.
on another issue, got a really wonderful cold that's simply kicking my butt. Feel like - well, crummy. Of course, we are on heavy weight export orders, just to make certain there isn't a chance of feeling a tiny bit better at work.
and here's a poem to celebrate that crummy cold feeling we all know so well .... it's from 3-93. some formatting issues, so it may look a bit strange in the blog ...
THE COUGH THAT COMES
The cough that comes with the morning fog & stays the afternoon
come, cough with me, in the darkness of dawn, when venus is bright & the sun begins to slither over black brooding mountains
we can exchange miracles or simply dialog
on another issue, got a really wonderful cold that's simply kicking my butt. Feel like - well, crummy. Of course, we are on heavy weight export orders, just to make certain there isn't a chance of feeling a tiny bit better at work.
and here's a poem to celebrate that crummy cold feeling we all know so well .... it's from 3-93. some formatting issues, so it may look a bit strange in the blog ...
THE COUGH THAT COMES
The cough that comes with the morning fog & stays the afternoon
(it is mine)
the ache of bones in disrepair (i have known them)
i tells you, i am old
pain is my smile
& anger my religion
my prayers to a god who is feeble & blind bleeding the system for all it is worth
i tells you, i am dying slow & imperfect
the distress of cells enraged
hurrah! for therapeutics that dont workcome, cough with me, in the darkness of dawn, when venus is bright & the sun begins to slither over black brooding mountains
we can exchange miracles or simply dialog
our shirts still stained with the filth of dreams failed
& our hands bloodied from gallant but futile effort
come, let us be heroes in our last hours visionaries believing in the unknown
voyagers waiting for passage
it is all subjective, as the river sweats & dawn is a whisper
Saturday, March 15, 2008
totally unseasonal poem
end of Oct 92 poem. OK, so it's not exactly a seasonal poem ....
spent the afternoon trying to install a new kitchen light fixture. first new one simply failed to work. second one works, but the "manual" and installation procedure seems to have been written by some sort of sadistic figure in a dark room that never has had to deal with public feedback whatsoever. i mean, how hard can you make it ... well, obviously a lot. anyway, it reminded me why i am not a handyman, and reconfirmed why i never want to become one.
no news on the work front, except the rumors have not died down, just the names of potential buyers changes on a regular basis. i certainly hope no one is trying to keep score on this one. so, it's still up in the air, still causing a lot of bubbling in the guts .... and still as unresolved as ever!
at any rate - onto the poetry .....
A HALLOWEEN POEM
1
pumpkins that smile, even as they rot. the rain that smells of sugar daddies.
& the ghost of all the dreams that never came true: out of the closet & up on your back - door to door, as a hobo, seeking truth.
the song of dark leaves swirls in your hair. the laughter of some else’s happiness echoes. it is all as haunting as you allow it.
2
will you hunt down the witches in your heart
or finally take to reading their awkward manuals
no candles allow in these haunted hallways
where the wind is merely the screaming of tormented hearts
will your god finally listen to your elegant prayers
or will you ultimately learn to speak the tongues of the desperate
3
someone knocks at your door - dressed in drag
you do not recognize him for what he is
offering pleasantries in place of magic
& i am on the hobo train into the land of forever rain
watching the dark skies for the glow of your halo
not knowing what lost is, not knowing what it means to be missed
someone knocks at your door - dressed in drag
you do not recognize him for what he is
offering pleasantries in place of magic
spent the afternoon trying to install a new kitchen light fixture. first new one simply failed to work. second one works, but the "manual" and installation procedure seems to have been written by some sort of sadistic figure in a dark room that never has had to deal with public feedback whatsoever. i mean, how hard can you make it ... well, obviously a lot. anyway, it reminded me why i am not a handyman, and reconfirmed why i never want to become one.
no news on the work front, except the rumors have not died down, just the names of potential buyers changes on a regular basis. i certainly hope no one is trying to keep score on this one. so, it's still up in the air, still causing a lot of bubbling in the guts .... and still as unresolved as ever!
at any rate - onto the poetry .....
A HALLOWEEN POEM
1
pumpkins that smile, even as they rot. the rain that smells of sugar daddies.
& the ghost of all the dreams that never came true: out of the closet & up on your back - door to door, as a hobo, seeking truth.
the song of dark leaves swirls in your hair. the laughter of some else’s happiness echoes. it is all as haunting as you allow it.
2
will you hunt down the witches in your heart
or finally take to reading their awkward manuals
no candles allow in these haunted hallways
where the wind is merely the screaming of tormented hearts
will your god finally listen to your elegant prayers
or will you ultimately learn to speak the tongues of the desperate
3
someone knocks at your door - dressed in drag
you do not recognize him for what he is
offering pleasantries in place of magic
& i am on the hobo train into the land of forever rain
watching the dark skies for the glow of your halo
not knowing what lost is, not knowing what it means to be missed
someone knocks at your door - dressed in drag
you do not recognize him for what he is
offering pleasantries in place of magic
Saturday, March 8, 2008
potions of regeneration?
today's poem is from 3-93. not much going on here today. what was supposed to be a rainy day, is pleasant, nearly 60 F. it's back to the salt mines in the morning, more of those ever lovely export orders. i can hear the bones creaking already ...... "where are the magic potions?" i asked the floor.
SEARCHING FOR THE POTIONS
1 searching for the potions of regeneration, i come to your door
2 tired & old, as the wind upon summer days that make not a ripple upon the lost rivers
3 that inhabit these dark mountains
4
5 wake me when there is magic in the dawn
6 & the rats are full of dante in evening skies
7 more than willing to share the secrets
8
9 seeking the potions of regeneration, i come to your door
10 sick & feeble, as the moon over the city, whispering no incantations worth remembering
11 unable to remember much of anything
12
13 wake me when you are willing to disclose your ancient magic
14 & the sound of summer is in your voice
15 falling down upon me as morning rains of these dark mountains
SEARCHING FOR THE POTIONS
1 searching for the potions of regeneration, i come to your door
2 tired & old, as the wind upon summer days that make not a ripple upon the lost rivers
3 that inhabit these dark mountains
4
5 wake me when there is magic in the dawn
6 & the rats are full of dante in evening skies
7 more than willing to share the secrets
8
9 seeking the potions of regeneration, i come to your door
10 sick & feeble, as the moon over the city, whispering no incantations worth remembering
11 unable to remember much of anything
12
13 wake me when you are willing to disclose your ancient magic
14 & the sound of summer is in your voice
15 falling down upon me as morning rains of these dark mountains
Thursday, March 6, 2008
a previously published poem
OK, to take a short break from the unpublished, unsolicited poems, here's a poem from The Fatman In The Mirror -published by Pygmy Forest Press (editor Leonard Cirino). Again, a chant of approval for small presses, and for the editors that put their heart, soul and money into keeping real poetry alive. Leonard Cirino is one of those great people. Besides being a wonderful editor (and great friend) he is a master poet. Difficult, interesting, intellectual and important. If you are interested in getting some of Cirino's poetry, there's a link to some of his poetry on the right - and his email address is on that site.
now here's a baseball poem, so this post serves two purposes, one to toot the Pygmy Forest Press (and Leonard's) horn, and another to get closer to the feel of the American past-time.
NINTH INNING
it was the ninth inning. john wayne stepped to the plate, pointing to the centerfield bleachers, exactly as ruth in the '27 series.
jesus christ was on the mound, relief specialists par excellence. he had a fast ball that was a blur & a change-up that made no sense.
it was the ninth inning.
now here's a baseball poem, so this post serves two purposes, one to toot the Pygmy Forest Press (and Leonard's) horn, and another to get closer to the feel of the American past-time.
NINTH INNING
it was the ninth inning. john wayne stepped to the plate, pointing to the centerfield bleachers, exactly as ruth in the '27 series.
jesus christ was on the mound, relief specialists par excellence. he had a fast ball that was a blur & a change-up that made no sense.
it was the ninth inning.
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