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post, i will go into some poems published only in small press magazines, before getting back to unsolicitied and unpublished stuff again ....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

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.

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and yet, another completely unsolicited, unedited & unpublished poem, written between 1987-1989.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 ....


EQUALIZERS (FOR BJS)

Rings
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

so:
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

unsolicited, unedited, unpublished

another completely unsolicited, unedited & unpublished poem, written between 1987-1989.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 FOR CARRIE

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 ....

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another from Humbly, I Offer These Awkward Poems - unpublished manuscript (but it was accepted ...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 ....



3 DOGS OF SUMMER

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.

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.


PROMISES

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.

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 ....



ON-LINE RELATIONSHIP
-concept from Brenda Fleet
-after William Doreski

1
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.

2
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.

3
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.

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

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

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.


END OF THE WORLD

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.

for Lori

todays update is from Humbly I Offer These Awkward Poems - unpublished manuscript. it was accepted and - then ... well, life lesson #767, don't count your chickens, i guess. it was written to my sister, Lorraine Gail, who died far too young .... a far greater travesty than not getting a bunch of poems published i suspect.


FOR LORI - version two
-after Czeslaw Milosz

i will put poppy seeds cracked corn,
for the dead,
who will return as birds
may be nourished.

but the thistle seed
in the old china cup
from grandmother's hutch
i saved for you,
redwing blackbird, gone
before the sky knew your song.

charming the apostles

another poem from Poetry of the Deformed (c) 1996 - Pygmy Forest Press. this book, my first, has a certain charm for me (as well as naivety) - while it is hardly my best work over all, it still does give an essence of my approach and vision to/of poetry.



CHARMING THE APOSTLES

the phone tells me
my carpets are dirtier than my soul
the poor will accept the clothes in my closet
as well as appliances i never learned to use properly

donations: money, materials -
it will purify the heart better than confessions
the greater the amount, the more intense the
purification

endangered species, rainforests
even the condemned
all on the balance of my dollars:
as if i were chosen by jesus himself

after the great strike of 2001 - let's say life changed significantly

after the strike of 2001, and the lay-offs that followed, along with a few other personal catastrophes, i quit writing poetry all together - except for a few (rather poor) personal rants about the strike and some of the dialog that was proven to be less than true. this short fragment-piece was the first thing i wrote (after about 3 years) that was more in a poetic vein. very few real poems have followed, but maybe in the future .... this blog is my sort of attempt to get back in a writers frame of mind. we shall see if it succeeds.

TOME

it is a fallacy the dead speak
of dust & time & the sound
of horses on cobblestone roads no longer in existence....

a prose poem to leonard

another prose poem, this time from Proverbs For The Initiated - (c) 1999 - by Cedar Hills.

remember, if you'd like to read more of my poetry - check the archives. also, feel free to post comments and your email address, if you'd like me to write back for any reasons. i wouldn't mind making this an interactive blog, or i can keep it as it is, or let it fade away if there is no interest at all in its contents.


LETTER TO LEONARD
- after Richard Hugo

the rains, as always clouds are forming between my fingers. even the wind has attained a voice. but i cannot understand the mumbles.

inspect the gate. a marvelous attempt, but given time it will sag & drag, like the others i have built.

i will tell the judge no lies. i cough for reasons other than influenza. piss on the black robes of ignorance. i speak only truth, as rock, as river, as talons of hawk.

i watched a woman last night, her hips as inviting as her lips. my voice failed as she smiled. darkness in the abstract diamond on her thin finger. oblivion sucked on her breasts until she vanished.

by morning, i will forget nothing. call the wind brother. we are each as vague & miserable.

prose poem

this piece is from my self published King Of Oafs collection (c) 2000 - Echo Park Books. it is a prose poem, one of the many "forms" i have experimented with over the years. along with montage, it is one of the forms i enjoy using.

THE BOX I DID NOT OPEN

the box i did not open at first: caressing the rough corners as if it were your laughter. wrens of the feeder with a curiosity i could not sustain.

i expected the roar odor of imported perfumes. BUT was rather greeted by the stench of cigar smoke. (Damn the postal clerks in Topeka, they who held the rough edges before me.)

the box i did not open at first. magic exude. it was satisfaction enough knowing ...

a moldy (and probably not very good) oldie

today's poems is an unpublished piece. i have hundreds (maybe thousands) of poems, fragments and "ideas" on my shelves - some bits of them may eventually get incorporated into larger pieces, and rarely one or two may end up being edited into a "new" poem. this one is from a "collection" that was written between 1982 and 1987. It is unsolicited and edited once (to be put up here).


CROWS

There are two crows in the apple orchard, talking a sour and hard dialogue.
Their silhouette in flight is more of struggling than grace.
i watch them pecking at old, rotting apples.
Their language is unique and if not beautiful, it is rewarding.

the big break that never happened ...

from Proverbs For The Initiated (c) 1999 Cedar Hill Publications
this is the release and press i had hoped to make my poetry a somewhat major name. well, we all know it didn't happen for a lot of reasons that are basically water under the bridge at this point.

FOR MY FATHER

the bones - upon which empires were to be built -
are nearly unable to support life.
i hear them crack in the imperfect vacuum of the night.
something horrible happens to dreams
in the sanitary corridors of hospitals.
doctors inject them full of antibodies.
nurses make perfect corners of the beautiful haze.
& you lay there as if a vapor waiting to be dispersed.

the bones whisper of flight. perhaps you cannot hear,
above the hum of flourescent lights,
above the dribble of magic fluids down twisted plastic tubes.
but i hear!
something horrible happens to dreams
in the sanitary corridors of hospitals.

a real montage poem

a montage poem for you. from another unpublish manuscript - The Night Of Hobo Dreams.
a rather morose collection of poems, i have been told. since i mentioned the montage form in an earlier post, i thought i should at least offer one for you to see.


CROW WITH A BROKEN FOOT
"It's not dark yet,
but it's getting there."
-Bob Dylan

1
it is finally evening.

rivers are low.
stadiums are silent.
the ghosts of Greenberg, of Gehringer, refuse to come.
their heritage has been altered.

pigeons on rooftops,
all they ever seem to do is shit on cars
& the outfield bleachers
with an elegance that defies logic.

2
broken steam line,
like the scream of gods gone insane,
& the accuray head going off the scale -
another damned reel of cull.

blistered hands cannot mend these imperfection -
the concrete here has no emotion,
merely bleeds its own black blood down walls,
onto floors.

3
crow with a broken foot hobbles across the orchard,
like a midnight drunk, the pain of living
rewarded with an intoxication that only God will ever appreciate.

apples rotting in an August
too warm for comfort.

4
where are the flowers, now that
yellow skies hang with ornaments of steel?
line-ups change too easily.

the subways are silent now.
what replaced the simple pleasures of our youth?
it appears the writing's on the wall & but no one stops to read
the fine print anymore.

5
will you kiss me now?

6
they cull paper for twist warp, mullin or wrinkles,
recycle it until it meets someone's standards.
no one but accountants or mill workers notice,
or care.

but the soul - when you cull that
it turns sour & gray,
until it has a stench
the body cannot stand.

7
let my fingers be the forgotten rain
down your hair, down your neck.

in the morning, pin my heart to your blouse.

indeed, our sacrifices are in more than one form,
to more than one god.

8
there is no dawn.
no sunset, where concrete sweats,
where fingers are laced with paper cuts & scabs,
where dreams are no longer real -
merely apparitions that dance along thin cat-walks
on the night shift, mingled in vapors of steam
& not enough sleep, in the mist of chemicals
best left unattended.

the ghosts of Cobb, of Kaline refuse to answer.

is there an update schedule?

update schedules? so far, i've managed to enter something daily. i will attempt to post regular updates, but i doubt it will be daily for much longer. also, as posts grow, check the archives, as only a limited number of poems will be of the front page.

one of my great loves in life (besides poetry and music) is baseball. this poem is from a pile of rejected and rewritten material, currently in no manuscript.



OBJECTIVITY HAS NO FUNCTION

i have looked down the long avenue of years gone by,
looked for the likes of Mays, Musial or Mantle.
i scanned the skies for Davenport, Boyer or Santo.
in their place I found the cold wind of December in empty stadiums.

not all the poems are monumental these days.
not many are even insignificant.

morning skies are hard.
rivers choke on ice.
i search the horizon for anything of comfort,
for anything resembling the warmth of her eyes gone by.

comments are welcome

comments? i am open to comments and appreciate them as long as they are civil, which does not mean they have to be patronizing or flattering. since i don't have a stat counter, or hit counter, it is one of the ways i can see if anyone is reading this blog and what they are thinking.

todays offering is the opening poem from a manuscript - Humbly I Offer These Awkward Poems, currently unpulsihed, though it was "accepted" and i was told it was headed off to the printer and was to be the next "major release". But that was a few years ago and obviously never happened - for whatever reasons .... The manuscript has been scrapped and reworked (twice) and is now part of a larger project that very patiently gathers dust and an idle promise i will get back to it someday.



THE LANGUAGE USED
-after Lawson Fusao Indada

here they speak of Clackamus
& Calapooya Rivers. Chinook winds.
it is language as topography,
of dreams no longer valid,
yet vibrant.

here asphalt & concrete remain
in the lexicon of curses.
Cascade Mountains, Siuslaw River -
the language of land & people
in transition.

here, the immigrants & flunkies
mistake the midnight wind
as credit, payment due by the 1st.

if your language does not tell me something important
of yourself, your history, perhaps it is best
to speak of something other than dreams.

sidewinder. diamondback - honesty
is before you: lethal, beautiful
& misunderstood. Cloverleaf -
the highway that goes nowhere on its own,
but intersects with one that may.
pimp. pusher. priest - all equal:
eternity in different forms.

3 Fingered Jack, Tillamook cheese -
language as topography -
dreams no longer valid,
yet unwilling to die.

Open form poetry

almost all of my poetry is written in the "open form". early influences included e.e. cummings and walt whitman. more recent influences include paul zimmer and yannis ritsos.

the "confessional poets" of the late 40's and 50's were important in the way i present my poetry - poets as paul duncan and charles olson come to mind - though they are hardly the only important figures, merely the ones i can think of at the moment, which during a night shift rotation is amazing i can think of anything. the fact i am updating this blog on night shift is one of the minor miracles.

my longer poems, which i have not chosen to put here yet, use a form i call "montage" - snippets of images, emotions and philosophy mixed and woven around a central theme - in hopes of creating something larger than the individual pieces, just as a montage picture works. someday i will have to get some of them typed and entered into this blog, but don't hold your breath waiting.



this poem is from The Fatman In The Mirror (my second book) (c) 1997 Pygmy Forest Books


THE FATMAN SITS IN THE BATHROOM

the fatman sits in the bathroom
editing another letter he will not send,
carefully writing words he had hoped
would bring smiles to your cheeks.

he gambles with loaded dice,
choosing to ignore his losses.
he is convinced it does not matter.
he is strong in the desperation of love.

the fatman looks in the mirror
but does not see himself,
rather jesus before the first miracle,
pondering his own potential.

some poets i admire

just some of the poets i read and admire:

John Berryman
Yannis Ritsos
William Everson (also known as Brother Antoninus)
Fredrico Garcia Lorca
Walt Whitman
Paul Zimmerman
Leonard Cirino -editor of Pygmy Forest Press
Michael McIrvin -published by Pymy Forest Press & others
Rob Whitbeck -published by Pygmy Forest Press

and not a poet, but one of the more influenetial writers (for me) of the 20c -
Samuel Beckett

good stuff - worth checking out if you're unfamiliar with any of them.


today's poem is from my first book - Poetry Of The Deformed (c) 1996- on Pygmy Forest Press


PERSONAL AD

wanted. dreams to fill vacancies.
rain clouds ok, as long as rainbows appear -
eventually. eyes that radiate magic
essential. must be prepared
to carry heart of stone until it again
becomes a feather. send resume
on the wings of blackbirds. will respond
by same.