A school friend of mine, Brett Duncan, commented on a poem and recalled memories of he and I catching bees when we were little kids. It got me thinking. Although I usually try to show two poems per post, I wanted to get this out. I wrote it last night.
Bees
Funny how bees (like our memories)
Find their way home.
Can bring back the stuff of love and flowers
(Honey gold thick on the bread of our lives).
Can sting us to tears
(from sacrifice and loss).
If trapped in a jar
They bang headlong against glass walls of reality
(They die)
No matter how many holes we poke
In the lids of our relationships.
If set free
We risk losing them
In the fading blossoms of autumn
(amid choices that were once ours)
Funny how bees (like our hopes)
Will dance to show where the pollen hides.
Will buzz from the beauty of a dew-jeweled meadow.
And give the cool of a petal’s shade
To a friend.
__________________________________
Let me know your thoughts.
b.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Back When I was in Korea
This week, I thought I would share some poems I wrote when I was in the Army and doing some training in South Korea. They say that soldiers are happiest when they are complaining...so I must have been euphoric. The first two poems are about Army training in the field. I wrote them to amuse myself and my fellow soldiers. As much as I like to write free verse poetry, I love to write rhyming poetry (it just makes me laugh, I guess!). The 3rd poem is a poem I wrote in response to a challenge. A sergeant bet me I couldn't write a Halloween poem in less than an hour in the middle of the Spring. It was late at night, in a tent and it was freezing out. Its different...Happy Halloween.
This first poem (and the second poem) have some military jargon and acronyms that I will explain now, otherwise, it may not make much sense (there will be a quiz afterwards):
FTX: Field Training Exercise
O.D. (Olive Drab...the color of our uniforms)
PFC: Private First Class
LT: Lieutenant
FTX Contemplation I
(Korea)
The tent is green, the lights are white,
The ground is reddened clay.
My chair is hard, my butt is sore,
From soldiering all day.
The cots are up, the rain falls down.
Our night is cloaked in black.
The dawn has yet to make its day,
We dream of going back.
The tents - they rise.
The tents - they fall.
The tents - we fold.
The tents - we haul.
Inside the tents the world is O.D.,
Inside our clothes, we smell so grodie.
Sergeants, Captains, PFC.
Mud and web belts, and one LT.
Its just a job, its just a thrill,
To ward off boredom, and fight off chill.
You think of booze, but not of sex.
Nights are too long on an FTX.
You carry on bravely, and don your mask.
Ponder the questions you never dare ask.
And the rain just keeps falling,
As it did in the past.
_____________________________
In Korea, human feces is often used as crop fertilizer. It was common for a military unit to get permission from a Korean Farmer to use his field to set up tents in, but only if all the soldiers would defecate in the field before leaving (I am dead serious.) More definitions...sorry.
cammo: Camouflage netting used to hide tents and scramble electronics
TOC: Tactical Operations Center (where I worked when in the field)
OB bars: Korean Taverns that served cheap Korean beer
MRE (Meals Ready to Eat served in plastic pouches)
Mr. T's: Massive trays of ready to heat meals, perhaps the worst tasting food ever made.
Combat Trains (Support units that have food, clothes, equipment, etc.)
XO: Executive Officer (2nd in Command of the Battalion)
ENDEX: The End of the Exercise (some of the best words in the English Language)
FTX Contemplation II
(Korea)
The cammo net goes way up high,
To hide the TOC from passers-by.
We pack the tents and jump in trucks
Like human duffle bags and rucks.
We do this several times a day
To justify our army pay.
We shiver far beneath the stars
And fantasize of "O.B." bars.
We have no choice of what to wear
So mix and match without a care.
And when we turn to run or fight,
We break down TOC in dark of night.
We don’t move out ‘til light of day,
There has to be an better way.
Manure is our main TOC floor,
Manure makes my bed.
Manure permeates my clothes,
And clings around my head.
M-R-E’s, “Mr.-T’s”, a moon-pie and a coke,
We’re on a constant sugar buzz
So full of shit we choke.
Korean snows and radios make me want to laugh,
I pity those in the combat trains
With the XO of our staff.
“Safety” is the motto cheer,
Goat-fuck is the rule.
The locals folks ignore us here
As one ignores a fool.
ENDEX never comes too soon,
The trucks to leave too fast.
I’ve memories enough to share,
And dirt enough to last.
I worry about our training, though.
Were all the standards met?
Or are we hiding all our faults
Beneath our cammo net?
__________________________
This last poem still creeps me out a little. (What was I thinking?!?)
Rites
Bloodied, the moon approved the sacrifice.
Blessed the Blackest Sabbath.
A single tree, stained dark by countless lives,
Held innocence fast.
“Circle gather to call his name.
Washed in blood to feed the flame.”
Clammycold death touches her to the soul.
Grips her life.
Devours her screams as delicious.
“Circle join to be as one
Praise his name, his will be done.”
Hooded forms of soulless night.
Timeless dead
Performing rites of madness.
Rituals of horror.
Dripping.
Drooling.
Tasting.
At last, she sees no more.
The tree has its shroud.
“Circle flows his power gives.
Draws life from death, and deathless, lives.”
Without comment, the moon stalked away into the clouds.
The night, filled with guilty silence,
Awaited the dawn’s purging.
And the rites of Halloween live on.
________________________________
Let me know your thoughts. 'Til next time, take care of yourselves.
b
This first poem (and the second poem) have some military jargon and acronyms that I will explain now, otherwise, it may not make much sense (there will be a quiz afterwards):
FTX: Field Training Exercise
O.D. (Olive Drab...the color of our uniforms)
PFC: Private First Class
LT: Lieutenant
FTX Contemplation I
(Korea)
The tent is green, the lights are white,
The ground is reddened clay.
My chair is hard, my butt is sore,
From soldiering all day.
The cots are up, the rain falls down.
Our night is cloaked in black.
The dawn has yet to make its day,
We dream of going back.
The tents - they rise.
The tents - they fall.
The tents - we fold.
The tents - we haul.
Inside the tents the world is O.D.,
Inside our clothes, we smell so grodie.
Sergeants, Captains, PFC.
Mud and web belts, and one LT.
Its just a job, its just a thrill,
To ward off boredom, and fight off chill.
You think of booze, but not of sex.
Nights are too long on an FTX.
You carry on bravely, and don your mask.
Ponder the questions you never dare ask.
And the rain just keeps falling,
As it did in the past.
_____________________________
In Korea, human feces is often used as crop fertilizer. It was common for a military unit to get permission from a Korean Farmer to use his field to set up tents in, but only if all the soldiers would defecate in the field before leaving (I am dead serious.) More definitions...sorry.
cammo: Camouflage netting used to hide tents and scramble electronics
TOC: Tactical Operations Center (where I worked when in the field)
OB bars: Korean Taverns that served cheap Korean beer
MRE (Meals Ready to Eat served in plastic pouches)
Mr. T's: Massive trays of ready to heat meals, perhaps the worst tasting food ever made.
Combat Trains (Support units that have food, clothes, equipment, etc.)
XO: Executive Officer (2nd in Command of the Battalion)
ENDEX: The End of the Exercise (some of the best words in the English Language)
FTX Contemplation II
(Korea)
The cammo net goes way up high,
To hide the TOC from passers-by.
We pack the tents and jump in trucks
Like human duffle bags and rucks.
We do this several times a day
To justify our army pay.
We shiver far beneath the stars
And fantasize of "O.B." bars.
We have no choice of what to wear
So mix and match without a care.
And when we turn to run or fight,
We break down TOC in dark of night.
We don’t move out ‘til light of day,
There has to be an better way.
Manure is our main TOC floor,
Manure makes my bed.
Manure permeates my clothes,
And clings around my head.
M-R-E’s, “Mr.-T’s”, a moon-pie and a coke,
We’re on a constant sugar buzz
So full of shit we choke.
Korean snows and radios make me want to laugh,
I pity those in the combat trains
With the XO of our staff.
“Safety” is the motto cheer,
Goat-fuck is the rule.
The locals folks ignore us here
As one ignores a fool.
ENDEX never comes too soon,
The trucks to leave too fast.
I’ve memories enough to share,
And dirt enough to last.
I worry about our training, though.
Were all the standards met?
Or are we hiding all our faults
Beneath our cammo net?
__________________________
This last poem still creeps me out a little. (What was I thinking?!?)
Rites
Bloodied, the moon approved the sacrifice.
Blessed the Blackest Sabbath.
A single tree, stained dark by countless lives,
Held innocence fast.
“Circle gather to call his name.
Washed in blood to feed the flame.”
Clammycold death touches her to the soul.
Grips her life.
Devours her screams as delicious.
“Circle join to be as one
Praise his name, his will be done.”
Hooded forms of soulless night.
Timeless dead
Performing rites of madness.
Rituals of horror.
Dripping.
Drooling.
Tasting.
At last, she sees no more.
The tree has its shroud.
“Circle flows his power gives.
Draws life from death, and deathless, lives.”
Without comment, the moon stalked away into the clouds.
The night, filled with guilty silence,
Awaited the dawn’s purging.
And the rites of Halloween live on.
________________________________
Let me know your thoughts. 'Til next time, take care of yourselves.
b
Friday, October 8, 2010
Hodge Podge
Today I thought I would share some poems that are...well, different. The first is an angry poem. The second, a poem that I hope displays some humor. I actually delight in writing funny stuff, but they are usually about and for friends, and the jokes are usually known only to a few, so I will explain a few points. If you like the humorous one, I will share more. Let me know.
During my stint as a therapist, I worked with children. Often, they had some pretty horrific backgrounds. Almost always, an adult knew about the abuse and didn't tell anyone because they didn't want to be involved. The metaphor of the poem came when I was visiting inlaws many years back. Racoons were rampant in the area, and the process was to trap the racoon and then shoot it in the cage. Then someone else would hose the blood from the driveway.
Never Touched a Soul
i flinch every time it happens.
close my eyes and ears
so my ignorance remains just so.
hose blood off the driveway
(its good for the grass, i hear).
i mean, i didn’t put it there,
the blood, that is.
made sure i wasn’t too close to the action.
looked away just in time.
habit i guess. (and a good one, i might add).
if i may be so bold:
take my advice
stay out of the dark places,
children die there, (in the dark places, i mean).
rotting in corners of closets
backrooms in basements.
i’ve seen it.
helped provide the apathy.
but never touched a soul.
never ever.
absolutely disgraceful nowadays.
how innocence is slaughtered.
so many monsters with time on their hands.
i’ve seen ‘em.
the houses they live in (the children and the monsters).
not to worry, just follow my lead:
tend to your lawn.
if i had a forte (love that word, forte).
it would be the cleansing of my conscience.
its as cleanas a whistle.
(i’m told blood is good for the grass).
________________________________________
This next poem I wrote for a fellow intern when I was getting my doctorate in psychology. She came up from Texas for the year long internship. She could only afford an apartment in the worst part of town. Her deadbeat spouse did not pay the monthly car bill, so her car was temporarily repossessed, her dog was...well read for yourself. The episode with the crow is true. I love Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven", so here is my tribute to her perseverance and Poe's poetry.
My Ravin’
(with apologies to Edgar Allen Poe and his poem, The Raven)
As I wondered in the ghettos, stepping over used stilettos, feeling knowledge rich, and yet so intern poor.
While I plodded, slowly walking, suddenly gunfire came a-pocking, with gangstas softly mocking, mocking at the year I had in store.
“‘Tis only gang-banging”, I muttered, “mocking me so poor.
Only this and nothing more.”
With fears I do remember, the Fall into December, double locking all my windows, and triple checked the door.
As I staggered, without hoping, my sanity a-groping, with drooling dopers doping, I gave a Texan’s roar.
“My car has been stolen”, I shouted, and help I did implore.
It was repossessed, and nothing more.
With my brave retriever, a tried and true believer, hiding in by bathtub, and frightened to
The core.
He was spinning, in a tizzy, I think he got too dizzy, I did not see it, (way too busy), he fell onto
The floor.
He bumped his head, I ranted, and called for help and more.
You need help, they said, and nothing more.
With my dog more was to follow, his head still being hollow, bullied by tiny foxes that left him running for the door.
I was cleaning, inward crying, I tell the truth (I am not lying), he caught a raven that was flying, interrupting my ghetto chore.
“Drop the bird”, I screamed, chasing my dog across the floor.
My focus became that crow, and nothing more.
With raucous cries in my apartment, in my closet’s dark compartment, the raven flew as if to seek some safety’s shore.
On my head, it tried to ramp on, it’s little head I’d gladly stamp on, the fuckin’ bird had stole a tampon, and flew out my bathroom door.
“Stupid bird!” I raved, “to be so hygiene poor.”
I drank a Blue Moon sixpack, and nothing more.
As an intern I’ve paid dearly, hear me shriek in anger clearly, it is your understanding,
that I do implore.
Colorado’s cold has made me shiver, I drank so much I shot my liver, I think of jumping in the river, the warmth of Texas I do succor.
“Heading South”, I chanted, as I never had before.
And you shall hear my ravin’, nevermore.
_________________________________________________-
Let me know your thoughts and reactions. Til next time, take care of yourself and each other.
b
During my stint as a therapist, I worked with children. Often, they had some pretty horrific backgrounds. Almost always, an adult knew about the abuse and didn't tell anyone because they didn't want to be involved. The metaphor of the poem came when I was visiting inlaws many years back. Racoons were rampant in the area, and the process was to trap the racoon and then shoot it in the cage. Then someone else would hose the blood from the driveway.
Never Touched a Soul
i flinch every time it happens.
close my eyes and ears
so my ignorance remains just so.
hose blood off the driveway
(its good for the grass, i hear).
i mean, i didn’t put it there,
the blood, that is.
made sure i wasn’t too close to the action.
looked away just in time.
habit i guess. (and a good one, i might add).
if i may be so bold:
take my advice
stay out of the dark places,
children die there, (in the dark places, i mean).
rotting in corners of closets
backrooms in basements.
i’ve seen it.
helped provide the apathy.
but never touched a soul.
never ever.
absolutely disgraceful nowadays.
how innocence is slaughtered.
so many monsters with time on their hands.
i’ve seen ‘em.
the houses they live in (the children and the monsters).
not to worry, just follow my lead:
tend to your lawn.
if i had a forte (love that word, forte).
it would be the cleansing of my conscience.
its as cleanas a whistle.
(i’m told blood is good for the grass).
________________________________________
This next poem I wrote for a fellow intern when I was getting my doctorate in psychology. She came up from Texas for the year long internship. She could only afford an apartment in the worst part of town. Her deadbeat spouse did not pay the monthly car bill, so her car was temporarily repossessed, her dog was...well read for yourself. The episode with the crow is true. I love Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven", so here is my tribute to her perseverance and Poe's poetry.
My Ravin’
(with apologies to Edgar Allen Poe and his poem, The Raven)
As I wondered in the ghettos, stepping over used stilettos, feeling knowledge rich, and yet so intern poor.
While I plodded, slowly walking, suddenly gunfire came a-pocking, with gangstas softly mocking, mocking at the year I had in store.
“‘Tis only gang-banging”, I muttered, “mocking me so poor.
Only this and nothing more.”
With fears I do remember, the Fall into December, double locking all my windows, and triple checked the door.
As I staggered, without hoping, my sanity a-groping, with drooling dopers doping, I gave a Texan’s roar.
“My car has been stolen”, I shouted, and help I did implore.
It was repossessed, and nothing more.
With my brave retriever, a tried and true believer, hiding in by bathtub, and frightened to
The core.
He was spinning, in a tizzy, I think he got too dizzy, I did not see it, (way too busy), he fell onto
The floor.
He bumped his head, I ranted, and called for help and more.
You need help, they said, and nothing more.
With my dog more was to follow, his head still being hollow, bullied by tiny foxes that left him running for the door.
I was cleaning, inward crying, I tell the truth (I am not lying), he caught a raven that was flying, interrupting my ghetto chore.
“Drop the bird”, I screamed, chasing my dog across the floor.
My focus became that crow, and nothing more.
With raucous cries in my apartment, in my closet’s dark compartment, the raven flew as if to seek some safety’s shore.
On my head, it tried to ramp on, it’s little head I’d gladly stamp on, the fuckin’ bird had stole a tampon, and flew out my bathroom door.
“Stupid bird!” I raved, “to be so hygiene poor.”
I drank a Blue Moon sixpack, and nothing more.
As an intern I’ve paid dearly, hear me shriek in anger clearly, it is your understanding,
that I do implore.
Colorado’s cold has made me shiver, I drank so much I shot my liver, I think of jumping in the river, the warmth of Texas I do succor.
“Heading South”, I chanted, as I never had before.
And you shall hear my ravin’, nevermore.
_________________________________________________-
Let me know your thoughts and reactions. Til next time, take care of yourself and each other.
b
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Poems about my father and grandfather
A cousin of mine was mining through my grandfather's things (he died many years ago) and found a poem written about my father by a member and friend of his from the Rotarian Club in Iowa. It reminded me that I had once written a poem about missing my dad and a poem I wrote just after attending my grandfather's funeral. With your indulgence, I would like to share them with you.
My dad was, among many things, a clown. When I was a real little kid, he came up to me and my mom dressed as a clown during the WL parade...scared the bejesus out of me. He was "chased away" by a friend of his. I didn't know it was my dad until after he had died. I never saw him again dressed as a clown. Ironic that I became a pantomime in school and college. I have all of my dad's clown costumes and stuff. Funny how things turn out.
The Joy of the World’s Smile
Touching his reality with soft powder
He examines the stories in his face
Reflects the reflection
Smiles sad and wise.
Adds meaning to the blue cake tears
Resting on cheeks white as laughing stars.
Tattered gloves smooth perma-wrinkle clothing
Dance along scattered patches
Parts fire-orange curls for a hat
That has never seen better days.
Loving us so dangerously that no risk is too great
Needing so badly that no laugh is belly-big enough.
He speaks to us with eloquent silence.
Gives us slapstick as rich as gold.
With crazed colors in a riotous rainbow
We learn courage.
We see the tears trapped on his cheeks
And laugh at the pain he endures for us.
I try to catch his eye for only a moment
I want his smile to be for me.
Lights and laughter melt into the sand
Leaving only a silence
Which is both life and death.
Softly the shadows console his longing to be loved.
Do not cry, Mr. Clown.
Wipe the tears gone and share with me the joy of the world’s smile.
Sing to me songs with the magic of your silence.
Take my hand let me see
The sweet/sad beauty of your inspiration.
For a moment he turned towards me
Managed one last love filled smile
And the cheers of a thousand clowns filled the silent tent.
Then he was gone
Never came back.
But the silence still knows his songs.
I listen and remember.
Dedicated to the memory of my father, Ronald D. Butler
---------------------------------------------------------
Grandpa Butler was the patriarch of the Butler clan. He was a teller of stories, a professional speaker. He was a gentle constant of nature for a family lost in waves of grief from my father's death.
A Story Worth Tellin’
It was easy to touch
The world of his smile.
Draw strength from eyes
Which had seen more than I.
Listen to his wisdom behind the punchline.
Watch him recall breathtaking beauty
From the ugliest side of man.
He loved us
Although he wouldn’t have put it that way.
Cherishing stories of family.
And I think this is why
His death is so hard to grasp.
His is a story worth tellin’.
But I’ve no words to do him justice.
Cannot tell it the way he could.
The world I know is quiet.
Having lost its teller of stories.
I can see him.
Sitting back in his green easy chair
Laughing with the Hawkeyes
Half buried in clippings on a T.V. tray.
He laughs for the joke is still funny to him:
“Its all timing, “lil chicken,
I’m as close as your favorite story
I used to tell”.
Dedicated to the memory of Emmett F. Butler, my grandfather.
_______________________________________
Share with me your thoughts about your fathers and grandfathers.
My dad was, among many things, a clown. When I was a real little kid, he came up to me and my mom dressed as a clown during the WL parade...scared the bejesus out of me. He was "chased away" by a friend of his. I didn't know it was my dad until after he had died. I never saw him again dressed as a clown. Ironic that I became a pantomime in school and college. I have all of my dad's clown costumes and stuff. Funny how things turn out.
The Joy of the World’s Smile
Touching his reality with soft powder
He examines the stories in his face
Reflects the reflection
Smiles sad and wise.
Adds meaning to the blue cake tears
Resting on cheeks white as laughing stars.
Tattered gloves smooth perma-wrinkle clothing
Dance along scattered patches
Parts fire-orange curls for a hat
That has never seen better days.
Loving us so dangerously that no risk is too great
Needing so badly that no laugh is belly-big enough.
He speaks to us with eloquent silence.
Gives us slapstick as rich as gold.
With crazed colors in a riotous rainbow
We learn courage.
We see the tears trapped on his cheeks
And laugh at the pain he endures for us.
I try to catch his eye for only a moment
I want his smile to be for me.
Lights and laughter melt into the sand
Leaving only a silence
Which is both life and death.
Softly the shadows console his longing to be loved.
Do not cry, Mr. Clown.
Wipe the tears gone and share with me the joy of the world’s smile.
Sing to me songs with the magic of your silence.
Take my hand let me see
The sweet/sad beauty of your inspiration.
For a moment he turned towards me
Managed one last love filled smile
And the cheers of a thousand clowns filled the silent tent.
Then he was gone
Never came back.
But the silence still knows his songs.
I listen and remember.
Dedicated to the memory of my father, Ronald D. Butler
---------------------------------------------------------
Grandpa Butler was the patriarch of the Butler clan. He was a teller of stories, a professional speaker. He was a gentle constant of nature for a family lost in waves of grief from my father's death.
A Story Worth Tellin’
It was easy to touch
The world of his smile.
Draw strength from eyes
Which had seen more than I.
Listen to his wisdom behind the punchline.
Watch him recall breathtaking beauty
From the ugliest side of man.
He loved us
Although he wouldn’t have put it that way.
Cherishing stories of family.
And I think this is why
His death is so hard to grasp.
His is a story worth tellin’.
But I’ve no words to do him justice.
Cannot tell it the way he could.
The world I know is quiet.
Having lost its teller of stories.
I can see him.
Sitting back in his green easy chair
Laughing with the Hawkeyes
Half buried in clippings on a T.V. tray.
He laughs for the joke is still funny to him:
“Its all timing, “lil chicken,
I’m as close as your favorite story
I used to tell”.
Dedicated to the memory of Emmett F. Butler, my grandfather.
_______________________________________
Share with me your thoughts about your fathers and grandfathers.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Mental Illness
This week I want to express my thoughts about those with mental illness. I've spent almost 17 years treating those with mental health issues. I am always struck by how alone they feel. I wrote both poems in first person. I know I can never understand how it must be for them, but I want to convey that I am trying.
This first poem is about schizophrenia.
Laughing Into My Fingers
i hope someone visits me.
i should die -
give harmony to the hum
that sets me apart.
give i-teeth for a night’s sleep
without bad thoughts.
mysterious death-songs haunt my
breakfast medications.
by noon, my laughter
robs me of my dignity.
fearing to touch my television
or any other friend-
a voice tells me i am bad
and am lonely because of it.
i love my family
(even though they are killing me)
i’mfine noproblemhere canismokenow?
talk the talk walk the walk
i kiss the mirror with rotten teeth
trembling lips.
laughing into my fingers
i am unsure of my lucid thoughts.
_________________________________
This one is about Alzheimer's Dementia. I have several good friends who have relatives with this disease.
In Earshot of the Madness
you wag your tail and lift my hand with your soft brown nose and i can remember who you are and laugh because i remember and i love you
did i feed you today? i don’t know and i can’t remember
you look the same.
the ocean inside my head hurts me
its voice makes me sway
i hear my voice and i laugh at it
it is so far away
my life is so clear right now and funny how it seems so important
the details the little details that i had forgotten.
i’m laughing and i know i must look a sight.
feel the drool on my chin and wait for help.
i wet myself. dear jesus ...someone will come and help me.
my dog where is he? did i feed him? he licked my hand i’m sure of it.
i don’t hear you anymore
oceantime you understand drifting in earshot of the madness
screaming in soft, silent darkness.
he would lay his head in my hands you see
i’m sorry i just can’t keep a hold of my mind anymore.
no. no i’m not hungry so leave me alone.
noone knows me anymore don’t touch me
yes i know i smell of old piss and sweat just let me die.
don’t tell me he’s gone i loved him.
he was just a puppy
sad eyes of hazel
and a tail that could make me smile
just from watching it.
i should get up and feed him, its time y’know.
This poem is dedicated to those stricken with Alzheimer’s Dementia. Of all the madness that plagues our world, yours is the first forgiven.
_______________________________
Please let me know your thoughts.
b
This first poem is about schizophrenia.
Laughing Into My Fingers
i hope someone visits me.
i should die -
give harmony to the hum
that sets me apart.
give i-teeth for a night’s sleep
without bad thoughts.
mysterious death-songs haunt my
breakfast medications.
by noon, my laughter
robs me of my dignity.
fearing to touch my television
or any other friend-
a voice tells me i am bad
and am lonely because of it.
i love my family
(even though they are killing me)
i’mfine noproblemhere canismokenow?
talk the talk walk the walk
i kiss the mirror with rotten teeth
trembling lips.
laughing into my fingers
i am unsure of my lucid thoughts.
_________________________________
This one is about Alzheimer's Dementia. I have several good friends who have relatives with this disease.
In Earshot of the Madness
you wag your tail and lift my hand with your soft brown nose and i can remember who you are and laugh because i remember and i love you
did i feed you today? i don’t know and i can’t remember
you look the same.
the ocean inside my head hurts me
its voice makes me sway
i hear my voice and i laugh at it
it is so far away
my life is so clear right now and funny how it seems so important
the details the little details that i had forgotten.
i’m laughing and i know i must look a sight.
feel the drool on my chin and wait for help.
i wet myself. dear jesus ...someone will come and help me.
my dog where is he? did i feed him? he licked my hand i’m sure of it.
i don’t hear you anymore
oceantime you understand drifting in earshot of the madness
screaming in soft, silent darkness.
he would lay his head in my hands you see
i’m sorry i just can’t keep a hold of my mind anymore.
no. no i’m not hungry so leave me alone.
noone knows me anymore don’t touch me
yes i know i smell of old piss and sweat just let me die.
don’t tell me he’s gone i loved him.
he was just a puppy
sad eyes of hazel
and a tail that could make me smile
just from watching it.
i should get up and feed him, its time y’know.
This poem is dedicated to those stricken with Alzheimer’s Dementia. Of all the madness that plagues our world, yours is the first forgiven.
_______________________________
Please let me know your thoughts.
b
Friday, August 13, 2010
More Love Poetry
Thought I'd do one more week of love poetry, then on to more serious stuff. Hope you like what you read.
Finding a Similar Dream
You are my dream.
You are my fantasy.
Realizing this I fear to wake.And so,
Am content
(More than I can explain with my soul)
To sleep in your love.
Live my days in our reality,
While the world looks on
To more important matters.
Such as finding a similar dream.
____________________________
The Music of Your Laughter
Before I met you
I wanted so much to love completely
That I could but watch others fall in love.
I was so scared to give myself
That I let life hold me like an empty, bitter wind
On a silent day.
Then my dreams carried me to you.
You laughed my fears into the sunshine.
What can I whisper but “I love you”,
When I listen to your breath
Soft and gentle in the darkness?
How can I feel anything but joy,
Rich and deep when I touch you as I wake?
I’m thankful,
And a little amazed
That my world could be so beautiful
When filled with the music of your laughter.
______________________________
Valentine's Day Thought
Gently (so soft, warm) we kiss
Knowing each other’s embrace.
Asking for each other’s love.
Trembling, I give.
Fearing it won’t be enough
To hold your smile forever to my soul.
Wrapped in your love
I’m safe from myself.
In your arms I’m free to wonder rainbows
Or race the stars.
In your arms I know that dreams can come true.
I’ll never find words to express the feelings
You leave in me.
No cage of thought could contain that much joy.
Know that I love you,
And hold me, forever,
In your smile.
______________________________
Take care and love well.
orn
Finding a Similar Dream
You are my dream.
You are my fantasy.
Realizing this I fear to wake.And so,
Am content
(More than I can explain with my soul)
To sleep in your love.
Live my days in our reality,
While the world looks on
To more important matters.
Such as finding a similar dream.
____________________________
The Music of Your Laughter
Before I met you
I wanted so much to love completely
That I could but watch others fall in love.
I was so scared to give myself
That I let life hold me like an empty, bitter wind
On a silent day.
Then my dreams carried me to you.
You laughed my fears into the sunshine.
What can I whisper but “I love you”,
When I listen to your breath
Soft and gentle in the darkness?
How can I feel anything but joy,
Rich and deep when I touch you as I wake?
I’m thankful,
And a little amazed
That my world could be so beautiful
When filled with the music of your laughter.
______________________________
Valentine's Day Thought
Gently (so soft, warm) we kiss
Knowing each other’s embrace.
Asking for each other’s love.
Trembling, I give.
Fearing it won’t be enough
To hold your smile forever to my soul.
Wrapped in your love
I’m safe from myself.
In your arms I’m free to wonder rainbows
Or race the stars.
In your arms I know that dreams can come true.
I’ll never find words to express the feelings
You leave in me.
No cage of thought could contain that much joy.
Know that I love you,
And hold me, forever,
In your smile.
______________________________
Take care and love well.
orn
Friday, July 30, 2010
Love
For the next few weeks I will be sharing thoughts about romantic love. Most are about the love I have for my wife. (She said it would be okay to share them). Since many of them aren't very long, I would like to show three poems today. The first two are poems I wrote to my wife after we got married.
Reasons To Watch For Morning
So easily the twilight turned the rushing day
To a shy, peaceful horizon
That we stumbled full gait into darkness.
Balanced tip-toe on the lip of night.
Held out our terror for the wind to taste.
Waited for empty black
To overtake the heels of life.
Someone screamed that day had been lost.
That no one would see the sunrise.
That heaven had been taken from us
Just when we needed it most.
With the last whisper of sun slipping my touch
I see you reach for me.
And the night is but an unborn tomorrow.
Twilight is a kiss from an almost forgotten day.
You give me reasons to watch for morning.
Until I hold you
I forget these things.
____________________________________
Mr. Webster
Mr. Webster defines love
As easily as I can see
Your smile in me.
He went on - next word, small print.
I lingered on love.
For me, your picture would have sufficed.
Good thing I’m not Webster.
Having you defines my life.
You are the language of my love.
The rest of the world can wait.
I’ll write my books on you.
__________________________
This last poem is written about two very good friends of mine, Shell and Raf. Seeing them together, in love, is such a treat. It leaves me grinning...and feeling young.
No Need for Cupid
Telling lies to a blind sun,
To a dark-deafened moon,
Life would have heaven hear
Our excuses why love fails.
The sun understands how
Flailing for another’s touch
Burns us as we clench our eyes shut,
Never seeing beyond our solitary shadows.
The moon knows the cold silence of night,
How it deafens us to words we need most.
Mute, we swallow with fear (our feeling words)
Until we are one with the lies of our lives.
Raf (brown-eyed and grinning)
With pirate intent, takes Shell in a gaze that undoes
The falsehoods of existence.
Shell holds her pirate close
(no flailing here).
Makes exception her rule.
Loving laughing tenderness,
There is no need for Cupid.
Hand in hand, a private joke,
To call each other “stupid”.
Heaven has no excuses.
It begins to understand that when
Raf and Shell unwrap their gifts
(each others’ hearts),
Everyday is Christmas.
__________________________
Hope you liked these poems as much as I enjoyed writing them. Speak your feeling words to someone you love. They need to be heard almost as much as you need to say them. Until next week, take care.
b
Reasons To Watch For Morning
So easily the twilight turned the rushing day
To a shy, peaceful horizon
That we stumbled full gait into darkness.
Balanced tip-toe on the lip of night.
Held out our terror for the wind to taste.
Waited for empty black
To overtake the heels of life.
Someone screamed that day had been lost.
That no one would see the sunrise.
That heaven had been taken from us
Just when we needed it most.
With the last whisper of sun slipping my touch
I see you reach for me.
And the night is but an unborn tomorrow.
Twilight is a kiss from an almost forgotten day.
You give me reasons to watch for morning.
Until I hold you
I forget these things.
____________________________________
Mr. Webster
Mr. Webster defines love
As easily as I can see
Your smile in me.
He went on - next word, small print.
I lingered on love.
For me, your picture would have sufficed.
Good thing I’m not Webster.
Having you defines my life.
You are the language of my love.
The rest of the world can wait.
I’ll write my books on you.
__________________________
This last poem is written about two very good friends of mine, Shell and Raf. Seeing them together, in love, is such a treat. It leaves me grinning...and feeling young.
No Need for Cupid
Telling lies to a blind sun,
To a dark-deafened moon,
Life would have heaven hear
Our excuses why love fails.
The sun understands how
Flailing for another’s touch
Burns us as we clench our eyes shut,
Never seeing beyond our solitary shadows.
The moon knows the cold silence of night,
How it deafens us to words we need most.
Mute, we swallow with fear (our feeling words)
Until we are one with the lies of our lives.
Raf (brown-eyed and grinning)
With pirate intent, takes Shell in a gaze that undoes
The falsehoods of existence.
Shell holds her pirate close
(no flailing here).
Makes exception her rule.
Loving laughing tenderness,
There is no need for Cupid.
Hand in hand, a private joke,
To call each other “stupid”.
Heaven has no excuses.
It begins to understand that when
Raf and Shell unwrap their gifts
(each others’ hearts),
Everyday is Christmas.
__________________________
Hope you liked these poems as much as I enjoyed writing them. Speak your feeling words to someone you love. They need to be heard almost as much as you need to say them. Until next week, take care.
b
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