The feathers of your wings

The feathers of your wings
Sometimes makes my nose itch
And my eyes water
Well worth it for the fresh breeze
Of your arrival
And the warmth
As we share our nest

I am not

I am not a microscope
But there is a lack of focus
I am not a freeway
But there are traffic jams
There are accidents
I am not a radio
But there are voices
There is music
There is static
I am not that
But there is this
There is we
There is me
There is [ ]

Ah, I am that, [ ]
Say that, [ ], three times fast, uncle
And hand me the fucking map

Collecting Stamps

Your textual context is dense
And sometimes heartbreakingly dark
But with Cliffhanger Notes in hand
I wade, waist deep, into the space
Between the neat lines
Where the real you
Just might lurk
Yearning to be understood
Hiding behind the shadows
Of approaching twilight

Casual approval
And gold foil stars
Are not what I need from you
I collect unguarded looks
Fleeting smiles
Unconscious laughter
And paste them proudly
Like stamps in my passport
Just graffiti on a wall
Testifying that I am really here
With you
Sharing a cold midnight
Leaning toward each other
Meeting in a warm pool of waxy candle light
Translating ancient languages
Into modern love poems

Share with me the diamond dew
Displayed on blades of grass
This morning

4 > 0

Being against something
Strengthens the thing you are fighting
It defines you as opposed to that thing
What happens if that thing disappears?
Who will you be?
Being against things is a zero sum game

Being for something is much harder
But it defines you as being part of a thing
Part of a thing that you love
As long as you are for that thing
That thing and you cannot disappear
You know who you are

Being anti-war
Subtly increases war
Being active for peace
Increases the power of peace
If more energy is directed towards peace
War will naturally decrease

Let us spend the effort and the time
To discover who we are
And what we are for
For love
For peace
For compassion
For dignity
For health
For education
For saving our selves and all others

For is Greater than Zero

Heads Will Roll

Couldn't afford 200 bucks
For a recycled ticket to paradise
So I avoided the long lines
And the black Tee-shirts
I thumbed a ride out of town
With a gender confused
Trans Ambulance chaser
A wild honey dripper
Who gave me the grand tour
Of the wild side
The under side
Your side
And my side
Before slip sliding away
Into the petroleum sunset
Stone free
Forgotten
But united with something
Ingenious and indigenous
Couldn’t afford 20 bucks
For a bus ticket to the marketplace
So I loitered with the locals
And drank green tea
And added my gangly rhythms
To an impromptu jam session
Pounding on a rusty bucket
And chanting a wordless
But not soulless
Litany of solitude
Of solidarity
And finally of solace
Before slip sliding away
Into the hydrogen sunrise
Thankful for the tour
And the postcards
And the friendly natives
Who helped me feel at home
But most of all
Grateful for the miles
Stretched out beneath my feet
For the throbbing of my temples
That tells me
Tells me
Tells me
I am alive

Sitting Still

Burning dead pages
The rusty barrel steams
And smokes
Inky smoke
From dead pages
Written in a simpler time
By a simpler mind
Now morning sun illuminates
The flying bits of ash
Still bearing faint imprints
Of text
Written
But never read
By another

Me
I’m still sitting
New words swirling
Beneath a blanket of desires
Clamoring for a chance
To audition
To sit in inky stillness
On a dead page
Destined
For the burn barrel

A year later, not much has changed

Hands Up

Hands Up
If you think you’d like to live a long life
Hands Up
If you blink and cry at all the world’s strife
Hands Up
If you’re tired of prepackaged desires
Hands Up
If you would like to fly much higher
Hands Up

I'm Probably Not Moving

I seem to be stuck
The latest poll numbers tell the tale
Only 33% of Blog Readers Approve
Of my attempts at poetry
And Dick Cheney has suggested
That you reading my prose
Makes Osama happy, happy, happy
So I will have to find some way
To excuse my verbal outbursts
To tie my inconsistent use of punctuation
And distrust of caPitalIZatioN
To the recent terrorists plots in London
Or at least negotiate a cease-fire deal
With the Right-Wing pundits
And their zombie followers
Who have accused me of using steroids
To enhance my typing skills
I am only expressing my self
So if I drop a poetry bomb on your head
I am only defending myself
From the rain of propaganda rockets
Fired by institutional terrorists
Who insist that I must dwell in fear
FEAR and nothing but FEAR
So help me
Great Invisible Friend In The Sky

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Gyromatic Action

Nimble Fingers spin yarns
Many of them off color
Filled to the gills with innuendo
They never fail to reel in
A tasty Bass Assortment

What’s So Funny ‘Bout Peace, Love & Understanding?

Hello Internet. I’ve been on vacation, so I’ve been out of touch. But I still love you.
I’ve been camping with the family and the family dogs. Roasting marshmallows, getting bit by mosquitoes, fishing for bluegill, hiking in the forest are the kinds of things I have been doing. So I haven’t been reading Blogs, or watching TV, or listening to talk radio, or reading newspapers. You could say I’ve been out of touch. Or you could say that I have been in touch. In touch with older, deeper, more primal things like sun sets and moon cycles and keeping my small tribe fed and sheltered.

I had kind of hoped that when I returned from my technological exile, that when I returned to the fast-paced world of email and news updates that there would be some progress, maybe a ceasefire in Lebanon at least. But no, I have returned to find that despite the speed of modern American life, not much has changed. But then again, maybe I have changed. And maybe that is the only change I can really expect to make in this world.

I cannot upholster the whole world, but I can make new sandals for my sensitive feet. I cannot make others stop hating, but I can fill my thoughts and heart with more love and compassion. You could say that changing my insides will not change the world. And you may be right. But from where I am sitting, changing my insides changes everything.

So, Hello Internet. I’ve been on vacation, but I feel more in touch. And I still love you.

Earth Body

Four travelers met on the road
Dipping their toes
In cool water
Heads held high in the air
Hearts harboring a gentle fire
Which gave animation
To their earth bodies

Shine On You Crazy Diamond

Syd Barrett 1946 - 2006

Trip to heave and ho, up down, to and fro'
you have no word
trip, trip to a dream dragon
hide your wings in a ghost tower
sails cackling at every plate we break
cracked by scattered needles
the little minute gong
coughs and clears his throat
madam you see before you stand
hey ho, never be still
the old original favorite grand
grasshoppers green Herbarian band
and the tune they play is "In Us Confide"
so trip to heave and ho, up down, to and fro'
you have no word
Please leave us here
close our eyes to the octopus ride!
Isn't it good to be lost in the wood
isn't it bad so quiet there, in the wood
meant even less to me than I thought
with a honey plough of yellow prickly seeds
clover honey pots and mystic shining feed...
well, the madcap laughed at the man on the border
hey ho, huff the Talbot
"Cheat" he cried shouting kangaroo
it's true in their tree they cried
Please leave us here
close our eyes to the octopus ride!
Please leave us here
close our eyes to the octopus ride!
The madcap laughed at the man on the border
hey ho, huff the Talbot
the winds they blew and the leaves did wag
they'll never put me in their bag
the seas will reach and always seep
so high you go, so low you creep
the wind it blows in tropical heat
the drones they throng on mossy seats
the squeaking door will always squeak
two up, two down we'll never-[lee] limit
so merrily trip forgo my side
Please leave us here
close our eyes to the octopus ride!
-- Octopus by Syd Barrett

Can I Buy a Ticket to the Mountain?

The boy used to wander in the fields around his house.
“Don’t go too far,” his mother would cry.
But the boy used to wander in the fields around his house.
One day he followed the teasing of a crow.
Into the dry hills which climbed like steps
On a magic staircase lit by sun and moon
When the crow abandoned the boy
There was no sun, no moon
Just a rocky seat and a cold, cold wind

“Shhhhhh…..”

“Why did I wander so far from home?”
The boy shivered and wondered
“Who do I think I am to wander so far?”
The boy sat and shivered in that dark place
Until a silent explosion of light broke through
Clouds the boy did not know were lurking in the dark
Light blazed forth and the boy beheld that his hard seat
Was the grand pinnacle of a great high mountain.

“Oooooh….”

Eventually the light was shrouded by the clouds again
And hungry for his mother’s sugar cakes, he thought of home.
The boy left the mountain and climbed down the hills
He promised the crow he would not forget the mountain
As he reentered the fields around his house
And was wrapped in the apron embrace of his mother on the porch
He promised the crow he would not forget the light
“Why did you wander so far from home?” mother asked
The boy tried to explain about the crow, the hills,
The rocky seat, the mountain and the light
But the words did not reach her heart

“Hmmm….”

Mother kept the boy close to home
And frowned when ever he talked to crows
Or sang tuneless melodies about alpine light
“You must go to the town and learn your trade”
“You must please the mayor, the banker and the priest”
“You must never, ever let them hear you talking to the crows.”
So with a sack lunch in his hand
The boy put his feet on the hard road to town
And tried not to hear the complaints of the crow
Behind him in the fields around his house

“Awwwk….”

Now the man works in the market square
Buying and selling but never far from his house
He greets the mayor each morning
Gossips with the banker over lunch
Bows his head and accepts the blessings of the priest
Searching for cheap groceries to take to his wife
Buying and selling but never far from his house
The crow sometimes teases him
Calling from the telephone post
The crow leaves him gleaming white gifts
Which remind the man of small mountains
Drying and crumbling slowly in the sun