Tag Archives: poetry month

April was National Poetry month so I wrote a bunch of poems

The Observer Effect
Even good things come with complications
Even simple things come with implications
Even light things leave indentions
Even facts invite inventions
The observer effect applies
To all that crosses ears and eyes

Light matter
The cold, dense core of my self
Collapses under the weight of my own gravity
And little protostars of love
Tiny little free-floating chunks of affection for random strangers
Ignited with the energy of Love’s grace
Form young stars that go flaming out into the dark
It seems light years ago that I spun there alone and dark and cold

Not enough wine
Is there enough wine in the house
to teach an octogenarian
how to use an iphone?

Eleven
I was just lying there in the grass with the radio on.
The sun made little floating red spots through my closed lids
or on the insides of them
or behind my eyeballs in my head.

I was just lying there in the grass being eleven
listening to Freda Payne sing Band of Gold,
between the house I lived in
and the swing set I still used.

I was just lying there in the grass by my house.
I didn’t know it was the last time I would lie there
and call that white house home
and call that swing set mine.

I was just lying there in the green
hearing gold, watching red, feeling blue, losing white
Not knowing then what I know now
and not knowing how to love what I was losing.

Impaired vision through a half empty darkened glass
I wish I was stupid. I wish I was simple.
I wish I was satisfied with a life with no “buts.”
But
I find the ‘buts’ in every argument and see every possible way a plan can fail
I see the water evaporating out of the half empty glass.
I remember the humiliation of failure and the pain of consequences.
I swim like I know the glass is there because I’ve hit it so many times.

Reflection on the line in Linklater’s “Boyhood” that made me cry
It is inevitable that lives made of summer breezes and surprise
Would slip off on their own trajectories so soon.

Those few delightful years squandered
By assumptions that there would be more time.

And now the voices that clamored for my ears
Have become the deafening silence of absence

And the lives that so briefly were mine to direct
Are beyond my influence and out of my sight.

Olivia spoke my heart when she said,
“I thought there would be more.”

I regret that I wasn’t as present when I was there then
Because it would probably seem like more now.

Pessimist’s dilemma
The certainty of sadness or the worry of wondering
This is the pessimist’s dilemma.
What disaster might the ringing telephone announce?
What unknown grief might the silent phone delay?
What disturbing truth might digging through the facts reveal?
What preventable problem might ignorance exacerbate?
What failure might be risk’s reward?
What lethargy might be fear’s inevitable fruit?

Is knowing or not more depressing-
Is every problem worth addressing-
Is every issue worth assessing-
When possibilities are so distressing?

Impotent Empathy
When my heart’s
not
breaking
for you
It’s breaking
because
of you.
And
There
Is
Nothing
I would not do for you
But
There
Is
Nothing
I can do for you.
I don’t know
What
To say.
I say nothing
Or everything
Or the wrong thing
And all of them
Are
Wrong.

On not wanting to get sucked into an argument
I care enough to care
But not enough to argue.
I just want to sit here in peace.
I want to close my eyes and feel cool breezes
And pull the quilt around me
And pull the night around me
And sit in peace and silence.

Poet poem
Robert wrote of boundaries and how we need them.
Emily never left the house again
Sylvia never left the stove again.
Cathy drives into the garage and closes the door before getting out.
She keep the blinds shut.
She speaks when spoken to.
She keeps the door closed and the stove off.
Stupid electric range.
Burns everything and kills nothing.

Prison Break
I found you hiding under ordinary circumstances
Peeking out beneath the norm
You said I should go away
To come again another day
You slid back into that gray
But I stay, I stay

Ankle deep in all your hurt
I dig my toes into your dirt
And I stay, I stay

Tired of the trap, tired of the tired
Tired of trying to try
Come with me and dream
Come with me and fly.
No more reasons No more whys
Time to fly

I’ve got a tank full of starlight and a red dot on the map
Let’s roll out of town on a dream
Leave behind this ashen night
And roll on out of sight
We may never see daylight
But we might,
we might, we might

I don’t know if this is fight or flight
Don’t know if we’ve got this right
Let’s take the chance we might,
we might, we might.

A rap song by an old white chick It’s all about the beat…beat…beat. It’s all about the flow…flow…flow. Inane words insane beats. Repeat repeat repeat. Insert pop culture reference. Somethin bout yo fence. Something bout a ho. Somethin  bout blow. Somthin bout the butt of some ho you know. about that flow…flow…flow It’s all about that beat…beat..beat. All about that flow flow flow. Spit bout scrilla. How you a killa. Name you wanna tap. Rage against the trap. Somewhere in the hook reference a literary book. Back to the verse. Curse. Curse. Curse. Obligatory topics. Music gets a little tropic. Get a little sing-song. Size of yo ding dong. Size of yo big bong. Size of a bitch ass. Compare and contrast. Enunciate to every beat. Language of the street. It’s all about the beat…beat…beat. All about that flow flow flow.

Signs on the road not taken
The road not taken
may only be optional in Robert’s head.
Most of the forks in the road
have warning signs of dangers ahead.
.
A road not taken
is blocked off by sawhorses and the word “Detour”
unlike those other lemmings he ignores the sign
and follow rebellion’s allure.

A road not taken
has a tasteful sign that says “private property”
I can guarantee that I have never been the “private”
in private property

A road not taken
plainly informs of a “dead end”
This time she bravely forges ahead.
Damaged and wounded, she comes backing out again.

A road not taken
screams “Danger;” “Do not enter;” “Stop”
too late they come to a screeching halt
and paranoid, look for cops.

A road not taken
stretches out like a racetrack, smooth and fast,
We obediently turn with the white line
that follows the road most taken, beaten at last.