A poem is a poem is a monkey
A germ is a germ is a fish
A tune is a tune spare and funky
A death is a death is a wish

A word is a word is an ottoman
A frog is a frog is a wall
A book is a book thick and artisan
A life is a life is a pall

Thus in the glimpse of the dastardly
Warmed by sun somewhat bastardly
The truth comes from truth comes from Iowa
The lies come from lies comes from viola

Thus in the span of the table
cooled by some ice from a fable
the lies lead to lies lead to magic
and truth follows truth follows tragic

A poem is a poem is unicorn, oh
A germ is a germ is a book
A tune is a tune hard and porno
A death is a death is a look

A word is a word is a bedpan
A frog is a frog is a chair
A book is a book sweet and deadpan
A life is a life is a dare

High upon the red’ning hill
where I wait so mute and still
I dream of you in orange dress
ready to, in joy, confess
eternity and three weeks more
your love for me will endure

Far below the dark’ning pond
where dreams all dream of well beyond
I see your shadow pass me by
and wonder if love is a lie
or if you’ll pause upon that shore
and prove the soft of love’s sweet roar

On the road where words seem hard
I drive through desert then on toward
the green place where lovers screamed
the little deaths of the unredeemed.
Perhaps you’ll come knapsack in hand
we’ll walk until we understand

That love is not another dawn
It’s what is left when all have gone

In the voice before me is the Buddha
round-bellied and smiling
The  other Buddhas and Bodhisattvas encircle him
like the full moon surrounded
by serene sanctity of stars.

I bow humbly
my body, speech, and mind offered
to the sanctified spirit of peace.

This sacrifice of time becomes a confession
of every wrong choice, wrong thought and wrong deed
A reverberating meditation
fit to rejoice in the fancy garments of virtue.

Every body and every soul flow on
as enlightenment
turns the wheel of Dharma.

Now, I’m not a certified expert. I grant you this, but I have written me a bit of something here and there and I think from time to time I might have a helpful thought or two stuck in my gaping maw.  So today I wanted to take 4-5min and jot down a few things that might help when you want to write a poem about this.

First, if you’re asking ‘what’s this?’ – it’s time for you to move along. I’m not answering that question today. I’m not here to tell you your mind. I’m not here to tell you what to do. I’m not even really here to tell you how to do it. I’m just dashing off some ideas. That’s it. If you don’t like it, kindly go away.

Secondly, if you’re thinking I’m nuts – that’s fine. I probably am. It’s irrelevant, lots of insane people have written incredibly good poetry and prose. So, think what you want on that matter, I have no preference.

That brings us back to this. “What can I do to write a poem about this?”

I think the best approach to writing about this, is a sort of Socratic prosaic or poetic method.  Ask yourself a series of questions, and jot down the answers. You can do it in a bulleted list, or you can just free write each answer, it doesn’t really matter. In the end, you’ll have material about this, and you’ll be able to produce something substantial.

I generally find it easiest to observe this, and then ask myself – what are the 10 words that best describe what I’m seeing? What are the 10 words that best describe what I’m hearing?

Word lists aren’t generally the best way to write great material, but, when you’re writing it’s nice to have them to glance back at.

Next I ask myself, what is the opposite of this? What is that? Once I know what that is, I ask myself what are the most complimentary two or three things to this?

Look at it this way, If THIS were a season, what would be it’s opposite season? What would be the seasons preceding and subsequent to it? If this were a letter, would it be a vowel or a consonant?

If this were a job, what type of person would stereotypically do it? If this had a gender, what would it be?

What religion would this be? What philosophy would it have about poison ivy? Why didn’t this come up at your fifth birthday party?

These questions might seem very ‘free-writing-ish’ but they’re not really.  The entire point is illustrating creative thinking, analysis and observation.

The worst place a writer can be trapped is in their own mind. When thoughts twist and tangle until the sense of self is the only easy reality available, writing becomes a empty reflection of the least important parts of an ego. This often feels good for a writer, but it is shallow and not terribly rewarding.

The easiest path out of  this mind-trap is it through active observation and engagement. Let the  mantra be: Writing is not a passive thing.  Writing is confrontational. Writing is active. Writing is creation through force of word and will.

And there it is. If you want to write about this – then look at this. then consider this in relation to that. Consider the physical and spiritual forms of this. Reflect on the nature of this. Writing about this does not require ‘knowing’ this or ‘understanding’ this – it requires considering this.

Now don’t get me started about writing about that.

For a moment, I watch the snapshot
of a boy becoming a man. He is
smiling, one arm draped over a woman
with ebony skin and smile that explodes
with joy, the other is around a young man
who will be a marine tomorrow.

Tonight, they are still
children and adult. Tonight they only know
joy.

Tomorrow, the picture will be printed
They will frame it in a cheap $5 frame
They will stash it in their luggage to bring with them
to the future.

Someday, when I’m long dead, they will still remember
They will still look at the picture and smile,
They will never know, I watched them. That I was there
beside them.

mars is a planet

the dog peed on the rug

cheese, good old fashioned american cheese

a man in a pinstripe suit.

mars is still a planet

doG does not exist.

thoroughly modern muenster

a man in a blue pinstripe suit

Really, mars IS a planet

or circles mean nothing

i’m not inclined to