Suppose the poems of years ago
when we were young
were long forgotten - but our hearts remembered
the debris of the words - the love
the warmth, the distance transformed
into a prayer. 

Suppose the poems of years ago
when we were close
were true and our souls always knew
the miles between our words is an illusion. 
Love does not erode with time
and still, though the poems are lost
the prayers still ring in God's ears.

Upon a throne of maple red,
the chipmunk king raised his head
looked upon the the leaves, all dead
the plump acorns upon which he fed
and with chirped voice all he said
was,”chipmunk kin, feel no dread!
though another winter lays ahead
we sit together in good stead.”

Below the throne in tones of gold
a little chipmunk, a bit too cold,
said, “Yer majesteee, i’m not so old
i’m scared the snow i’ll first behold
will be much worse than I’ve been told
as all the land becomes enfold
ed in heavy white I’ll be holed
up for many months untold
my tiny fate uncontrolled!”

The chipmunk kind, with tender eyes,
bright and honest, deep and wise
no tolerance for any lies
said, “My little friend, I can’t disguise
the danger of the coming skies,
but rest easy, there comes a prize –
green leaves and spring breeze sighs,
as bitter winter says her goodbyes.”

I have to say, I admire this guy I just met, Dom. I admire that he knows what he likes. I admire and appreciate that he is honest about it.  in his blog he wrote:

“i hate poetry.

thats right, i said it. i hate poetry. it is a cop out. a sham. a bunch of crap spewed on a piece of paper that someone thinks is pretty. its the modern art of the literary world. anyone can write a poem, because there will always be someone else who says “wow, thats poetry”. the only thing that makes a poem a poem is because the writer, or the more laughable title, poet, says its a poem. if i put this paragraph on a piece of paper and said here read my poem, someone would find deeper meaning in it and call it beautiful. dont deny it, you know its true.”
http://domdecaprio.wordpress.com/2011/03/03/poetry-the-modern-art-of-the-literary-world/ 

I have to say, a lot of times he’s right.

I worry about that a lot. I worry that I’m writing the type of poetry he’s talking about. I worry that I’m listening too much to sycophants. I worry that what I’m doing isn’t accomplishing anything. Reading a blog post like this reminds me to look more carefully and consider more closely what I’m doing and why.

So, to all the folks out there who hate poetry, thank you for making me think.

1981, Capetown,
Wine is very cheap in Africa.
white. red. rose. there is no black.

tomorrow, i wear a scarf. tomorrow
i go to the dark areas of the city
throw something, white
red. rose. there is no black.
there is no ceiling
there is time: a beautiful print
flowers in orange, brown, yellow on a dress

1942, Panama,
according to a dead man
he wore a peacoat but wanted a fur collar,
a short cable to a mother: your son is dead
we are sorry.
he thought of wild flowers in a glade in Norwell
His eyes are dark brown
black hair cut for war
looking west and saying nothing
but good things about MacArthur.

Tomorrow, no explosion
But now, you imagine a white cloud
where all the little boys see only blue sky
and men in black pants and plain shirts
see only gray as they prepare to whore themselves
politely

Colorado, 1977
His finger gently taps the shoulder of a cigarette
ash falls to the ground, an orange glow
alludes to some sun – faded in the afternoon heat
the mother of several children, knits a few rows
then pulls them out.

I’m going to drink tonight, I’m Satan
October snow in Massachusetts, 2011.

This is the darkness
here in the bright sun
as the snow melts – the place of want
where a cold soul grows colder.

All stallions, away!
Beat the path to the sea
and wait for your sire to call.

This is the darkness
here in the damp solitude
as the snow melts – the place of need
where frigid fingers fumble for the proper tool.

Falcon, Fly!
Find pray as you find it
and eat your fill.

This is the darkness
here in the chill first of winter
as the snow melts – the place of loss
where a distant sun scoffs at a distant man.

Away dear heart, Away!
Fly free in search of hope.

i see the beetle boring a hole
into the hurt of the old oak
where grandfather carved a heart

antennae flitting about in a flirt of disaster
a hint, perhaps, that piety is an emptiness
filled by the descent of one into the forgetfulness of all

the sun, high and cold, repeats himself
to the shadows as they dance for him
and him alone until night

six legs clasping to the bark
holding fast those jaws that dig
into the length of such fading life

i see the beetle pause before the pit
bored into the delicate beauty of that ancient tree
under which I kissed my bride

on four legs, a subtle rise to greet my rage
a statement of ennui, perhaps holiness is filling
like a prayer for the well-being of a mortal enemy

the sun, behind a tuft of cloud, obscures himself
before the sullen squish of fingers
then, neither glad nor unhappy, he returns

i see the old oak
before the fall
and cry.

she said, “if you want to write great things
you must think great things”
i thought nothing
of it. I wrote on.

she said, “if you want to think great things
you must read great things”
i read in her eyes
nothing. I wrote on.

she said nothing else,
as I thought about what she said.
I wrote on.

Yes, I am a fraud.
It’s a tragedy, really
I was five, wishing
to be a frog, praying
to be a frog, wanting
to be a frog, until
I said it out loud
and realized what
an odd thing it is
to dream of smooth flesh
of green fresh
of cool joyful diving in
of leaping towards
of singing to
the realization
that I am not
God or a frog
Yes, I am a fraud.

a gnat body on a sill
reminds me
like a prophecy

cold cheese, a summer
sausage seeping oil
like a rusted barrel

a fly corpse on a wood floor
reminds me
like a grocery list

uncorked wine, a spotty crystal glass
with a red ring on the bottom
like yesterday

dirty pajamas on a wicker hamper
reminds me
like a casket

long about the break of two
a closed left eye
a taunt of blues
a raven tressed lass in the nude
in a window
fingers being rude

long about the pass of one
an eye half opened
a brunt of sun
a long locked lass with unlocked gun
in a window
wondering is she done?

long about the thought of three
two eyes open
a leafless tree
a pale-fleshed lass tries to see
from a window
just across from me

long about the hour of four
two eyes closed
a hard slammed door
a raven tressed lass in painted gore
in the window
where she stands no more.