It seems a simple thing to stack a thousand tiny beads
upon a mouses nose and call it the honest truth
about politics. But we are not simple people,
we use bowling balls and untamed lions, we lie
about in togas regaling the masses with the art
of being kind in our cruelty. We are not simple people,
we stack beach balls on the nose of an orca
and do not call the professionals. We lie
about naked and angry, talking about politics
waiting for an unsuspecting seal to give approval
to our every bit of insanity. But we are not simple people
it seems, we are the mouseless few that bead jackets
with icons of our own greatness and call it the honest truth.
It seems a simple thing to lie about
the city in old t-shirts and ripped jeans talking. But
the honest truth is, it’s never simply about politics.

Explain to me the art of smiling,
please. I have been a fool so long
and lost amongst my life
that I have forgotten what you taught me
many years ago before the wrinkles found my eyes.

Explain to me what it means to dream
please. I have been a man too long
and misplaced my boyish grin in a sordid past,
I have forgotten who i was when you knew me
many years ago before my lips knew the taste of sighs.

Explain to me the craft of friendship,
please. I have been lost so long
and wandering amongst the sleeping many
that I have forgotten what you showed me
many years ago before my heart knew how to break.

There are no gentle words, my love,
no leaves on any tree that an assuage a thought
to be a poem.

There is rage, and rage and rage
against the agony of days, but no gentleness
in words arranged like this.

There is love, and pain and sometimes hope
but no calm remains in the gray waves
to leave a word gentle on cold flesh.

There are no gentle words, my love,
no psalms, no prayers, no novel thoughts
to twist the hidden parts of man into a healing balm.

There is rage, and range, and rage
against the epiphany of night, but no gentle touch
of words arranged in sheer delight.

There is love, and hurt and sometimes laughter
but no sweet thereafter in the autumn golds
to scatter words gentle in the longing sun.

There are no gentle words, my love,
only hasty notes, and much worse
an almost-kind thought in a sad sad verse.

We are all old today
except for you

You have scared away the years
with your laughter

Taunted wrinkles to unfold
and mocked the palsy of eld
into a tiny ball of snickering loss.

We are all old today
except for you.

You have written down your youth
with cheap ink

Ridiculed paper into poetry
and mocked the story of your life
into a retaining wall holding back the days

We are all old today

except for you.

As always, you manage to give me pause to smile. This poem (I’ll call it “Except For you”) gets to the crux of me with a paucity of words, just how I like it. Perfectly timed for my birthday too, so it holds a bit of extra meaning.  – Andrew Mercieca, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia
 

a hundred crystal wine glasses
stacked, without wine
a pending tragedy, easy to foresee
hard to watch.

a shot glass on a maple bar
empty again
an ongoing tragedy, easy to see
hard to stop

a half-gallon jug of cider vinegar
in a cabinet, collecting dust
a forgotten tragedy, hard to remember
easy to use.

I dream sometimes of love
on a beach, barefeet
in the sand, tears and witness,
wave and breeze.

I dream sometimes of love
in a car, miles waste away
old roads reveal new direction
motion and emotion
become tender caress.

I dream sometimes of love
beneath a rabbit moon
dew turns to frost, star becomes dream,
in the darkness, quiet and peace,
the bite of wind.

I dream sometimes of love
you know.

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.