Poetry

Action Sequence

Over, under, treading, swimming

Boiling, freezing, tepid, cool,

When the thoughts spin ’round in chaos,

Throw me in a swimming pool.

Magnify the light of day.

Muffle sounds that pound the drums.

I’ll surface for each breath of air,

Then back below where thoughts are mum.

Heartbeat steadies,

Skin transforms,

Lungs retain and outperform.

Weightless feeling-

What a dream-

As pressure battles gravity.

Then back above, the volume rises,

Water droplets cold on skin-

Shrouded in terry disguise,

Wrapped around, corner tucked in.

Simulate weightless sensation

Back inside where it is dry.

Turn down overthought narration –

Headphones on so sound can’t pry.

Action precedes motivation.

Find a pleasant place to write.

Buckle down and face your fears.

You’re underwater.

You’ll be alright.

Poetry

Unwaking Words

Conversation can be tough to tread

relying on your ears alone,

no surgeon on rotation

to dissect each little undertone.

And waking nights lend prime recall

of words you meant to only think.

They conjure spiral slides in view

that lead to pits of spiraled thinks.

And words, those writ for reading,

revitalize when vocalized.

Though some, perhaps, are best to rest

away from ears and lips and jest

to cast their shadows long in size

in silence- long anesthetized.

Poetry

George Bailey

Fate is a dance on a retractable floor

revealing a swimming pool.

The threat is exciting,

the water- inviting.

Sometimes you can’t help but fall in.

A cat in a box

In Schrödinger’s thoughts

Would tell you you’ve little to say

In the matters of fate and lasers and beams,

Trapped as we are in sadistic dreams

Where false seems real and reality fake.

Mary leaned over and whispered,

Yet also, Mary did not.

It depends on the channels to which you subscribe.

It depends on George Bailey’s ever being alive,

But her words echo now while constructing these lines.

“George Bailey, I’ll love you till the day I die.”

New paths sprout up all around.

Some are searing and bright.

Some lack shadow or sound.

Stumble or wander wherever you may

For you’ve little to say in the matter of fate.

Just ask that cat in the box.

Too late.

Buffalo gals won’t come out tonight,

Say the moon’s an impractical gift,

Yet George Bailey’s dream soar.

Practicality’s a bore.

It’s a wonderful life, so long as it’s lived.

Poetry

Puddle Jumping

Gray and green,

Sunlight unseen,

Pages, not read, lay waiting.

Low clouds are prowling.

The kettle is howling

And glass ripples, warped, on the bay.

Wind chimes sing

Branches bow to no king

Mug warm on my fingers and steaming.

Birds are conversing

Are the woods worth traversing

On a soon to be blustery day?

There’ll be mud and mist

And leaves all a-twist,

Their pale backs turned on the storm.

The ocean looks duller

And I’m craving color

Over being cozy and warm.

So I pull on my boots

To visit some roots

And wander the natural cathedrals

Of towering trees,

Fresh air sure to please,

Puddle jumping along at my leisure.

Nostalgic Posts · Poetry

Sixteen

Seventeen was sweeter than sixteen

But sixteen wasn’t half bad

Carefree and alive

Attempting to drive

Converse on the clutch

Bubblegum on the breath

Sargent at the Met

TAI… at the Bowery

Broadway Diner and Nautilus

Fries dipped in gravy

Magic Blends from the fountain

Tiny tastes of independence

Experimental fashion sense

Mini skirts and long sweaters

Julie Taymor directing our lives

Manya’s mannequin in the basement

Some controlled mayhem

Pouring sand on melted plastic in the driveway

Once the last knot burned

Movies on the weekend

Cross-legged in the seats

Peach Schnapps in the basement and The Virgin Suicides

A few sips could buzz our minds

Skylights, fireflies, and finding space on the couch

Sleeping in non-sleeping places

Light as a feather, stiff as a board

Stalled in a cornfield

Chainless saws in the distance

Squeals and laughter- fear’s resistance

Molly, Ally, Emilio, Judd, and Anthony

Stillwater and Doris

Grapes and wishes on New Year’s

With the friends turned family

In the beautiful days of sixteen

Poetry

Abandoned Character

I walked by the bay and disposed of treasure

Without taking care to measure

The value at the time,

What I held as mine-

Now gone,

A passing thought,

A character erased,

The plot debased,

Left on the porch of History House

In a rocker beside the door-

The words no more,

Retained only in memory.

Characters suited to different tales,

Creative concept – doomed to fail,

Flightless birds,

Deleted words,

Debris of fate,

A breath exhaled,

Destruction mode on,

Eliminated pawns,

The Queen- exposed, unknowing.

Protect the protector-

That little defender

Who fell asleep on the job.

Poetry

Dream on the Cusp

Woke up today feeling small-

Not weak or defeated,

Just not much at all,

A speck on a marble that spins round and round,

In a bed, in a house, on the ground.

You couldn’t see me from space,

Head up in the clouds

Of fog fallen from grace,

Looking up towards the gray to peel and reveal,

And wonder why Earth’s a big deal.

Dreams circle black holes

Drawn to depths un-suspect,

Stretched like melted shoe soles,

Till I can’t recognize, translate, or surmise,

Stars extinguished from sparkling skies.

Wake to reason sipped on the porch-

Ground elixir of addicts

That can’t hold a torch

To the infinite warps of spacetime, sublime

That inspired this wandering rhyme.

Nostalgic Posts · Poetry

Seventeen, Twenty-Six, and Thirty-Two

I came to life at seventeen

With my suntan and purple shorts.

You were too cool, too witty for me,

But somehow you wanted me too-

A big smile and brown curls who woke up for you.

I wore a blue dress to the movies

And stole my sister’s shoes that she never let me borrow –

Head on your shoulder –

Arm in arm out the door to the car.

Ice cream kiss

Like kerosene poured on a slow burn.

I loved you before I even knew it

And realized it sometime walking in the rain,

Then woke up thinking it was all a dream.

A bus ride apart, an ocean apart.

No one understood us but us.

Love letters to Spain,

Love letters to Baltimore.

I keep them in a box to remember that you.

At twenty-six I wore a white dress –

The prettiest I’ll ever wear,

A veil, pearls, and pink shoes.

I walked a long way down to you,

Daisies, tears, and a smile on my dad’s arm.

We danced to our song

And the band erred on the words,

But the bar was open

And the room was full of love.

You twirled me when I asked you to

And I realized what it is to feel

You are exactly what you’re meant to be at a moment in time.

And I realized I was meant to be that white dress and those pearls,

That veil and those pink shoes

Being twirled around by you.

At thirty-two, I am yours still

And feel lucky you choose me too

Even though your brain can walk in a straight line

While mine thinks in roller coaster loops,

But I’m brave enough to ride them with you.

You suffer coffee kisses and New Jersey

And come home to me each night,

To water views and too many cozy lamps,

To sitting on the blue couch

Beside seventeen, twenty-six, and thirty-two.

Poetry

At War with the Machine

Pins file in line- swords piercing cloth, perilous and shining.

The iron’s sear flattens the landscape, exposing the flaws in strategy.

Swords realign till the boiling heat of near mistake cools.

Scissors attack and obliterate the fold, anticipating the outcome with finality.

Survey the field in the calm before the hammering drums begin to sound.

Put the pedal in its place and turn on the switch.

Light shines bright and warm on gleaming metal.

Bring forth the colors.

Pull out the balance wheel and uniform the bobbin.

Wind up the artillery.

Restore the balance.

Tension and stitch click into formation.

Set the spool and wind the fuse through guides, uptake, and needle.

Join that of the bobbin and pull back to a safe distance to avoid disaster in the trench.

Fit the machine about the landscape and drop the foot.

Activate the pedal to sound the drums.

Battle commences.

Forward.

Backward.

Forward again.

Establish an anchor point

Then soldier on.

Remove any sword in your way, brave enough to face your determined hands.

File the fallen away in the tin box off the field.

Stop.

Lower the needle.

Rotate the plan of attack then charge ahead.

Drums hammer on.

The field is pierced until the last seam is sealed.

Forward.

Backward.

Forward again.

Strengthen your anchor point.

Pull back.

Sever the machine.

Survey the outcome of the battle.

Collect the fallen.

Look for the stitches that won’t heal right;

Rip out and resew the wounds.

Cautery awaits them on the ironing board.

With the badge of victory to follow.

Poetry

Two-Way Mirror

I want to know you.

I want you to know me too.

But on my side, I’ve a mirror,

You – a window to see through.

Do you enjoy what you see?

This self portrait of me?

Is your nose pressed to the glass?

Am I who you thought I would be?

Sometimes lengthy, sometimes brief,

Sometimes lost in the grief,

Tongue tangled with words

Typed with ease for relief.

But I ache for your stories,

Your low points, your glories.

It makes me so curious,

Diamonds – hidden in quarries.

And where do you read

All the words that I’ve keyed,

All the soul that’s been spilled

For your pleasure, your need?

And how long will you stay

To read what I’ve to say

To eyes voiceless and faceless,

Some – so far away?

Perhaps I’ll never know

How your stories all go.

I’ll continue to wonder.

I’ll continue to show.

Diamonds, so mined –

Some lustrous and shined,

Some clouded and rough,

Some polished – refined.

I’ll churn out more prose,

Hope the poetry flows,

Envelop your interest,

Press mirror to nose.

I’ll squint through the glass,

Hoping your stories pass,

But it’s tough to see through

In this mirror so vast.