I am dead to many, a few are dead to me.
I am not forgotten
by girls in green silk sarongs,
(though those also might be dead,
or dead to me,
for in my dreams
they still pour me out like tea.
Some dead have tiptoed over a cliff,
their lips forever duct-taped together
a falling silence yet to land.
Some I fish for in sunny Koi ponds,
they surface but never take my bait.
The dead are still drunk on themselves,
as I am.
My reconstructed world is shrinking,
memories stiffening.
I throw down a rope made of helical vines,
haul up the dead,
breathe life into my own mouth.
Categories:
haul up, poetry,
Form: Free verse
"You assume too much..."
Assumptions: cunning little devils, always sneaking up and
tripping up the clearest thought or the wisest head;
insinuating themselves into cherished beliefs, firm opinions
and the well worn habits of mind and body.
Assuming: convincing thinking and rationales, straightfaced
delivery of error and misconception to an unsuspecting
psyche; there to lead astray, giving form to dark despairs
or euphoric imaginations in an unreal world.
Habits of thought, their errors compounded by the
ceaseless whirl of the mind: too much thinking, too little
action, too few spoken words, a gaze too much inwards,
our inner world too much with us.
I assume too much: why then, how do I escape the
clutches of assumptions, their subtle presence hidden
from my eyes; where is the Watcher who sees and marks
the insidious self deception, the tangled web of errors?
Fight fire with fire: match devil with Fiend, sharp
witted and with keen insight, to haul up sharp my
tumbling thoughts and let some sense prevail; Oh friendly
Fiend, why I thank you..............I'm assuming that's OK?
Categories:
haul up, friendship,
Form: Blank verse
May I write, if you don't mind please?
It seems there's much I long to say,
Haul up the bucket of ideas from my deep wishing well
That reaches Heaven as well as Hell.
Break loose the constraints from the walls,
Chase all the forms down endless halls,
Catch the strange and toothless one And bring it out into the sun,
Hold down the letter and add it's parts until the work is done.
I love to write, what's wrong with that?
In the sound of words and rhythms flowing
I find what seems to me worth showing,
Real or not, cool or hot, whether thin or whether fat.
So I will write, as I do today, again tomorrow, read or unread,
We who write dress up thoughts as leaves adorn the trees,
Planting seeds in minds and hearts as we please,
Ascertaining and dispensing hope instead of dread.
If we choose to rhyme we may, but if not we may not,
We can pun just for fun or tantalize with care,
Immortalize or satirize, do as much as we may dare.
For it is a good thing to write now while still above the family plot.
Categories:
haul up, on writing and words,
Form: Quatrain