“I AM”
I am the leader of a one man processional
I am a consummate professional with no job and slim prospects
I am young at heart with an old soul
I am wrestling for control with me, myself, and I
I am a good guy, but not good enough
I am finding it tough to believe, believe me
I am 27, chow, yard
I am going to try, but I never said how hard.
I am a man of course, and a felon to boot
I am a mighty redwood without roots.
I am sitting alone in my cell with a pen
I am fitting to roam straight to Hell, say Amen.
I am anxious and restless and oh so much more
I am waiting to see what’s behind the next door.
I am an enigma, a something quite strange
I am what I am, but I’m willing to change.
Masthead Media Group
Chug Cramproll made his heelstand in Buffalou so the story goes.
He sprinkledd sand on a surface
and made percussion sounds to the amazment of an audeince.
The song "Mumbled" was used as his entrance theme.
It's beleived it was remixed to the standards
of Modern sounds to have
a edgey Urban feel. " Jive Talking" Cat Vamp was said to be his manager.
"Scatt " and Bebop accompanied them to the ring. Off the wire these sounds like
"oh-be Doo-Bee" with some "ahh-you ahh's"
the debutting sounds of reasons.
So Right" and Yubbia Yubbah"
modern talking swing grooves.
When asked about that debut he said
" I'm a fool to want you: you know
that's life: thats the way it's gotta be!"
Where's that Crooner man; WWhere's that Crooner?"
Zu Du-dum: ooh we!
ahh wee ah!
OOh-wee!
There is a need for quietness today,
I listen to my neighbor's toilet flush,
it takes a long time for the sound
to drain away and refill,
I hold seconds inside my mind
between that rise and fall.
There is space for listening,
the trash compactor chews on
when switched off.
I hear conversations
filtering through the air conditioner,
words both distinct and garbled.
Yesterdays hurried meal
speaks still, moments explore
newly opened pocket.
This is not silence
sound moves upon carpet slippers,
yet steps are heightened
by being audible
in a lower registry of depth.
It is I who creates this lengthening,
this processional unwinding of
of unremarkable moments,
a distance between
and marked by blank labels -
every note,
an eavesdropping deliverance.
Driving to nowhere this dashboard, my confessional
My actions are my own doing, always discretional
Finding clairvoyance in love, most days are exceptional
Honest forthright, there is no reason to be transgressional
Live the golden rule, nothing about me unprofessional
I lead this parade, but not a thing about its processional
The chapter that ended, just a prequel of my sucessional
The answers I found, is reflecting becomes progressional
How I feel does nothing to move the costs decimal
Time on its own will always be a stoic recessional
TRANSIENT
made visible
in the eponymous
to
first appear
a
point a
in
linear perspective
relief
with expressive
intensity
a breath
a downcast gaze
with furrowed brow
a presence
of
the
otherwise
as
realism
as
is heightened
by the
remarkable
facilitated
articulated
so processional
readily available
talismanic
effigies
of imagination
realised
by
desire
Do flowers dream a life,
do they also dream of their death?
That whole process of flowering
seems to me ordained,
a processional progression
towards a culmination
one only a natural holiness could dream of.
The bloom becomes a meditation
upon an appointed anointing.
Then at night do they close to rest
in that dream of surrender
a prayer that lives forever
for all of us?
Every becoming part of a flower
is a meditation by rote.
From seed to lovely bloom
a processional unfoldment.
When the bloom wilts
beauty unveils,
the flower sleeps
as if day were night
and all was ever
but a dream.
It is a time to keep a reverent pace
with the hymnal steps of the heart.
The days are become processional,
a folding of past raiment’s
strained with the fabric
of isolation, hardship, and loss.
Rituals are more important
as the year declines,
as nights lengthen and settle
into rumor and whispered lore.
Hold high the votive lights of hope,
cherish each child-like winter flowering
warmed in the sanctum of a quiet breath.
It is a time for congenial chants,
for keeping a reverent pace
with the hymnal steps of the heart.
The year lags behind us
setting slowly now
laden with all its bygone woes.
The days are become processional,
a folding of sacramental raiment’s
strained with the fabric
of isolation, hardship, and loss.
Rituals are more important
as the year declines,
as nights lengthen and settle
into rumor and whispered lore.
It is a time to honor
the sanctuary of flesh and faith,
to lift cupped hands as chalice’s
to sooth anxious eyes.
Hold you now high the votive lights of hope
cherish our child-like winter flowerings
warmed in the sanctum
of each quiet breath.
There is a need for quietness today,
time drapes itself in velvet curtains.
I must move aslant if anywhere needs
to be somewhere.
I listen to my neighbors toilet flush,
It takes a long time for the sound
to drain away and refill
and I dream between that rise and fall.
There is space for listening dreams,
the trash compactor chews on longer,
when I switch it off
bellows breathe in and out
yesterdays hurried meal
speaks on, moments explore
newly opened pocket.
This is not silence
yet sounds move upon carpet slippers,
not muffled
but heightened by being
more awake
to a lower registry of depth.
I guess it is I
who creates this lengthening,
this processional unwinding of
of unremarkable seconds,
yet the distance between them explodes
into acronyms,
labels
for each
eavesdropping deliverance.
They walk in single file beside the river.
Five young men heads newly shaved,
their saffron robes washed so frequently
that orange has turned a saffron yellow,
a yellow seen in temple lamps at dusk.
They gather under a broad Tamarind tree
for shade and rest.
There was a big match last night.
I overhear the names
of Thai football players lauded or lampooned.
The boys shuffle their feet,
dribbling imaginary soccer balls,
skillfully tackling less nimble opponents -
their excited talk
is birdsong beside the water.
Some playful rib digging --- then off they go
one behind the other along the Klong,
processional once more, reciting
a numinous Buddhist chant;
their beatific smiles
perhaps recalling a fumbled kick
or an easy goal.
Do, at night, flowers dream of their death?
The thought, admittedly is a poetic one,
but I find that absurdity,
is often a step ahead of knowledge.
I, being less self-absorbed than the frailest weed,
never dream of death, for death dreams of me,
it crawls into bed with me,
and enters my morning coffee
as a memory of what will come.
Every part of a flower is a construct
of one dream upon another,
it is a meditation by rote,
a chant on rails of light.
Only night can slow that processional unfoldment.
When the bloom wilts, look please with care.
See the beauty of dying flowers,
how they dream themselves out of this world
with their closeted death-songs
see how they impregnate water and soil.
with that last surrendering
of their looking-glass souls.
That empty presence hung upon the day
processional – unknowns who held him dear
bearing the debt of sadness in their way
more apt to crack a joke than shed a tear
the joy of him is what they wish to share.
Thus, those who knew the man would nod assent
commend them for the levity they lent
soft memories that none will e’er deny.
Let laughter be one tone of our lament
commingled with the tears of our good-byes.
5/14/2016
submitted to – Sad Poem – Dizain – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Laura Loo
Sunday afternoons,
or Saturday afternoons,
look and feel richer,
dense relational liturgy of mundane ritual,
often more sabbath quiet.
Quiet neighborhood school playground
celebrates more solitary visits
seeking silent sensory selftalk,
muse swings back and forth,
happy slides up elational,
processional,
then downright ecstatic.
Sunday's GratitudeGoRound
of a warm winter's sun
pretexting Spring's redemptive dance,
prancing across wet jungle gyms
of mythic pirate romance,
swinging Tarzans and Janes
flying rope to rope
bar to bar
beating outdoor kettle drums
of Sunday's sacred playground joy.
This light we bring to sabbath
Sunday's sun absorbs
full resolved through echoing play,
a child again
in love's sequestered Solar System womb
giving happy birth to weeks
becoming strong,
EarthBound PlayGround
ecstatically beloved
Queen Shabbat's weekly baptism
in love child's regenerativity.
Pavane for my dead daughter
So Innocent
So Chaste
So young
Unfulfilled
She died in my arms in the courtyard
The courtyard of my villa in Spain
What had she done to deserve this?
What had I done?
Is there nothing up THERE?
No Pity
No love
Above
How dare THEY preach of love?
My hatred knows no bounds
I’d crucify HIM once again
And again and again
I sit with her in my arms
In the courtyard
The courtyard of my villa in Spain
I’ll lead the sad Pavane
The sad processional dance
For my darling daughter
I am bereft
What had she done to deserve this?
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