I am the cock's scrotum sac,
Listen and hear my plea:
I am
handsome to the ladies
Best aquainted with me!
Those that
know me well,
Squirm in pleasure at our greeting!
And weep and cry,
and moan with delight
Upon the occasion of our meeting!
September 22, 2006
Thursday, December 6, 2012
POEM: NOMADS(1995)
NOMADS
In my
grandmother’s
Twilight
hours
Dreamt
of
Dark
dusty night:
A long
journey
I
walked alone.
I
arrived
Cottage
of my own sunset;
No
light from the window,
No
arms at the door.
Let
myself in
Stirred
ashes
Stoked
fires
Made
dinner.
Wept
in silence
At the
solitary hearth;
Shadow
play
On my
wrinkled hands
Reminded
me
My
body in youth:
Straight
bones
Clean
blood;
No
stretch marks
No sag
Smooth
skin.
Skyward
curve
Of
breasts and buttocks,
Before
men
Before
fear
Before
(look away, say quickly in
one breath)
Drugs,
rape, pregnancies, pain.
Before
a broken heart.
I had
this dream
Before
Nonny died.
Then a
dawn came
My
grandmother
Did
not return from
Night.
I came
back
From
this Carnival
To
this
Lush
land (where silent snakes
curve
deadly
like
rivers
and
my reflection lies
coiled
in eyes
I’d
rather forget;
I
remembered why
I
left
the
moment I returned).
Here
I am a
ghost;
I can
remember
Before
I was born.
Old
Grandmothers,
I
remember,
Walked
Highlands at dawn,
Beaches
at dusk.
I
remember
A new
country
A
missionary’s life;
I
remember
Boston
streets
A
wealthy Englishman’s wife;
I
remember
White
frame house
A poet
and painter.
I must
not forget
A
candy maker
Whose
hands
Lie
folded
In my
lap.
I
remember
First
Grandmother
Drank
scotch,
Danced
a jig,
Cursed
First Grandfather.
I
remember
What
First Grandmother
Told
her daughters;
I
remember
First
Grandfather
Never
returned for long.
First
Grandmother
Never
told
Of
lonely twilight
Lengthening
Into
night,
And no
fire kindled
At her
last hearth.
My own
grandmother
Whispered
it sometimes
When
she could find me;
And
how rare that?
Me,
whole,
Away
from Circus;
I have
wandered so far.
Her
gnarled hands
Would
grip mine
Like
tree roots
Seeking
earth;
“Time
to stop these
Generations
of roaming,”
She’d
say;
“I
have my
Hopes
on you.”
Then
she’d
Teach
her crafts:
Candy-making
and story-telling;
Different
from those
Her
grandmother taught her;
But,
“Any craft will do,”
She’d
warn me;
“Something
to exchange for
Welcome
at another hearth,
Even a
Tinker’s campfire.”
I’d
look away
Wondering
If she
knew
How
many
Gypsy
boys
My
body nourished
Before
I trusted
My own
crafts.
I know
why
Never
my children
Cradled
my arms;
I know
why
Never
I lay
Wrapped
warm
In
Highland Shepherd’s plaid:
Nomads,
we
Whose
hearts
Became
brittle
When
men failed
Firelight
vigil;
Unprotected,
We
learned
To
keep warm
Alone.
Nomads,
we
Who
chase hearth fires
Of
others;
Refuse
to use
Broken
bits
Of our
own
Unforgiving
souls
To
kindle a spark,
Bring
Grandfather back.
I
drink old scotch,
And
dance a jig;
I know
how
To
keep warm;
Still,
I cry out
For
Grandfather’s son
To
return
Without
shame.
I
sleep with a new dream:
A
twilight croft,
Two
grandparents
Well
wrapped
Lie
warm.
Dusk
deepens
Fires
fade
Soon
enough
Without
a curse.
Final
draft 20 December 1995
copyright
Monday, December 3, 2012
CHANCE OPERATIONS
I went to Chance Operations. It was JK Publishing night. This is all local poets. www.jkpublishing.org
They published Bob Reuter's new book. I really enjoyed hearing Bob! He is a true Renaissance Man and is always doing something interesting. Photography, radio show, musician, poet. He is also the subject of a movie! He is a genuine St. Louis unique, nowhere else in the world, man.
Chris Parr read from his new book. Going to Find It.
I read Seamus Heaney's "Undine". I also read two poems of mine. I posted them seperately.
The first was from my Holiday Greetings in 2004: Birds Of Prayer
And one I wrote with in the last week or so, mostly today. (Chance Operations inspires me! :)
The Moonlight Tells Her Secrets. I might be editing this one a bit.
As always, it was a great night!
They published Bob Reuter's new book. I really enjoyed hearing Bob! He is a true Renaissance Man and is always doing something interesting. Photography, radio show, musician, poet. He is also the subject of a movie! He is a genuine St. Louis unique, nowhere else in the world, man.
Chris Parr read from his new book. Going to Find It.
I read Seamus Heaney's "Undine". I also read two poems of mine. I posted them seperately.
The first was from my Holiday Greetings in 2004: Birds Of Prayer
And one I wrote with in the last week or so, mostly today. (Chance Operations inspires me! :)
The Moonlight Tells Her Secrets. I might be editing this one a bit.
As always, it was a great night!
POEM: THE MOONLIGHT TELLS HER SECRETS
I have shone upon you, and
upon all of your grandmothers,
every one.
I have lain among the fragrant
sandalwood forests with
dark-eyed men
and made romantic
the guilt edges
of their sharp scimitars.
I have caressed the breasts
and smooth thighs of
lush maidens on the floor of jungles,
and danced across the thorns of thistle
on moors
inhospitable and alien
without me.
I have touched the
rarest flower as she bloomed,
and also as her last petal withered and fell
to the ground.
I have ridden
the broad whale's back
as he spiraled above the ocean,
and as he disappeared into
the water again,
dove back down
far below
out of my reach
and left me to mourn on the surface
of the smooth sea,
for stormy weather and white capped waves.
You ask me
how can I love
such an ordinary place,
average people,
undistinguished streams and woods
without distinct character?
These few ragged weeds in an urban sidewalk
crack?
And ghetto palm trees,
their scent
blending with the stink of the sewage-runoff
wash that is pregnant with trash,
dry and stagnant,
rarely clear with stream--
How could I love such as this?
You ask me
because you think it would be better
if I had found you
gazing at me from the base of
the Taj Mahal
or beaches of Bora Bora.
Can you not see that
I love you all
equally?
The scimitar and the palm fronds
and the sea and the
dry wash, I love them all
the same.
I love you. And I love the kings,
and the sandalwood forests
and the soft bellies and backsides
of agile maidens. And I love
the sleeping larks,
swooping bats,
mating frogs, and
the drunk man ordering tacos at
jack in the box drive thru at 2 AM,
wondering if his wife will let him in
when he gets home. I love him and I love
the self-immolating monk
in Myanmar, lighting
the predawn capitol streets
with a glow that seems warm
and inviting,
from an ignorant distance.
I love the piles of rubbish,
and the empty lots,
and the ancient icebergs in the Arctic seas,
and the bloody battlefields
filled with fallen heroes.
I love the maggot and the murderer,
the wolf and the lamb,
the cockroach and the Kephri,
I love them all the same.
I love everything that you are,
and I illuminate everything
that you might choose your
path, and make your way.
I love you so much that I
would spend eternity
in the darkness,
my gaze mesmerized, turning,
undulating
over you as you stand beneath
those ordinary cottonwoods,
by that undistinguished creek,
in an uneventful city.
All have my blessing.
All are part of the night.
All may share the bounty
of my light.
I love and I find love.
I love and I find you.
I shine upon you,
and you shine upon the night.
Copyright 2012
upon all of your grandmothers,
every one.
I have lain among the fragrant
sandalwood forests with
dark-eyed men
and made romantic
the guilt edges
of their sharp scimitars.
I have caressed the breasts
and smooth thighs of
lush maidens on the floor of jungles,
and danced across the thorns of thistle
on moors
inhospitable and alien
without me.
I have touched the
rarest flower as she bloomed,
and also as her last petal withered and fell
to the ground.
I have ridden
the broad whale's back
as he spiraled above the ocean,
and as he disappeared into
the water again,
dove back down
far below
out of my reach
and left me to mourn on the surface
of the smooth sea,
for stormy weather and white capped waves.
You ask me
how can I love
such an ordinary place,
average people,
undistinguished streams and woods
without distinct character?
These few ragged weeds in an urban sidewalk
crack?
And ghetto palm trees,
their scent
blending with the stink of the sewage-runoff
wash that is pregnant with trash,
dry and stagnant,
rarely clear with stream--
How could I love such as this?
You ask me
because you think it would be better
if I had found you
gazing at me from the base of
the Taj Mahal
or beaches of Bora Bora.
Can you not see that
I love you all
equally?
The scimitar and the palm fronds
and the sea and the
dry wash, I love them all
the same.
I love you. And I love the kings,
and the sandalwood forests
and the soft bellies and backsides
of agile maidens. And I love
the sleeping larks,
swooping bats,
mating frogs, and
the drunk man ordering tacos at
jack in the box drive thru at 2 AM,
wondering if his wife will let him in
when he gets home. I love him and I love
the self-immolating monk
in Myanmar, lighting
the predawn capitol streets
with a glow that seems warm
and inviting,
from an ignorant distance.
I love the piles of rubbish,
and the empty lots,
and the ancient icebergs in the Arctic seas,
and the bloody battlefields
filled with fallen heroes.
I love the maggot and the murderer,
the wolf and the lamb,
the cockroach and the Kephri,
I love them all the same.
I love everything that you are,
and I illuminate everything
that you might choose your
path, and make your way.
I love you so much that I
would spend eternity
in the darkness,
my gaze mesmerized, turning,
undulating
over you as you stand beneath
those ordinary cottonwoods,
by that undistinguished creek,
in an uneventful city.
All have my blessing.
All are part of the night.
All may share the bounty
of my light.
I love and I find love.
I love and I find you.
I shine upon you,
and you shine upon the night.
Copyright 2012
POEM: BIRDS OF PRAYER
From Within and from Without, keep Christmas a cardinal bright,
Among the evergreen boughs of Hope, the stars crowning us with Light.
On Christmas Day in the morning
Send not sailing ships of three,
But Peace doves, a pair for mating,
East and West o'er the sunrise sea.
From the North and from the South
Let the Happiness bluebirds fly,
In mighty flocks, soaring forth
Across the innocent pink-dawn sky.
And if it were true as Above, so Below,
No more would the war crows find
A place to nest or a place to grow;
At first light Joy to earth would bind.
As in all Seasons Past, until Evermore,
Sweet sparrows and wrens sing Good Cheer!
Hear this, my prayer, on Christmas Day morn,
For the newborn sun, blessed babe, and New Year.
Copyright 2004
Among the evergreen boughs of Hope, the stars crowning us with Light.
On Christmas Day in the morning
Send not sailing ships of three,
But Peace doves, a pair for mating,
East and West o'er the sunrise sea.
From the North and from the South
Let the Happiness bluebirds fly,
In mighty flocks, soaring forth
Across the innocent pink-dawn sky.
And if it were true as Above, so Below,
No more would the war crows find
A place to nest or a place to grow;
At first light Joy to earth would bind.
As in all Seasons Past, until Evermore,
Sweet sparrows and wrens sing Good Cheer!
Hear this, my prayer, on Christmas Day morn,
For the newborn sun, blessed babe, and New Year.
Copyright 2004
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