Urban Poem

This feels like a month of reflection of my uncle Phil’s journey to spirit land and his life and family here on earth. It is not sadness really, more a kind of different living and now thinking of what I experienced in the many years, 30? of knowing him. I decided to publish my last poem I had sent him.

EMERALD written 12.29.2008

Rows of fabric in color and arrangement on ourselves and others

Our similar vessels of living function always a hum and on

The sky outwards of fires that are distant

The cries unheard

Hearts in confusion

Reverberation to the soil thick with debris

A war in distant land and horrible stories that must be told.

Holiday Tippy poem

I wrote another poem, not sure where this is going, I suspect a temporary phase of creativity exploration. I know writing can be more work than this and maybe it shows in the amateur and wince of beginning. It is fun so far. It feels personal and revealing, I don’t mind and hopefully it is less than boring.

Standing on a Tippy Ball

Just on the tippy ball

I felt lost.

Temporary doom or

rather I hadn’t known that

on a wet dark sleepy night

swirling stirfry, tunes playing.

It became a forever moment, slight regret to end a party cooking dinner.

The following day in another form, a physical reminder

I was better before the caffeine, without,

to be now caffeine me.

Removed, reminded by cold, by hot.

The search for the ungraspable puzzle.

Holding a thread, a  journey to end

to start anew.

Poem today

I spoke to my uncle Phil who lives in Gloucester today. I was telling him and then reading to him a Gary Snyder poem from the October New Yorker and then I copied it into a letter to him. All in the same day. Phil encouraged me to write a poem or two. So I wrote one just for fun, unedited straight from the hip, title and all. Probably a hint of inspiration from Gary Snyder.

It Went On

I crossed another stream of lights
passing cars

The weather so no plan at all
it worked for me

the party, the love, the nourish gift
the confusion
how do we be defined
no I want my only perfection

It is pain, it is healing

water is the image
of change