Friday, March 29, 2013

Poetry Circus: Haiku


Telephoned Cleveland-
heights golf course, a grey bob cat
is on the prowl.

Thursday, March 28, 2013

Poetry Circus: My Route to Lakeland Florida 2006


I began
1893 miles from-
the start of the connect 
the dot puzzle,
(Start) Lakeland Florida
to Atlanta Georgia,
to Chattanooga Tennessee
to St. Louis, Missouri,
to Lawrence, Kansas,
to Denver, Colorado,
up to my home Longmont.
(End)  
29.5 hours trapped
behind the steering
wheel, and day dreaming
like a little train headed
across I-70 and down I-75.
I think I see a picture 
emerge, one that looks 
like a rabbit 
with an enormous 
carrot. Did you 
think I would 
be crass?
Or sick?
I ended.

Poetry Circus: Youthful Flavors

The witches face cackled
wrinkled like a popcorn ceiling,
an usher with a flashlight.  
The fridge would hum mm and talk to me
filling my head up with lies
snap- crackling- pop
like cracker jacks stuck on socks,
or dried up milk, spilled on corduroys.   
The pink hippos ate.  
And Spider Man appeared on the
Electric Company.
Doug was a guest of
Blinky the Clown.  
As I sat and watched the world descend in shadow.

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Tales from Barba Roja (the Politically Incorrect Pirate)


This is a correspondence from Barba Roja the magnificient Pirate to his parents.  We found the letter bound up in a bunch of junk mail.   It was dated April 20, 1973.

Dear Mom and Dad,
Wow its been three months since last we spoke to each other.   I am sorry for the lack of communication, but as you will read the last three months have not been easy, at all.   Well are you sitting down.  Good.   On February 20th, I was going to get a half gallon of milk at the Jiffy Palace when I was impolitely shot.   I think some kids in the neighborhood were having fun shooting guns into the air.   Of course when it is your time to go its your time to go.   So I died.   Bummer.  

Wow, what an ordeal the semi-afterlife was.   I was semi-excited to see Jesus and thank him for the short life I had on earth.   But there was no St. Peter.  There was no gate.   There was only Vishnu,  and his blue hall.   If you didn't know, Vishnu is one of those great towel head gods, who sits on a the toilet all day, (but he calls the porcelain Goddess, his thrown).   He was sucking on a blow pop, beamed a bluish grin, and then stuck out his shockingly blue tongue at me.  "Good grief.", I thought.
Well Vishnu said, "You, Barbara Roja have been a bad monkey."
"Monkey," I thought,  "why not a flying squirrel, or even an armadillo? Monkey, A Monkey!"
 "Now I must reincarnate you as a frog.   Hopefully you will learn your lesson quickly, and then I can return you to the earth with only a minor set back."
"Ribbit" was the only word I could muster in protest, so many other words were in my head, but all I could say was "Ribbit."
Well, the rest of the story about being a frog is one to be told later.   But I really most be going to get my Pirate Gear in order, as the seven seas are calling my name.   And I hate to smell like I have been bathing in slime water, and  that Pod Thai smell from Veshnu's temple, is starting to give me a headache. Veshnu really loves Pod Thai and Curry.   I think I will not want Bombay Carry out for awhile.  
Mom and Dad lets get together soon.  And Dad I really want to play golf.  But, if you see a Frog don't show it to me, as my life as a frog was miserable.   And Vishnu kept staring at my legs.  
Love your unbelievable son (the Pirate),
Barba Roja.


Poetry Circus: Descent off Swing Set.


The dreams always
started the same way with me
on a swing set.
Swing set bolted,
firmly to the ground, I kicked
higher and higher, up.
Then I would fly
to my favorite cloud, only
to fall off,
I yearned to be free of the swing...
BUT
               down - down-down.
 Decending in Air
               down the White Rabbit's Lair:
I went, grabbing onto the air,
but my hands slipped.
I plunged into
the depths of ocean waves
drifting me away.

Monday, March 25, 2013

Poetry Circus: A Day in the Life V. 2.55


In Remembrance to a Poem by Frank O' Hara

A Day in the Life (V. 2.55)




It is 11:10 in Lakeland, a Tuesday,
two days after the World Series,
it is 2012 and I brush my teeth pearl white,
because I will get off the cozy couch in my abode
at 1:15 and then go straight to work,
and I don't know who will buy my chicken.

I walk up the freezing, tree lined, dead end street
and open the mailbox with my small golden key
a stack of unwanted bills and political ads
greet my blue oil pocked hands.

                                        I go on to my deli
and Miss. Calmwater (first name Bernice I once heard)
doesn't even tell me to cut the salami thinner.
And, I ponder O'Keefe.                        
                                   I exhibit the slice.
or did I re-imagine film-scenes  from the Artist,
that dog stole the show, and made me smile; or
was I thinking about which friends I would call,
the images were practically lulling me to sleep,
                                       salami on my slicer,
                                        a pound and a half
                                        customer wanted
                                                          a half ---oops..
                                     

And then I am asked to help Ms. Cherry
I tread on to the kitchen tamultously
but my feet slip, Chaplinesque, from the grease
spilled onto the floor.
                            I wake up from my dream,
of Central School's playground and the smell of
caged turkeys being processed.
I smile... and stab the dead chickens.


And Bernice is mad that the chickens are only
half cooked.
                  "Can't he do anything right?"

And I am sweating a lot, because it is time to go
home (my wife, a glass of wine, a nice wet dream),
and there is so much to clean;
Patsy Kline sings the lines to Crazy
written by Willie Nelson.
                               
                                   I push my broom faster,
                                   flattening the bristles.
                                   
I imagine my manager saying,
                   "Can't you do anything right?"

Friday, March 22, 2013

Poetry Circus: Start of the Day



The following haiku is an answer to Twlya Tharp's queston. "How do you start the Day?".  I am currently working through her book the Creative Habit Learn it and Use it for Life, the part of the book that is currently making me pause is the questions that create a creative Autobiography.

Vigor(less)  I start
my day meandering, browsing
the (slime-ternet). Why?

Then the cup of coffee!

Thursday, March 21, 2013

Poetry Circus: Apprentice

Read Aloud To God



My open Torah
God's stylus points, magically
the words float up.
I the apprentice
learns to breath, render,  
"alephs" and "bets."
whispers bounce into
congregated honored heads
praying to Jesus.
-----
Grandma bends down
before the missionary Jesus
offering prayers.


Red
   Red
       READ
Red
   Red
       Head.

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Poetry Circus: The Spice Road v. 3




One way flight to Egypt,
the ticket left in Portland.

One way safe and knowable, the other
way, is not, a place I know.
lost (ticket) left on a seat
    snow storm casts white
    blanketed airplane
    snow plow clears path.  And

     we will be above all day.

Tight.  Coffin, flight all day
and tomorrow we will land
in the Saffron market
and the towers calling the faithful,
                 forward
in the overcrowded streets filled with boiling Arabs,
           Going to Work, day
           by ordinary day, but we
are newly arrived, and smelling
musky Saffron Mullahs,
not Nudists from Kathmandu,
Orange streets in Egypt not Kathmandu.
where pots hold Saffron to be exchanged
for a dollar.  I worry, "How am I going to get back home
                               without a ticket."

Crowded.  We
smell like money newly crisped.
Rare birds,
squawk at us and kids throw fireworks.
Scents
of a place clings to your American Sunglasses,
YOU.
Like Pip in Melvelle's Whale Book
I CRY OUT LOUD.
THIS IS NOT HOME
Orange Monkey.
The color of rust and congress, praying
O' delayed.
Zeus take me-find my way back home.

No ticket home.
And the wind does not blow back to Rome, red-white-
and-orange-painted temples of Egyptian Gods.
1492, blue waves.
swallow Orange colored cups of tea.
Flies swarmed within the tent.
And Bedouins continue to run their daily lives,
like yesterday. And the
color orange is painted on the
ticket home,
Hell is hot! But
Stella does not quench my thirst.
White. Red. Blue: marks me.
I can't blend the colors to fade into the Saffron filled
market and left exposed fearing
                    Camus's Arab.

What key?  The
sense of Africa
where Saffron
is sold
in Coptic Jars.


Uzi filled Bus
took pilgrims out of Cairo
to Jerusalem.  
We crossed borders
from Egypt to the west
Israel a jewel.
There were trash cans
on this side of the border
a sunny London.
Fear imprisoned you;
Cloistered what did you see?
While I holy ran!







Tuesday, March 19, 2013

Poetry Circus: Jerusalem The Old City


A Question for "Jerusalem - The Old City" v.2 and v. 3


Uzi filled Bus
took pilgrims out of Cairo
to Jerusalem.  
We crossed borders
from Egypt to the west
Israel a jewel.
There were trash cans
on this side of the border
a sunny London.
Fear imprisoned you;
Cloistered what did you see?
While I holy ran!

Poetry Circus: Descent off Cliff Face

Decending Rabbit Hole
We went, grabbing onto taro roots
but our hands slipped.
We plunged into
the depths of ocean waves
drifting us away.


Friday, March 15, 2013

Poetry Circus: Sink Holes



Illinois Golfer
stood on yard marker which
sunk beneath his feet.

Thursday, March 14, 2013

Poetry Circus Haiku


The Ice Age


An Ice Age Snow Cone,
my lips become numb from cold -
frost gathered near.

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Poetry Circus




A Question for "Jerusalem - The Old City"

Fear imprisoned you;
Cloistered what did you see?
While I holy ran!

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Poetry Circus


How do you like your Fried Egg? Version Three 


Inside porous egg
shell breaks open in-
to frying pan.  

Nevertheless, which way to go:
Hard Boiled for detectives on the go.
Scrambled like my head.
Poached for all of us imperials.*
Sunny side up 
running jollily around my plate
Egg yolk sits,
atop my broth.

Whisk 70,000 turtle eggs 
away from oil;
but right into my plate.**

Never-the-less, 

If the egg is cracked from the outside

death surely comes.

If the egg is cracked from the inside


then life renewed.

(A) Hen's egg  - 
cracks open.

Rooster shouts,
"Amazing!
Our Egg!"

Nevertheless 
Nevertheless, which way to go!

* Poached Egg made popular in India first - a jewel in the crown of England. Check out the Wiki Cook Book on Eggs 
** Found this Headline on the Tuesday the 5th 2013; Bathroom Reader Calender. 

Friday, March 1, 2013

Poetry Circus

Plant City Blues


Robots work the Strawberry
patch mechanically,
metal backs are bent,
and sweating under
the spinning gin that grinds juice;
served at the Strawberry
Festival.

Poetry Circus: How do you like your Fried Egg? V.2


Marilyn Monroe by De Kooning. 

How do you like your Fried Egg? Version Two


Inside porous egg
shell breaks open in-
to frying pan.  

Nevertheless, which way to go:
Hard Boiled for detectives on the go.
Scrambled like my head.
Poached for all of us imperials.*
Sunny side up 
running jollily around my plate
Egg yolk sits,
atop my broth.

Never-the-less, 

If the egg is cracked from the outside

death surely comes.

If the egg is cracked from the inside


then life renewed.

(A) Hen's egg  - 
cracks open.

Rooster shouts,
"Amazing!
Our Egg!"

Nevertheless 
Nevertheless, which way to go!

* Poached Egg made popular in India first - a jewel in the crown of England. Check out the Wiki Cook Book on Eggs 


Editor's Note


I think one should write, rewrite, and revise a poem for a period of at least 3 months.   Then one can leave it alone.   The poem is a construction of a big idea into a little nugget.   As I want to keep the original I will keep the original, but publish new versions as version two, three, four, five, etc.  

So it may seem awkward to the reader, but its an evolution of my idea from birth to full life.  A sanctification of the poem (so to speak).   Sanctification never leaves a poem dead to all sins. A poem is alive because it changes over time and becomes a purer idea, or an idea with a new path.  

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