SNOW LADY

she stands in the snow
above the stones, words and dead flowers
and the sighs of uprooted plants
beneath the space of despairing love
below the rough rocky mountains
discovering herslf in pure solitude
unable to see the horses that have vanished
surrendering to the cold realms of winter
bleeding to death without summer fragrance
unable to shiver in its silence

this is her dwelling this is her place
the mother of stone and metal
where the blowing greeting of the wind
flows from her welded rusty eyes
over the bare weeping willow branches
climbing up the snow covered stairs
towards the temple of the frozen Buddha
and treasure of hidden shepherd poets
polishing her soul for one last poem
from a list of snow covered words

WANTING

I want to keep dancing
without rushing through the steps
swaying with the trumpets
savoring every moment

I want my mind to be focused
on the here and now
dancing with mindfulness
singing with silence

I want to keep chopping wood
to keep the music burning
sipping hot tea
listening to the birds at the feeder

I want to remain an old poet
who still has more words
floating beneath each breath
entertaining the falling stars

I want to accept death
and the journey beyond somewhere
realizing the trip just keeps moving
knowing nothing it's all a mystery

I want to remain naked
without a trace of prejudice
leaving it all behind
wanting nothing

Dead Man Burning

1. About the Dead Man and Burning

The dead mans' ashes are smouldering with burnt memories.
There are no pressures left inside a pulse.
A throbbing mind in a lost voice.
It surrounds inside a remaing piece of silence.
It sticks to a heart like pain.
The sharp skin pierces the body cloth­.
A dead head attached beneath glowing hair.
One halting breath to a fevered cello.
There are broken strings and soured membranes.
The senses are eating the starving voice.
Nothing is left inside to burn just smoulder.
A heartbeat turned down with the volume low.


2. More About the Dead Man and Burning

Still smouldering with need and churning over with lust.
The body prays it wouldn't pain so damn much.
There are voices of yesterday torching the soul.
Something touches the cavity under the heart.
The burning memories start to bleed away.
Under the bloodshot tears there are persecuted eyes.
The throbbing drumbeats are not ready to sleep.
The memory of Fred Astaire dancing with the stars.
Nothing ends and never stops.
The wind keeps talking in tongues.
A soul never gets tired has no needs.
A dead man keeps living the remembered thoughts.

WONDROUS WORDS

the poet walks around after midnight
with many words beneath his breath
watching stillness with closed eyes
soothing the darkness with mantra
beyond the full gaze of the lunar moon
speaking in astral silence
whirling light beyond the kosmos
towards the goddess Saraswati
painting wondrous words

LOVE WHEEL

we turned our back on a world gone mad
unable to face the greed and pitiful lies
we left our bodies tripping to the Grateful Dead
and some acoustic funeral for lovers in limbo
having a rapport with love and harmony

running from the caskets of forgotten wars
unable to see the killings and more lies
we discovered our soul with Axis, Bold As Love
beneath the Avalon Ballroom for dancers in love
revealing self, intimacy and personal feelings

burnt from the flames of unforgiving gods
unable to shed the tears from screaming lies
we searched for our mind with O leery
at the Fillmore dancing with Janis and the gypsies
mutually developing a reliance on each other

scared to death by another sense of sensibility
unable to conform to truth blessed with shame
we saw colors of rainbows and flowers
under the Golden Gate with nude Diggers
fulfilling our needs riding the love wheel

ENOUGH

unbalanced on some edge of sickness
hanging from the depths of deepness
beyond the burning bridges crossed
unable to fall because of fear
enough is enough

suffering with some neurotic neurosis
flawed by the flawless imperfections
beneath the expanse of midday darkness
afraid to look because of blindness
enough is enough

anxious from the cutting anxieties
sharpened by the unforgiving gods
hiding behind the Eucharist curtains
forlorn with empty detached thoughts
enough is enough

hollowed by the missing truth of light
between the crevice of a cracked mind
dangling from the frozen space
wretched with rancid rancor
enough is enough

butchered by the blood of Christ
flowing beyond the depressed mountains
towards the empty dead sea
ravished by the violence of crusades
enough is enough

depressed from rowing across the desert
motionless with the unreturning tide
unable to cry with closed eyes
transforming silence with words
poetry is enough

FORE WHAT

four rain bows pour from his glass mind
shouting from his lost soul
that cries for more Jim Beam
the beast of Bourbon street
fore what?

just a short skip to the deep bowl
puke for the rest of his life
only to hear Jim Beam
crying for more
fore what?

jump from the fire of his burning skin
laughing at the four days lost
with only Jim Beam
dancing with the star of Bourbon Street
fore what?

hearing the howl of the dead poet
jump from the loaded page
stained with Jim Beam
dead at the end of Bourbon Street
fore what?

GUSTO AND GRATITUDE

both the midget and I huddled
on the northbound freight train
as the fog became thicker
and the air got cooler

eating bread, cheese and sardines
we sit cross-legged before a bottle of wine
practicing charity as our religion
in silence searching for wisdom

travelling in a boxcar towards Shasta
with no sympathy for the first class hypocrites
high on their cinnamon-red benzedrine
we stare at our exhausted sleep

feeling the power of our lost mind
and forgetting the outside world
two old poets sit cross-legged
eating, drinking wine with gusto and gratitude

HORSE

Shivering, the energy rushed to his arm.
His blemished skin ran towards the dark,
beneath the bulging veins of an old junkie.
At arm's length away, he let the needle drip.

Crash, the horse jumped up backwards,
falling to the ground. The horse bucked ahead
unshaken. The junkie picked a second needle.
Shivering, the energy rushed to his arm.

More time to honour a perfect fix-
he welcomed the golden arm, apologized
to the horse, and placed needle to vein,
his blemished skin ran towards the dark.

Beyond the blowing dirt he tripped, among a hundred
roaring hooves and glazed colors.
His horse bucked, jumped and fell
beneath the bulging veins of an old junkie.

A huge black stallion broke from the pack.
The crazy horse swerved from the attack.
The stallion rushed again. Th junkie stumbled
At arm's length away, he let the needle drip.


This poem is a cascade poem for http://bigtentpoetry.org

SALMONBELLIES

SALMONBELLIES

fish canneries on stilts on the Fraser
distant haunting sockeye
chanting sacred salmon songs
staring with bulging eyes into the water
enchanted with the waiting gillnets
stuffed with rust for their throats
delighted we are not fishermen
we are Salmonbellies
lacrosse is our game

.................I do not like explaining my poetry...however I will this time....I grew up in New Westminster B.C. on the banks of the Fraser....played lacrosse in the fabled NW Salmonbellies organization.

AUTUMN MORNING

this is a slight variation of poem AUTUMN MIST...from WWP ...only using three words from the wordle in red


AUTUMN MORNING

every morning I awake to the ravens chant
as the ochre leaves fall over the garden
plants braided by forget-me-nots and tears
summertime now sleeping inside the pods
old roots hide as they feel the snow coming
orange poppies skirt the wind before dying
half-eaten garlic falls to my hands
I rise to the autumn morning

AUTUMN MIST

first line in italics credit Fireflies-Owl City


AUTUMN MIST

I'd like to make myself believe
every morning an ochre color falls from the tree
which the ravens spread over the garden
the plants braided by forget-me-nots and tears
summertime which was awake now sleeps inside the pods
the old roots hide as they see the snow coming
the orange poppies contemplate the wind without dying
the garlic fall to my hands I raise
I believe
in the autumn mist

Haiku

planning new upstairs floor
in the wood grains observing
winter landscapes

ONLY

ONLY



only the lonely go to cemeteries with their guitars

searching for Hank's honky tonk blues

moaning about dead cold cold hearts

only if they knew his ghost was still alive



only the lonely drive around in empty Cadilacs

window shopping for lost dreams and whiskey

before breaking chains from cheatin hearts

only if they knew wild men have karma



only the lonely go to empty bars

waiting for strangers that dont care

hopelessly scheming for more heartbreaks

only if they knew everyone has the lovesick blues



only the lonely stroll down deserted back alleys

not trying to control the rowdy uncontrollables

pleased with the gorgeous scent of jambalaya

only if they knew half as much



only the lonely spend new years in jail

knowing losers can never lose again

angry because the will miss the super bowl

only if they knew their teams always lose



only the lonely go on stage with their band

playing sad songs dressed in smoke

happy to find more teardrops from the songs

only if they knew their lonelinesss is happy



only the lonely dance by themselves at 2AM

not caring they missed closing time

uneasy with their pretty Mickey Mantle eyes

only if they knew

SPEAKING IN TONGUES

looking at my hands after another morning with my chain saw out in our woodlot....cursing at the MO...squitos...somehow came up with this

SPEAKING IN TONGUES

after morning of bending and strains
smothering denunciations of pain
the ghosts of three dead poets listened
hearing the voices not believing
blinking to the braided trite realities
of some church of language
speaking in tongues
rolling their eyes
flailing their arms
with jagged lines of poetic justice

rejoicing in their emptiness

playing harmonicas with no hands
learning the secret of speaking
through abstract words of death
expressed in some jazz muse
rising and falling with all the church members
guided by the ability to tell the phonies from reality
and the paramedics waiting outside
with poet doctors laying on of hands
unable to speak in tongues
only a new presence of poetry

BASEBALL IS LIFE FOR A KID

6 word ..childhood memoirs

BASEBALL IS LIFE FOR A KID

it all happens within the baselines
where happiness is getting a hit
or fielding bad hop ground balls
making double plays with your mitt

when Spring starts Summer never ends
games never finish just rain delayed
so we keep playing without lights
baseball most important game we played

paper clips and baseball never change
suicide squeezes moments in our life
where the grass is always greener
win some lose some; sometimes strife

TIME

Writers Island prompt#17....Time Travel

TIME

travelled back last night in an old magazine

to a distant place where it was mine

beyond Fleetwood Mac and modern art

where my mind took me back with Time

Truman preached his New Deal

Sinatra was finding his voice

no gated communities or ponzi schemes

when democracy gave us a choice

walking back to the age of ten

my lost boxes and treasures

memories of the house that Ruth built

playing stick ball and other pleasures

rewinding to Joltin Joe 1948

when moving fast was still slow

and all the news came a week late

where have you gone Joe DiMaggio?

DALAI LAMA AT CITY LIGHTS

using some of the words from the wordle (in red)

DALAI LAMA AT CITY LIGHTS

a summer night in North Beach

where street cars dance to the beat

of jazz notes blown

sitting at a table at City Lights

with Kerouac and other misfits

drinking towards another stream of consciousness

baked on silk pie and pineapple wine

approaching silence with reckless abandon

reading dry salvages with blemished views

puzzled by his deep shadow of silence

confident moments of his nothingness

and relentless expression of beauty

wondering what brought him to this place

we listen to the poetry of his smile

in our rowdy silence

MOTHER OF THE AIR

WWP#15 inspired by above photo..by Sarah Regnier

MOTHER OF THE AIR

every morning at dawn she sits

staring at her radio

listening to Oxydol's own Ma perkins

and the rest of the characters on the shelf

lighting up her first Chesterfield of ther day

gagging herself to death

blackmailed through her smoking and gloom

trapped between her lost independance

and frenzied delerium

puzzled by the quietness in the empty kitchen

the howling kingdom on the shelves

and the endless persecution of the roosters

listening to another episode

before writing

her last poem of the air

FIRST SUPPER

FIRST SUPPER

in the silence of the high mountains of Oaxaca
where the valley gets deeper and higher
suspended in mid-air
sitting for our first supper with Jesus
at the agnostic church of holiness
twelve beat poets clearing their senses
surrounded by the forces of chaos
without technology entering our minds
only magic mushrooms
one bite at a time
seeing the light with delusions
singing hymns to St. Geryon
drinking wine with bread
eating mushroom soup
throwing out words in the quest for truth
and more poems

HAVING IT ALL

for BIG TENT POETRY....possessions


HAVING IT ALL

I put all my clothes in a garbage bag
gave my broken watch to the pawnshop
returned my stuffed animals to the carnival
spent my last dollar at the penny arcade
used all my air miles to travel the world
bus tickets to tour the city
sent all my red sox back to Boston
my white sox to Chicago
soiled pennants to yankee stadium
Sinatra albums to a disk jockey with no horse
Diana Ross albums back to soul city
forgotten memories to church of dictators
sent used hash back to the Taliban
burnt a stashed welfare cheque dated 1961
pushed my old VW van over a cliff
had a bonfire for my overdue mortgage
then sent the ashes to the homeless
the empty fridge back to the farmers market
recycled the stove at some conservative convention
tore up my unpaid credit card
after my souvenirs were stolen
and my broken memories faded away
I sit and listen to my voice
having it all when having nothing

AFRAID

WWP#14 afraid


AFRAID


sadness leaking through the windows
of the broken down limo
ladies sleeping in the top down cars
with lipstick-stained cheeks
strung out junkies fixing
the flat tires blown
dime store winos
singing in harmony with Blind Willie
the mentally ill
looking at the city through rear view mirrors
their lost chess games never played
burnt out pennies never gambled
afraid to be alone

UNPAINTED LADY

POW#14 Man Ray wordle

UNPAINTED LADY

like a musical instrument waiting to be played

she sits on an unfettered log

looking back to see her forbidden tattoos

and my frisson of excitement

with a silk tulle wrapped around her head

falling across unpainted lips and finger tips

beneath the rose covering her broken heart

wobbling around her lap like some unforgiving girdle

towards a white feathered promise

of untold virginity

I pick up my brush

FORBIDDEN TATOOS

FORBIDDEN TATOOS

WAILING BANSHEE

for Writers Island...prompt spellbound

WAILING BANSHEE

bound by the spell of the Sea of Milith
listening to the bardic songs of Shannon
with her wild harp stuttering
to the foam of the melancholy Atlantic
clasping her mournful soul
between her missing knees
screaming in her beckoning voice
from her tortured chamber of hell
spellbound
by the wailing banshee

POETS BIRTHDAY

a poem from OUTSIDE the ring...this is in stanza form ... with rhyming...not how I usually write

POETS BIRTHDAY

birthday north of july unable to forsake
reading poems of Corso behind the door
arming myself with eggs and steak
unable to scramble words from the floor

begonia dawn breaking through the window
lighting candles for all to see
unwrapping blankets to let go
with the souvenirs that might be

magic in my shoes keep dancin
in time with words I'm unsure
reciting the thoughts I can't begin
noisy silence a phantom overture

putty in the words to fill the hole
plastered for bards that sound the same
searching for a lost igloo behind my soul
a freezing heart a poets flame

TEXAS HOLD EM

WWP#13......variation of Red Ring Hood


TEXAS HOLD EM

sweating from a troubled brow
grandma deals
searching for his poker face
the wolf shows his teeth
what wonderful cards you have dealt me
I'm all in
the lady with the red hoody smiles
reaches for her pistol and shoots the wolf
grandma and the red hooded lady hi five

LA HABANA DE AMOR

POW#14 ...sprinkling of Spanish....inspired by Cuban Jose Marti

LA HABANA DE AMOR

I sit in Central Park

beside the apostle of Cuban independence

beneath the orange sky and crumbling cement

tangled up in vapours from the sea

cigar smoke and baseball

sipping one mojito after another

eating freshly baked bread

where the statue of Jose Marti

watches the city smile and suffer

cultivating his white roses

for the Santerian ladies

dressed in turquoise and yellow

with their voices in high heels

he watches forever

La Habana de amor

JOURNEY

Prairie Sky #5 acrylic....by Wayne

JOURNEY .....from an earlier poem with a few changes..

my journey like my paintings

explore the sacredness of place

influenced by a serene landscape

with the horizon a theme or metaphor

a point of stillness reflecting back

both top and bottom

with balanced energy

inviting

more than describing

a tight sliver of line

where sky meets land

sometimes calm

sometimes restless

an interplay between inner being

and physical outside world

creating tension between light and space

a place between

the spiritual and material reality

always there

HER LAST SONATA

POW#13..... inspired by classical music.... Argentina pianist Martha Argerich


HER LAST SONATA

theatre under the stars
on a stage in Buenos Aires
her fingers burnt
from the Argentina sun
and cigarettes still burning

staring at the ivory
unable to feel the keys
knowing her tearful hands don't lie
without tears
she hears sonata three

THREE DAYS IN JULY

WWP#12...using ...Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow as a prompt

THREE DAYS IN JULY

yesterday he stood in Pigeon Square
staring at the empty bottles of wine
forgetting where it all went
memorizing the wordless puzzles
confessing all is not lost

today he sits in Pigeon Square
smashing pumpkins
yelling at the crowd in front of him
without regard or reason
counteracting the silence within

tommorow he dances with the pigeons
sings to the crowd of ravens
remembering all the forgotten words
with no regrets of yesterday
before migrating

MODERN TIMES

using titles from albums/CD's


MODERN TIMES

dark was the night
time out of mind
inside out
some voodoo lounge
next to chavez ravine
old corals and sagebrush
the sultans of swing
and the grievous angel
sing hymns of the 49th parallel
in harmony
with the prairie wind
in a silent way
ready to travel a hundred highways
riding with the king
with the one o'clock jump
singing ten new songs
at closing time


credit
MODERN TIMES....Dylan
DARK WAS THE NIGHT...Blind Willie Johnson
TIME OUT OF MIND........Dylan
INSIDE OUT........................Keith Jarrett
VOODOO LOUNGE.............Stones
OLD CORALS AND SAGEBRUSH...Ian Tyson
CHAVEZ RAVINE...............Ry Cooder
SULTANS OF SWING.......Dire Straights
GRIEVOUS ANGEL............Gram Parsons
HYMNS OF 49th PARALLEL...KD Lang
HARMONY...........................Gordon Lightfoot
PRAIRIE WIND...................Neil Young
IN A SILENT WAY..............Miles Davis
A HUNDRED HIGHWAYS..Johnny Cash
RIDING WITH THE KING..BB King
ONE O'CLOCK JUMP..........Count Bassie
TEN NEW SONGS..............Leonard Cohen
CLOSING TIME..................Tom Waitts

BEATS GO ON

...for Big Tent Poetry
inspired by many poems of the BEATS...

BEATS GO ON

the juke-box keeps playing waltzing matilda
at some broken down amusement park
held together with rubber bands
as the stalled ferris wheel keeps turning
grasping at the shadows of yesterday
where Jesus Rodriguez sang harmony
with four nuns in high heels
in front of a vacant tent
full of midgets dancing in habitual movements
shooting water pistols at the candle smoke
smouldering from their Cuban cigars
and Bogart's flaming tattoo
as the Beats go on

HANGING ON

POW#12...


hanging on like a bad poet
unable to open the cellar door
where my mind remains hidden
silent with nothing
unable to write

I stare at the burning incense
no longer willing to glow
where the ashes keep falling
from the silence within
hanging on to forgotten words

WINDOW

I sit looking out the window
at the dripping rain
a field of dreams
playing behind a creeping vine
two ravens staring at the horse birds
beside the dancing armies of mosquitoes
going crazy beyond madness
without direction
void of the tender light that shines
on the blurred mountains in the background
splattered
like a Pollock painting

BUDDHA REUNION

the Buddha ....in my garden beside her pond....her
head got broken falling into the pond.....but all is
WELL!

you left in a windstorm
falling to the bottom of the pond
I thought you might be upside down
with no vision
insulated
expressionless without insight
unable to live under water
without your curly locks of hair
eyelids opened
without that urna between your eyebrows
or those beautiful earlobes
gone beyond all images
losing the power of mantra
unable to meditate again
I was wrong
Namaste

CHAPEAU OUBLIE

assis a  Dunn's Delicatesen
892 rue Saint Catherine Ouest
occupe
attente dans sa solitude
regarder
au sandwich de viande fumee
sur le jaune plaque de melmac
a cote de son chapeau oublie
le poete
l'homme a femmes
le chanteur
sa voix
remettre a la chanson
restant dela du desir
elle attende pour Leonard
de revenir pour son chappeau
a l'heure de fermeture


...translation....

FORGOTTEN HAT

sitting at Dunn's Delicatesen
892 Saint Caatherine St. West
busy
waiting in her solitude
staring
at the smoked-meat sandwich
on the yellow melmac plate
beside his forgotten hat
the poet
the ladies man
the singer
his voice
surrendering to song
remaining beyond desire
she waits for Leonard
to come back for his hat
at closing time


..................Leonard Cohen forgetting...... his hat at Dunn's Deli
 in Montreal....written in the "style" of Jacques Prevert

SABLE BRUSH

I was once springy, strong, fine and soft
resilient yet responsive
holding my shape well
flexible, lively
with a generous belly
a small nickel ring
attached to my comfortable body
never shedding a hair
laying here uncared for
soaked, worn, dried out, brittle
out of shape and weak
unable to bend
corroded and and cracked
losing my hair
butchered and bruised
from all the splashing, rubbing and scraping
staring at her innocence and beauty
dressed all in white
a state of spiritual clairity
unspoiled
resisting change
afraid that her blank emptiness may fade
the canvas stares back at me

TREASURE

a creative paradise with no desires
where only dreams are formed
breathing into the clouds
expressing in symbols and metaphors
a poem about my soul
without judgement
where the power of subconscious
gets rid of the chatter
and childlike curiosity keeps me young
wandering in the present
sometimes lost
as the spontaneous passionate energy flows
from the deep source within
having an openness to the universe
creating the courage to let go
painting a canvas of imagination
without expectations
from a treasure
my right brain

NO OPTION

walking the life giving road
coming from a place I walked before
my reluctant eyes looking for nothing
searching for memories forgotten
lost
naked
blind
my sight covering a vast landscape
going into the dark cave within
taking the only road I see
an opportunity to become a spiritual warrior
where the sun breaks through the clouds
touching the earth dancing to the drums
with loneliness and desperate fights over
a new awareness guides the being
forging on to truth
towards that distant horizon
there is no option

IMAGINE

IMAGINE

after the storm
the butterfly comes to the flower
covered with new pollen
in the valley of the mother's garden
near the bird nest at the crossroads
slowly, lofting with the wind
she soars higher than the pansies
smiling at us

BEHIND THE DOOR

the door remains closed
hiding some unknown consciousness
of unconventional wisdom
beneath the sea of infinite vibrations
within the eternal ecstasies of the imagination
controlled by the mystic secrets of the mind
in touch with the perception of the essential nature
of something old or nothing new
surrounded by the mistakes of reality
where the door of perception remains unpasteurized
without filters or conditions
remaining true to the pure universe
of mescaline and whole wheat bread
where naked mummies dance with Tibetan monks
hallucinating to the embodied spirits of lonely nuns
who cry out in hope and forgiveness
in harmony
behind the door

DRESDEN CLOCK

on the mantlepiece counting down the minutes
before another death
ticking on her face of denial
entrapped within her antiqued mind
unable to turn a blind eye
or replace the chains drummed up inside
while the seonds tick away
she grinds away in deadly charm
remembering the momentous death
of the aloof spinster
and the detached life she lived
while watching the handsome dogs
eat the dead parrot
in silence
the ticking stops


......this in response to AUNT HELEN by TS Eliot...and the line ... the Dresden clock continued ticking on the mantlepiece

BLIND SIDE

sitting around after hours at the Harlem Nocturne
drinking the best bootleg whiskey we could buy
mixed with the aural flow of the blues
and the emotion filled voice of Blind Willie Johnson
his exquisite slide guitar moaning like a wounded animal
the soul of a man transcending darkness into light
screaming and crying without weeping
making sure the lights keep shining
with Blind Lemon Jefferson's high voice
and black snake moan at odds with the music
in the dark
but always able to see
the poor epileptic fellow in the corner
and the peach orchid mama at the front table
eyes closed
keeping time in the tin cup blues
waiting for the second coming
of Blind Willie and Blind Lemon
where love is dark and blind
we sit

EDDIE THE MIDGET

for Writers Island....prompt is imaginary friend


EDDIE THE MIDGET

lost in his only at bat with the Browns
and his last vaudeville act
Eddie the midget sat tall in Vesuvio's cafe
a shirtless narcoleptic
drinking strong espresso to stay awake
writing poetry about ringing alarm clocks
fortunes lost by falling asleep
and a fixed roulette wheel that stopped spinning
before nodding off in beatnik splendor
unable to listen to my confessions
or hear my poem for a friend

TWO PLACES

two places I spent last Thursday

TWO PLACES

perched on the highest pile above the vistas of waste
waiting to scavenge their next meal
the gulls hang out like teenagers at the mall
waiting to dip down like addicts
scrounging
sqawking
strutting
among the flies and wasted treasures
of burnt out stoves and thawed out freezers
heaps of angry eggshells wrapped in cellophane
reflecting the unnecesary piles of shit
smelling the odorless spillage of filth
glaring at the hidden forklift
and the wasted hillside beyond the dump
a gentlemanly gardener
not an old man but a young gardener
goes home to his garden
to listen to the creeping virginias and weeping willow
part scientist
part artist
part poet
part philosopher
part ploughman
modifying the climate around his home
being still but still moving
like the water flowing over the rocks
using flowers and plants to paint
with the sky as the canvas
planting only annuals
scavenging an avalanche of lifetime notes
a good plot for the mind

LOST KEY

LOST KEY

blinded by the light I couldn't see
looking into the dark side of my mind
I finally saw myself
not for what I was or who I will be
but what I am
a boring subnormal scarecrow
locked in a room
with hang-ups on forged dreams
helpless and deserted in a broken wheelchair
travelling slow nowhere heading somewhere
feeling the pressures of too many drugs
and the godless nurse who lost the key
empty from forgotten prescriptions
and lies from the carnival of doctors
who tried to invent me then re invent me
attempting to fix all or nothing
or allow me to escape from this insane asylum
and see the pigeons shit on their heads
always watching me drenching my mind
as I searched for the right channel
that had baroque music with cartoons
or where lovers faded into dust and ashes
frozen by their difficulties they couldn't melt
while I wait in this stalled wheelchair
for the second coming of someone
or the nurse with the key

OVERLOOKING THE RIVER

POW #2...

OVERLOOKING THE RIVER

we stood at the Fraserview cemetry
on the hill overlooking the River
below the city dump and the running rodents
above the B.C. penitentiary and the restless cons
beyond Woodlands institution and the beautiful misfits
sad and weeping
we sang her favorite hymns
showing how to go over the hillside steep
with the rugged cross and rugged way
to feed the hungry to heal their hearts
the convicts, misfits and rats
my mothers funeral 1947

BAMBOO BOX

we write poems #1 prompt is boxes


bamboo box


the words were waiting in the bamboo box
emerging from the ashes of a body of work
unable to escape from the darkness
in storage and lonely
waiting for another poets revolution
remaining silent from the beat of deafness
listening to the unheard words
of the noisy nesting junco
searching for the lost forgotten syllables
and the poets who lost their speech
drunk and unable to write
trying to escape from the darkness
dancing to another dressed up poem
waiting patiently
in the box

STOWAWAY

Writers Island #2..prompt is Stowaway.....this is a draft


STOWAWAY

it was the poem I needed to complete my beat collection
it was everything I wanted, my only affection
finer than Corso or Creeley in black and broken glasses
I snuck in to hear the reading
a beat poet school for bohemian stars stowaway

I demanded their attention on the star ship of bewitchment
with help from Burroughs and his magical enhancement
I was around to save the night, with a touch of whiskey
from New York, Frisco, LA
a beat poet school for bohemian stars stowaway

beneath the mask and cracked makeup and runny ice cream
where the beat poets meet jazz and the dancing queen
putting faith in hidden stars, blind pigs and whiskey bars
old jazz clubs to ryhthm guitars
a beat poet school for bohemian stars stowaway

2EH

found this note in a bottle on a Havana beach

....this is a draft...

2EH

I lie here on my bunk sailing my beloved Santana
contemplating if I should finish this scotch
Lauren is sitting on the deck smoking rolled cigs
we have just finished Key Largo and heading to Havana
Key Largo wasn't much of a film
but god dam better than To Have And Not Have
that piece of shit you wrote
a bunch of long sentences about dumb characters
you must have needed money
spitting words on the Prado
or some empty bait bucket
drunk on your boat with no vision
fishing for words
plagiarizing your agnostic god
falling to the coral below the sea
pouring another mojito
letting your emotional life
be run by rum and empty words
drifting on your fish boat without your mind
well the sun is rising Ernie
this bloody bottle is empty
and the world is still three drinks behind us
drinking ourselves to extinction
heres lookin at ya
see you in Havana

Bogie

HIGHWAY TO SAN JOAQUIN

napowrimo#30....last day for RWP .....another acrostic using...INHONOUROFRWPPOETS


HIGHWAY TO SAN JOAQUIN

in a bus on a lost dry highway
North of San Joaquin somewhere near nowhere
heading towards Dos Palos searching for words
off the beaten track on the beatnik path
never missing the missed freeways
occasionally missing the odd metaphor cafe
until we stop at the Backstreet Bar in Dos Palos
remaining strapped for cash we leave the bus
Old men in fedoras young ladies in long bamboo skirts
flashing their smile with rich paddy jaws
racing towards the crowded bar for whiskey and beer
where the bartender will read our poems
placing them beyond the reach of Ramblin Jack's
Poetry Refuge Camp
or the Big Tent Poetry Club
ejecting the wasted poems into Dylans basket
tracing our good words on his black board
so all the drunks can read as we leave for San Joaquin


with thanks..
Dana..........................bus driver
Deb............................co pilot
Nathan......................co pilot
Christine...................co pilot
Charlotte...................painter of the bus

Andy...Angie...AJV...Barbara y...Bitchy Angel...Cara...Carolee...Chanda...Chris...Dan...Derrick
Donald H...Erin...Evelyn...Francis...Gautami...Jeeves...Julie...Joanne...JD McKenzie...Leisha
Linda...Marie...Neil...Nicole...Novaheart...Pam...Rall...Rob...Robin...Red Shoe Artist...Stan Ski...
Stiletto...Shanna...Shayla...Skankin Moon...Therese...Tiel Asha
...........riding in the painted bus
...........ALL the other RWP poets following in the airconditioned bus....with more words

...........THANKS to ALL for this journey that will continue when we get the bus up and running

STANLEY CUP PLAYOFFS

napowrimo#29...Front page news from the sports page....Stanley Cup playoffs in.... hockey
another ancrostic poem using POETRY IN MOTION..


STANLEY CUP PLAYOFFS

players from both teams restless
on their skates for another win
emerging from the shadow of the last game
two teams skating along in post season
racing towards Lord stanley
yielding nothing giving more
in all their pains up to the challenge
no love no loss or gain in rivalry
making hits above the score
only to reach passsions for hockey
taking the game to another level
intensified skating after each goal
only to lose sometimes win
never looking beyonds the Cup

ARCHITECTURE

napowrimo#28...prompt is intuition or heightened awareness. My partner is dowstairs learning new Power Cadd...a huge architect program...inspired... I wrote another acrostic poem...using ARCHITECTURE and similarities with poetry.


ARCHITECTURE

Architecture lets you explore human and natuaral environments
Rythm, paradox, and simile
Communicating with all that are open
Hiding the seen showing the unseen
Intuitively landscaping the environment
Telling nothing telling all
Economizing sound and structure
Conjuring up space without images
Travelling beyond noise and space
Until a constant tension appears
Revealing something beyond
Ending inside and outside like a poem

JUNKIE ANGEL

napowrimo#27..prompt today is write an acrostic poem....put word or words vertical...then use first letter to make word and start sentence...I used my full name JOHNWAYNEPITCHKO...



JUNKIE ANGEL

Junkie angel waiting to score
On a sidewalk outside the Plaza cafe
Hasting Street Sunday night
Never wanting to come down
Waiting for her next fix
Always playing games with the narcs
Young hooker hooked on junk
Never conserving always wasted
Eating her body with a twisted black spoon
Punctured with another dirty needle
In her broken down vein
Telling everyone to fuck off
Calling for help from everyone who doesn't care
Hugging the dark reflecions from the bloody sidewalk
Killing herself slowly with all the other hypes
Only caring for her next fix

Baseball in Havana

napowrimo#26........getting scrappy...from a scrap of an old poem not finished
this is a draft


BASEBALL IN HAVANA


no pesos
I toss a baseball into
Central Park Havana
a slider
high and inside

SUNDAY MORNING

napowrimo#25


SUNDAY MORNING

slow slumberous Sunday
without breathless sleep
opening our eyes to the somber sunrise
and the fiber art on the wall
falling through the crisp linen
into the light feathers of discovery
revealing a clutch grab of abstractgion
drinking our moorning tea
with silence

DEVILS AND ANGELS

napowrim0#24..prompt was Find a Phrase...I used the Phrase " GET THEE BEHIND ME SATAN" ....from the Bible


DEVILS AND ANGELS

exhausted from a sick week in the Bronx
after listning to Grace Slick at some biker bar
heading up the Deegan Expressway covered in fog
riding Harley Low Riders
loud and pround with straight pipes
knowing heavin is just one more gear up the highway
looking to turn on
tune in
drop out at Millbrook House
to pass the acid test
with Ram Dass and the high priest Leary
Chopper Kate riding in her leather
Mother Road spinning her wheels
Ardu wearing his colors
Kesey and the Merry Pranksters behind
Jesus in his tophat leading the way
thanking God for bikers
passing through the burning ravines
and six police cars
we roar through the gate of Millbrook
passing the test
with loudspeakers blaring Jefferson Airplane
Grateful Dead
Velvet Underground and Ray Charles
having flashbacks
on politics
education
Huxley and religion
we party with profound pranksters
and Satan's Angels dressed in black leather
high
over the cuckoo's nest
blaring music and police sirens
Jesus removes his top hat and speaks
"get thee behind me Satan"

LEFT OF THE STAGE

napowrimo#23.....prompt is speaker/event that normally do not get together


LEFT OF THE STAGE

somewhere on the outskirts of Bohemia
right corner of Washington Square
a tea party rally
a GRASS roots movement
with no leader no face
just a Temple called William
with Joe the plumber and Sarah beside
preaching to the conspiracist kooks
who still want to fight the British
over the three per cent tea tax
convinced that Obama and his gangster government
are a bunch of Socialists
conspiring to control everything in their lives
with their tea cups upside down
unable to read ther tea leaves of vision
getting ready to reenact the Civil War
ignoring the left corner of the Square
where Pete Seeger is harmonizing
with the Grateful Dead
having a birds eye view through the haze
a real GRASS roots movement
led by Jerry and Janis
Woodie Guthrie , Joan Baez and Cat Stevens
Billie Holiday and Belafonte
a carnival ride for the Deadheads
singing
where have all the flowers gone
we shall overcome
we get along without you very well
inviting them to a real tea party
a real GRASS roots movement
and join the peace train
ignored by the right corner of the square

DIZZY

napowrimo#22..using the word dizzy from the wordle prompt



DIZZY


making an Afro-Cuban jazz statement
with a spanish tinge
under his beret
and horned rimmed glasses
blowing through his crooked trumpet
with his turbo charged pouched cheeks
gusting up a hurricane
deep from his lungs
syncopated lightning bolts
of be bop
a little scat singing
with plenty of sense
Dizzy

PERFECT FLAWS

napowrimo#21..prompt is perfectly flawed.........this is a DRAFT

PERFECT FLAWS


secure in my insecurities and failures
and unknow wisdom
remaining true to the cosmic game
played with all its errors
sincere in the truths never told
that succeeded the goals never scored
as nothing crossed the line of humility
barren of events between failure and frustration
within the obscurities of two souls
and unknown theories of conspiracy
sitting at my gypsy window of imagination
drinking rum with Castro
discussing how Socialism is not perfect
with battles of forgotten memories
how Pollock was perfectly imperfect
in his paintings and human failures
learning all is nothing and nothing is all
writing the impossible
perfect poetry

JACKIE

napowrimo#20...prompt was ...the hero poem ......this poem from Jan 2009


JACKIE

I first saw him on a baseball card in '48
played for the Dodgers
Robinson was his name
amongst the jeers played second base
hitting, fielding , stealing bases
was his game
his skin was black
most thought his chances were slim

from the first time he stepped to the plate
I wanted to be black just like him
he played hard in his own quiet way

with jeers gone cheers came
respect on and off the field
made Mr. Rickey smile
like baseball
politics today has changed
with a game all can play
thanks to my hero Jackie
a black lives in the whitehouse today

THE LIGHT

napwrimo#19...prompt is light bulb moments


THE LIGHT

hanging from an old rotting pine tree
blowing in the blue breeze
higher than our kites
above the dead pavement
of the Santa Monica Freeway
a broken down rewired circuit
wired wrong
hanging like an ancient lock
that couldn't be picked
a tree for curious vultures
or transient cockroaches
that fill up their pockets
like wall street bankers
looking for a blazing light of change
we pull the cord of enlightenment
giving us light
to see the snakes fall from the tree

COOL CAT

naoiwruno#18..prompt tiger...or cat....sooo here it is
italicized words are titles of John Coltrane tunes

COOL CAT

watching the smoke rise
from the hard stiff chair
behind a closed window
backed by an imagination of junk
cool cats around us
the moaning of the saxaphone
wheelin and deelin
setting the pace
giant steps
both slow and fast
wailing away giving symphony
without sympathy
cutting through the bones
giving poetry a chance
to slice through the tracks
a soul trane a blue trane
travelling to the stardust sessions
beyond the dark desert of Dakar
strung out on junk
he sat down at our table
I'm the Trane he moans
I love to boogie
Village Vanguard 1959
Carnegie Hall of jazz
coolest cat I ever met


...............................NOTE...we wandered into the Vanguard March 1959...not knowing more than it was a jazz club....not knowing that Coltrane was playing.....well a fond memory of a cool cat amongst many cool cats there...

MORING FIRE

napowrimo#17 prompt using something elemental....FIRE
.....this is a draft..

MORNING FIRE

in the morning mist
hearing a gasping scream
a hurting sound of passion
beyond the edge of my mind
surprised to find
the shout was coming from me
a fire in my heart
I meditate

the raw physical energy from the universe
the glow of the embers
the heat from the sun
lightning crackling in the clouds
the molten lava of the volcanos
feeding my body with fire
calling to my mind
I meditate

ignited by some bliss
sheltered in a blazing flame
the fire roams inside me
cell by cell towards my mind
searching for inner peace
of honey, sweetness and quiet
with heart on fire
I meditate

MEMORY CELL

napowwrimo#16..prompt is ...WHAT'S THE SMELL.......remembering



MEMORY CELL


sitting inside my cell this morning
inside some mountain prison
where the reek of cat urine
and backed up sewer
seemed better than
the smell of death
becoming odorless
with my sudden loss of smell
I suddenly had wings
flying from this cell
to the banks of the Parvati River
and the mountain town of Kasol
with its spicy aroma
sitting with an Indian Sadhu
smoking hand made black hash
in his clay chillum
a medicine
in a spiritual context
Huxley's ultimate drug soma
black, oily with a sweet smell
never inhaled
never tasted but delicious
boycotting some consensus reality
remembering
from my memory cell

ON THE FLOOR

napowrimo#15 using the prompt something to do with carrying a tune....sing this to the tune I SAW MOMMY KISSING SANTA CLAUS....to your partner..to your shower...to yourself or the whiskey on the floor



ON THE FLOOR


whiskey all over the floor
big Johnny stumbling through the door
Johnny has a drink, a drink he can't share
he wants to tell someone, so he tells the chair

he saw Abby kissing the sawdust floor
underneath the bar stool last nite
she didn't see him sneek
through the door to have a peek
she thought he was passed out on the street
then he saw Abby pissing on the floor
no panties under her skirt having a leak
such a hoot it would have been
if hubbby stumbled in
to see Abby pissing on the floor last nite

whiskey and piss all over the floor
big Johnny drunk by the door
Johnny had a drink he didn't share
he couldn't see, he didn't care

CLEAVE

napowrimo#14 wrtiting about a what? a CLEAVE poem...no idea...and no time today..but here is a haiku



CLEAVE

above the noise of aircraft
optical fiber threads
Van Cleave's ploughshares


I could somewhat explain but....I don't think I will

STRUNG OUT

napowrimo#13 ...crediting the first line to Norman Dubie...."the lights of the galaxies are strung out over a dipper of gin".



STRUNG OUT


the lights of the galaxies
are strung out over a dipper of gin
lost in the Gotham stars
and solace of the Hudson
beyond the city that never sleeps
below the arch of Washington Square
above the urchin avenue of the bowery
fifteen steps down
stands the Village Vanguard
Sarah
Miles
Bill Evans Trio
ghosts of the past jazz universe
calling the spirits
in a martini glass
strung out on gin

REVELATION

napowrimo#12...secret codes...my partner had this list this morning ....fence...Doctor....Clarke...Fairley...college. A secret code???...well it turns out it was a list of things for her to do today (Fairley is name of a local lawyer)......using her list of words (in red) I came up with following poem


REVELATION

leaving Black Mountain College
blinded by the longitudes of the world
looking for abstract expressions
of Pollock and Clarke Coolridge
the meshing of art poetry and jazz
unable to believe Doctor Fairley
and his theory that X is true
because this list reveals nothing
a secret code for screaming souls
anguish to punish the pied piper
that flirts with the willow tree
believing all is written in Kerouac's
Tears In The Fence
revealing nothing

ROAD NOT TAKEN

napowrimo#11.....using the prompt...things I didn't choose


ROAD N OT TAKEN


putting my foot on the pedal
laying rubber down the interstate
looking for that gravel road less travelled
of dust and dirt
to set me free
believing a road is just a road
no matter if its Seattle or San Antone
missing that exit never known
where it went
what would have been
faceless ghosts or forgotten dreams
jesus on the cross
blinded by mean beams
hearing voices of lost prisoners
never noticing the miles
screaming at the scenery
at midnight or dawn
always moving on
sometimes missing that place
never been never seen
on the road to San Antone
the road not taken

CELEBRATION

napowrimo#10..celebrating..friends....napowrimo April 2010


CELEBRATION

celebrating triumph of human imaginations
amidst pitfalls and calamities
writing every day with linguistic excitement
mystery and emotion
thirty day marathon of the creative mind
sometimes evily subversive
a slow process of subtraction one cell at a time
Howling Wolf blues with Ginsberg
like wounded animals fading into a cloak of gentleness
eating lemon chiffon cake
dancing to a gypsy guitarist under a sky of tangarine dreams
and whiskey in heaven
family of poets feeling good feeling bad
writing poetry
celebrating

WATTLE AND DOUB

napowrimo#9...using 12 prompt words (in red)...words from old poem that did not pan out (IN CAPITALS)...something that tastes terrible and sound that makes me happy.



WATTLE AND DOUB

it was shabby chic
somewhere along Queen Street
winter 1967
looking for a massage parlor
or a jug of Johnny Walker
a neon sign flickered
Wattle and Doub
or was it Doubt
I limped in anyways
DOWN SOME WOODEN STAIRS
drunk
knotted muscles hurting
on bruise control
tripping
on some slimy octopus
entering some fringe festival of poets
Becky Strum writing thoughts of you
in her scholarly tome
Ginsberg with his jar of Johnny Walker
Kerouac with his pail of soup
we started to party
it was all good
except the horific swamp soup
so we danced all nite
sweet jazz
to Moe Kaufmann's Swinging Shepherd Blues
clearing the track for Eddie Shack


.....NOTE....Eddie "clear the track" Shack played for 1967 Leafs...his last year in Toronto and the LAST time LEAFS won Stanley Cup

LOVERS NEVER GET OLD

napowrimo#8...about lovers



LOVERS NEVER GET OLD

older
no focus
no mission
staring at each other
forgetting ourselves
who we are
who we were
unable to get off our chair
tears running down our cheeks
our inner being
never to be concealed
still in love

BEAUTIFUL NUN

napowrimo#7...a tanka about humor of love...or something



BEAUTIFUL NUN

shaved head
falling out of her robe
walking towards me
naked exceptionally beautiful
who doesn't desire me

HORIZONS

napowrimo#6 is inspired by my paintings


HORIZONS

my paintings explore the sacredness of place
influenced by serene prairie landscape
with the horizon a theme or metaphor
a point of stillness
reflecting back both top and bottom
some balanced energy
inviting more than describing
a tight sliver of line
where the sky meets the land
sometimes calm sometimes restless
an interplay between inner being
and physical outside world
the magnetic interval between these worlds
creating tension
between light and space
a placelessness between
the spiritual and material reality
always there

NELSON SMALL LEGS JR.

last nite I was lost in a film
a documentary
Nelson Small Legs Jr.
a martyr for his cause
residential schools
Mackenzie pipeline
abuse
native friends
dead drunk on cheap wine
shooting junk
staring at prison walls
searching for sunlight
new horizons

it is better to be sweating
in some sweat lodge
sauna near the creek
in the green forest
listening to the ravens
pow wow singing
chicken dancing
smoking peace pipes
with elders
carving better pictures
staring at cedar walls
beside the bouquet of love
with their horizons

LOOKING

napowrimo#4...using prompt inside out


LOOKING

when young I went out looking
for that elusive guitar
leaving but not knowing
of who I was
looking for the preacher outside
not seeing the spirit inside
just another suitcase
full of baggage
burning landslides
other points of view
when young looking to the outside
you belong to someone
now older looking inside
still looking for answers
belonging to me

FEAR AND HATING

napowrimo#3 for daily poem...prompt was fear or what scares you



FEAR AND HATING

a fear of travelling to some cemetery
in a long black limousine
with a group of assholes
who can't handle booze
Rush Limbaugh and the O'Reilly factor
crapping all over health care
as they nurse their rot gut
and broken souls
never confessisng to dirty hotel rooms
listening to Dr. Gonzo and Hunter Thompson
profoundly angry
arguing their shittrain of theories
about cue balls and circus people
suppressing their forest of fears
stress
violence
substance abuse
depression
insecurities of their minds
wondering what happened
to Oscar Acosta

RARE WITCH PROJECT

Using the acronym RWP


RARE WITCH PROJECT

she lived in a mysterious lair
in some spiraling mountain
frozen beyond time
her ugly face
always plastered in frown
never understanding
the laughter of Banjo and Kazooie
who lived in the flowers and meadows
with their beautiful sister Tooty
who she kidnapped because of jealousy
then she poisoned the water
cut down the flowers
turned the meadows into cemetries
tear up the gardens
Gruntilda was rotten to the core
jealous
who lied and cheated all her life
wanting the land and everyone
to be ugly as she

SHUFFLE DEMON

RWP napowrimo#1...using titles of 5 songs...at random....from my CD player
Title of songs are in CAPITALS

RIDE by Robert Earl Keen
BLUE UMBRELLA by John Prine
THE LAND OF PLENTY by Leonard Cohen
THAT DON'T MAKE IT JUNK by Leonard Cohen
TEN DAY POEM FOR SASKATCHEWAN by The Warped 45'S

SHUFFLE DEMON

dogs barked over the graveyard
everybody remaining silent
embracing the winds of change
lingering
unable to RIDE

watching the candles dim
burning in a new world
behind the door of lost chances
soaking
under some BLUE UMBRELLA

hearing the forces of yesterday
crying deep under the ground
beneath their swallowed burdens
digging
for THE LAND OF PLENTY

dumping dirt
on humpty and the dump trucks
driving down a prairie road
clunkin
but THAT DON'T MAKE IT JUNK

escaping the noisy mufflers
where the sounds of the shuffle demon
constantly change
writing
a TEN DAY POEM FOR SASKATCHEWAN

Magpies

RWP#120 using the image Gathering...credit Alice Popkorn



MAGPIES

Magpies
siting on the fence
bold
an early riser
stealing the light
always waking us up
ready to lecture
chew us out
tease our dog
then steal his food
magpies
sitting on the fence
having words
with some distant coyote
berating the gypsies
reprimanding
the cowbows
dressing down
the lost buffalo
that once roamed the hills
magpies
sitting on the fence
correcting
the mourning poets
with their dead words
castigating
the agnostice tabernacle choir
and their lost hymns
jawing
at the drunk umpire
who couldn't count
magpies
sitting on the fence
laughing
talking
waiting
you are me
I am you

TIME WITHOUT MEMORY

RWP#116...a draft Using this photo by H.Koppdelaney


TIME WITHOUT MEMORY

It has been a blink
of clock ticks
ticking away since conception
lost forgotten moments
never to be returned
progresssing towards a place
where memories are lost
moving on to some other time
with a declining body
without a fresh metabolism
no longer hung up
on high button shoes
and unrealistic dreams
to a place without heartache
or faked death below the watchtower
leaving the burning palace of conception
the distant temples of conquest
and the shadows of the past behind
now in a dark boat above a river
surrounded by advice never taken
blinded by the expressions
never spoken
with some ancient ferryman
guiding a lost soul
of some newly deceased
across the Styx
a river of no return
descending to the underworld
the last voyage into eternity
where nothing is real
where souls jitterbug to jazz
beating to the hearts of yesterday
lost in no sense of conquest
listening to Huxley's psychobabble
and his meaningless abstractions
that never rhyme
without lords or creatures of faith
clutching to their rusted boughs
drinking a sweet adrogynous liquid
celebrating the dead survivors
who once moaned in the graveyards
lonely and frozen in time
gazing at the bright searchlights
that shine on the nuns
playing tennis without rackets
invisible with no strings attached
beyond the light in the tunnel
without struggles or sober thoughts
moving towards time
that has no memory

BELIEVING

RWP#115..



BELIEVING NOT KNOWING

believing to be washed away
to some unknown place
not knowing if my robes
will be clean or dry
believing there will be poets
in their solitude
not knowing if there will be angels
that make me cry

believing to have insight
into some sacred mind
not knowing if the journey
will be covered in gold
believing it will be a pure land
of sober drunks
not knowing their language
of stories never told

believing the air will be pierced
with beauty and jazz
not knowing if the notes
will be felt or heard
believing Satchmo will blow his horn
along Bourbon towards Boogie street
not knowing if it will be birdland
or the land of absurd

HOME

(using one of the words from prompt..red) this is a draft

HOME


looking through the eyes
of yesterdays perceptions
beyond forgotten places
there was a sea of red
above some flooding torrent
of endless tomorows

in this disenchanted place
I once knew as home
now tarnished like a bronze arrow
after centuries of rusting salt
my head keeps sailing
towards some crackling winter storm

tomorrow I will awake
before the ancient dawn
touching the universe with my fingertips
standing still watching the stars
gathering silence with simplicity
listening to the distant dolphins at home

SWEATING IT OUT

RWP#113


SWEATING IT OUT

Welcome to our sauna
the home of many bums
there is plenty of room
to sit around naked
sweating in silence
discussing the facts of nothing
forgetting the lost days never found
and the dark nights of nowhere
without headaches or snapped minds
reading Huxley, Kerouac and Marx
watching the medieval tombstones
floating down the silvering creek
towards a tidal wave of water
where nuns and monks dance
and tiny fish swim
in a torquoise sea of light
where no one has invented ownership
or discovered hate
we sit silent with our breath
disolved in our space
sweating it out.

ROOM OF DREAMS

RWP#112....prompt..something inspired by wallpaper.....my bedroom as a kid.

ROOM OF DREAMS

It was a sanctuary

the walls were special

plastered with baseball cards

the whiz kids playing pepper

a catcher in the grass

the splendid splinter swinging his bat

where the real world was a diamond

my room of dreams

lying on my bed every night

staring, dreaming

at the bums of Flatbush roosting

Newk, Duke, Campy

Jackie dancing some jitterbug number

before stealing second base

always the centre of the diamond

my wall of dreams

with the moon sliding through the shades

staring at those cards

I became that gangling black kid from Mobile

Hank hammerin another out of the park

Willie making another basket catch

a kid from Spavinaw called Mick

doing it all

in my room of dreams

unable to pull up the covers or sleep

summer always in my bones

playing suburban stickball

where the season is forever

travelling with suitcase Simpson and Satchel

I became Minnie Minoso

and all those cards on the wall

my world of dreams.

TALKING TO THE CHAIR

RWP#111...inspired by this photo...credited to Milad Gheisari

TALKING TO THE CHAIR

Don't be afraid of me

I just escaped from Essondale

some vortex beyond city limits

a mental hospital

where they think everyone

has mood disorders

where nobody understands sanity

giving brain creasing operations

when I only wanted a sex change

experiencing moments

of my mothers sexuality

dipping downwards

to the lady of death

with a scar on my head

from the lobotomy of menopause

I was a lonely transexual

standing on a bed of thorns

playing a persian piano and bamboo flute

whirling, singing and sufi dancing

a colorful pastiche of gypsy sounds

taking me to some heightened state

looking for the spiritual genius of Buddha

reading Rumi and slurping words

from my bowl of ambrosia

expressing lost thoughts while crying

for the love of a lost mother

inspired by conspiracy theories

and last years nightmare

of the blind locust with a carving knife

when they captured me

taking me to some sanctuary of deprivation

where the wind doesn't blow

amongst the conversations

about squash and onions with no memories

constantly agitiated

jumping, dancing doing push ups

tangled up in delirium

preaching cheap propaganda

I refused to become a slave

of conventional ways of thinking

where ideas get lost in the universe of senses

battered graves with blind vision

and muscular ghosts of sanity

hanging from the burning fire escapes

with lost souls on three legs

wobbly, squeaky not broken

I took my axe to the bughouse square

walking out without my insanity

or black dress

I quickly stood still

putting up my hood to hide my face

to escape the ravages of my mind

and the shivers of terror

looking for the road to Vlychos

to play my flute

or maybe a taste of Bombay

I started the journey

towards the spiritual light of Buddha

and your silence that's not broken

don't be afraid of me.

PORT-au-PRINCE BURNING

RWP#110..not a transliteration. Port-au-Prince-Burning was inspired by four lines of a longer poem by Rainer Maria Rilke..that I translated. Poem tries to express feelings and pain for what has been done to Haiti and its people. Four lines I used are italicized in red.

Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,
wird wachen, lesen, lange, Briefe schreiben
und wird in den Alleen hin und her
unruhig wandern, wenn die Blatter treiben.


whoever has no house now will never have one
whoever is alone will stay alone
sit,read, write long poems through the night.
and wander on the streets, up and down.
translated from Autumn Day by Rainier Maria Rilke



PORT-au-PRINCE BURNING

There is dye everywhere
the sharp air
of early afternoon
is now the color of blood
a once smooth monument
burned by the brittle sun
busted by the gods
with sunset appearing like a thief
for children, daylight has gone
whoever has no house now will never have one.

Around fires everyone sings
a good time in the worst of time.
brocaded windows crushed
it is safer on the street
the other world is a basket full of bread
ours a cup of stone
cooked by the summer sun
some dead or nearly dead
everything a broken bone
whoever is alone will stay alone.

Nothing left nothing but us
nothing to eat nowhere to sleep
just a crushed kettle boiling dry
crushed windows crushed doors
hiding the dog on the wrong side of the street
wherever she hides
with her scruff and braided tail
avoiding the face of fire
she barks at us
sit, read, write long poems through the night.

Even though there is nothing, no basket
the cool ocean stained air
is reserved for those sipping through a straw
that sing to their gods
dancing around their cups of stone
celebrating the brocaded windows
with those smooth monuments of satin
covering the pale-covered pebbles
burning the basket of fool's gold
and wander on the streets, up and down.

WALKING THE RIO PECOS

RWP#109 using some of the words (in BOLD)

WALKING THE RIO PECOS

Walking along the Rio Pecos

with some shaman poet

our bodies reverbrating

to the drummed earth below

enthusiasts for the words of truth

unknown pagans asking questions

from the ghost riders

and the black shouldered ravens

that fly in the energy washed skies

moving to the mysteries

of the fertile celestial world

with the guilded monuments of marble

and simple stones

gargling froth from our lungs

corrupted with mescaline

drunk on water and sundered hearts

searching for chaos of the mind

from some Krishna volcano

that surrendered open

listening to buddhist monks

playing jazz with Coltrane

under sundered skies of the Mescalero

walking

walking

along the Rio Pecos.

SPIRITUAL MYSTERY

RWP#108

SPIRITUAL MYSTERY

cold winter morning

crunching snowshoes in mountain air

begging for sunshine and new words

at high noon

or some midnight dance

with the naked trees that shiver

surrounded by the silent mountains

and three black ravens overhead

chasing the parting clouds

and some lost poem

burried beneath the quilt we walk on

protruding from some dark coffin

the lost sylabbles remain

waiting for the sunlight

as the words of a dead poet

announces the resurecction of a poem

another spiritual mystery.

RWP#107...inspired from this photo "shotgun blast" by Shane Gorski

SHOOTING GALLERY

There was no light

only darkness and tattooed graffito

in the shadows of the dark horse

shooting junk

in the empty church loft

above the back alley of filth

below the street of lost hope

lossing their minds

and collapsed veins

a place to fix

with hollow sounds and silent shots

the mistress of of burnt spoons and dirty needles

took them to the pusher of death

Ken the keeper saw a glow

and remained

knowing that darkness comes before the light

he weathered the storm

of junk and dirty needles

when the ghost of himself appeared

on a tightrope of broken eggshells

and led him to the light

beyond the shadow of who he once was

emerging into the light

like a phoenix

his soul rose from the ashes

awakened with clarity

he made this his home

the shooting gallery of light.