poga poetry

ISADORA GOING DOWNHILL

2012-01-18T21:16:00.000-08:00

she danced with fire and terror
beside the October Revolution
and Bolshevik poet who committed suicide

a free thinking woman
a pioneer of modern dance
changing people's ideas of ballet
with attitudes on free love and lifestyle

like a Hellenic nymph
creating with her SILVER soul
and voluptuous values of working class
celebrating beauty and female body

bare foot and loose hair
always attacking the system
with her unconventional movements
living with her own rules

she died of a FREAK accident
strangled when her flowing scarf tangled
in the real wheel of her automobile
Isadora going DOWNHILL

BOHEMIAN POETRY CIRCLE

2012-01-11T21:37:00.000-08:00

a loose group of literary beats
sit in some basement bar
lights out
curtains down
smoking
unable to see their whiskey
or another blue sky glimpse

old poets growing old
unable to write anymore
no longer wanting to be disturbed
or shaped by conductors of words
or publish another BRUTAL poem
they sit in darkness staying drunk
fighting their SULLEN fate

forgotten bohemian poets
with uneasy reflections of yesterday
and their dead perfume
disputing their agonies and fears
with the whiskey of their silence
they no longer know the TRUTH
or how to lie

GRAND LADY

2012-01-09T21:34:00.000-08:00

she stands alone
somewhere between intimacy
and chaotic Times Square
sometimes loud sometimes soft
remembering days that used to be

the fading cracks on her face
reminds us of acts of yesterday
Fanny and Gypsy Rose Lee
a pre-eminent vaudeville act
standing tall

inside she remains gorgeous
hanging with the crystal chandeliers
and the ghost of some acrobat
falling to his death on the mezzanine
while laughing at Burns and Allen

outside she still stands tall
looking over the statue of Father Duffy
and the madness of the Square
needing repair but not shattered
The Palace... our Grand Lady

FROZEN FEET

2012-01-04T15:00:00.000-08:00

she stands knee deep in snow
unable to take another step
or follow the path of life
frozen in time
my rusty lady with frozen feet

how long has she stood here?
with her rusted Sufi thoughts
riveted with naughty memories
only her welded mouth could tell

with her glacier conscience
without any zenith of desire
unable to bleed in the crippling snow
she listens to the frozen field

her tactic and strategy is to wait
for her Sufi friend to melt the snow
with the summer of his mind
and thaw the veins of winter
so she can walk to the pond

THAT RIVER

2012-01-03T17:42:00.000-08:00

at our creek this morning
I simply watch
feeling the magic
of this special place
whose source is hidden
just let it go and let it run
the small stream will grow

letting it flow beyond boundaries
over the pebbles of life
in touch with roots and moss
accumulating images from beyond
demanding freedom from underground
where everything emerges into one
and a small stream will grow

moving on with absolute trust
before another storm arrives
awash with another day of dreams
flowing towards the sea of possibilities
where memories drown beneath yesterday
and fly above above the mysteries of god
the small stream will grow

bound and determined
without concern for the dead birch
preparing for the conditions ahead
and the firmness in its commitment
with self trust and wisdom
the small stream will grow
and become that river

MY ROOM

2011-12-28T18:54:00.000-08:00

the musty air is heavy
smelling of piss from an old cat
warped 45s playing music convolutions
on a DEMOLISHED turn table
a folk blues revival
Dan Hicks And His Hot Licks
Monkey And The Engineer
with Jesse Fuller and the Dead
train wheels screeming without brakes
Janis and Jefferson Airplane flying high

my room a multicoloured cherub of colors
to TRANSFORM the cracks in the wall
with the patterns of Brahms
I fill myself with empty space
separated from the musty air
my eyes are closed in RESOLUTION
seeing beyond the gloom towards beauty
the musty room not important anymore
I hear the music of myself
and paint another poem

variation of a poem of mine.."The Attic"

RIVER

2011-12-27T16:32:00.000-08:00

sitting on a rock above the river
a little kid sucking a lollipop
watching the roller coaster
a child looking for a place to play
passing throughout the bars of psychoanalysis
listening to Beethoven without whispers
reading Sandburg in silence
close-mouthed without ruby red lipstick

sitting on a rock above the river
no Joltin Joe to jilt her
or hungry men to stab her life
and others who assured magnificence
to justify another darling pose
where there is nothing to search for
beyond the world of awkwardness
The River of No Return

(this is a draft)

WINTER SOLSTICE

2011-12-22T19:24:00.000-08:00

sitting on the bench
with my back to the Rockies
high above the Columbia
I close my eyes with BELIEF
to see the FESTIVAL of Yalda

celebrating the winter solstice
the victory of light over darkness
rebirth of the sun
arrival of winter
becoming free

cultivating nothing
beyond the RUMPLE of trees
eating dried figs and apricots
sipping tea
becoming drunk

celebrating the longest night of year
decorating trees with saffron
when another breath is a victory
and friends sit in silence
reading poetry

this poem for 3Word Wednsday
with our friend Carl..aka Carl Coyote.aka Abdullah Baba Sufi
in mind

RETRIBUTION

2011-12-14T15:41:00.000-08:00

the old poet sat in late autumn darkness
in his wheelchair
sitting at some seniors aquatic centre
in wonderment

feeling in close PROXIMITY to dementia
waiting for the mystery of rehab
unable to swim
unable to write

IMMOBILE and restless for the next step
his mind surrounded with thoughts
that lost their language
a place to keep...until finding another use for it

tracking the interiors around it
where the mind is the secret
a transparent collision of memories
swallowed up in the cracks

transfixed with roaring sounds of silence
screaming above the truth of aging
below the pedestrians on the sidewalk
unable to take another shower before the swim

troubled by the aging cross-dressers
masquarading in search of new bodies
who prostitute their souls with charity
without RETRIBUTION

WINDOW FACE

2011-12-14T09:46:00.000-08:00

the curtain swings open
I look out
it's blurred out there
most likely ghosts
nothing I want to see
I see rage
the window slams shut

the luminous lift off occurs
it's full of red space
I see nothing
then I see red
the window slowly opens
then quickly closes
I see the blurred reflection

stopping and looking
a non being image appears
listless falling color bomb
standing in front of a canvas
personifying his color red
bleeding
the face of Mark Rothko

STILLNESS

2011-12-13T17:08:00.000-08:00

forgetting his confused cycle of life
stuck in quiet introspection
beyond the sea beyond the boat
sinking but not defeated
in an ocean torn with rife

remembering his lost voyage
perplexed by the moment
beyond the sky beyond the shore
stuck but not ruined
on a beach without floatage

listening to poems of the sea
grounded in stillness
beyond silence beyond death
wrecked but not broken
standing with friendly sand flea

CIRCLE

2011-12-07T15:16:00.000-08:00

forever walking in a circle
hovering around wall of helplessness
hands clasped
bleached memories
discarded sounds
forgotten souls
lost dinner trays
empty echoes
painful times
wind blown problems
troubled with darkness
with reality

stopping at the mirror inside the circle
hanging above the floor of reality
eyes closed
reflecting the beginning
wondrous fantasy
revealing surprises
morning dew
rising sun
winter snowshoeing
winding pathways
endless light
with magic

COFFIN TRAIL

2011-11-29T22:21:00.000-08:00

towards the end of the trail
sat a small gathering of old poets
a gypsy photo gallery with color
whispering out of tune hymns
with golden thoughts without voice

gazing at the open oak coffin
no doubt a drunken dead poet lies
covered with his plastic membrane
celebrating his awkward funeral feast
with voiceless words with thoughts

looking towards emptiness without distress
and the hidden grace that lies ahead
the dead poet mourns his unwritten poems
conjuring his magical disappearing act
with one limb in the grave

CRUMBS

2011-11-15T21:15:00.000-08:00

moving from one DESIGNATED point to another
forming free EXPRESSIVE brushstrokes with abstract shapes

using a poets words as a path to TRAVEL
leaving an UNCOMPLETED poem for the critics to read

defining half-conditioned problems of the GHETTO
with inflammatory hooligans SEEKING refuge

referring to art galleries as morgues for DEAD paintings
displayed in harsh UNCHANGING light

looking at something beyond SYMBOLIC stop signs
TOWARDS Jesus in a wheel less carriage

SITTING with percolating words with crumbs
and ANOTHER Kerouac metaphor

SHOCKED

2011-11-08T18:55:00.000-08:00

having survived more
treatments in riverview
head rotting
mind a bust

head wired
connected and psychotic
computerized with broken
words on the floor

unsigned with blank
cheque and no cents
loyal but late
without money

lost on the street
years of youth
drowning on grey wards
crying in the corners

lying psyche doctors
secretly hiding
shiny instruments
behind pharmaceuticals

two hours forgetting it all
without memory
no cents left in bank
they have it all

part of the evil system
electrically inducing seizures
another vegetable
shocked

IN THE MOMENT

2011-10-26T10:33:00.000-07:00

stopped by the bending willows
twisting in the wind
rustling leaves
croaking in the garden
Buddha and the toad
sit in silence

NOTHING LEFT

2011-10-05T12:37:00.000-07:00

searching for the petrified truth of the blues
characterized by some stench of smell
I am tired of thinking
shameful of some past performance

comforted when the morning light goes on
clinging to old hunchback bones
I am tired of performing
delighted that their will be no applause

unable to exploit the corridors of sanity
exploring denial without direction
I am unable to incorporate the Virgin Mary
drowning in complex doctrines

mournful for the destitute of weakness
transcending grace and salvation
I am examining the revelations of silent glue
fearful of the universe and beyond

listening to idiotic conversations with self
incorporated into another literary discussion
I am watching the absurd pain
travel to my left

FRIENDS

2011-08-06T11:45:00.000-07:00

sitting on the deck with morning tea
listening to Drag Queens in a Limousine
poets who never speak
natives who survive not weak
prissoners who remain innocent
street people strong not bent
tranvestites in high heels
blind Willie with eyes that feel
drunks with all their compassion
children that play have fun
nuns that feed the hungry
painters that paint what no others see
homeless who are still winners
priests who are not sinners
drifters out front who we follow
politicians who are real not hollow
mentally challenged who let me be
just me
family and friends
all that took me in

SUNDAY HYMN

2011-07-10T11:53:00.000-07:00

thumbprint on the wind
in my rock garden
Sunday hymn

BEYOND ATTIC

2011-06-29T13:52:00.000-07:00

the thinner has evaporated
paint and words dried up
turntable has stopped playing
canvas no longer dances to the Dead
or sings with Janis
feeling blue
feeling warped
broken like my easel

I look beyond the drips of Pollock
cracked words of Kerouac
closing my eyes looking out the window
visions towards beauty without pain
closed eyes of Buddha watching the creek
gently flowing towards beauty
and landscapes of words
our creek beyond the attic

FUTURE VISIONS

2011-06-25T21:46:00.000-07:00

wind on moonlight water
white sand
wild sea
waves
with driftwood on ravens sunset

ATTIC

2011-06-23T11:52:00.000-07:00

the odourless thinner is heavy
tubes of paint mixed with dried words
warped 45s playing music convolutions
on a broken turntable
a folk blues revival
dancing on a canvas
with Garcia and the Dead
flying high on the easel with Janis

the attic a multicolored cherub of colors
cracked words splattered on the wall
visions of Kerouac drips of Pollock
separating myself from space and time
my eyes closed in divine pain
seeing beyond gloom towards beauty
I hear the music within
painting poems with landscapes

this is variation of earlier poem "The Attic"

THRESHOLD

2011-06-19T20:00:00.000-07:00

THRESHOLD

sitting on the charnel ground
listening to the bones bark back
drinking tea eating brownies
feeling passive to aspects of fate
unable to figure out the meaning
of the organic rectangles
beneath the canopy of rusty polyester
balanced on threshold of life

hearing dragons conversing with cyborgs
talking trash about fusion and empathy
and their physical and mental capabilities
hearing loud Moroccan music
unable to defer the chiropractic adjustments
of the disembodied words
beneath the counter of mental illness
balanced on threshold of life

dancing around the spots on the leopard
focused on peripheral events
drinking a cup of the Arabian Sea
rubbing lemon balm on aluminum foil
unable to hear the muted sounds
of the barking bones
beneath the charnel ground
balanced on threshold of life

LIFE

2011-06-12T20:34:00.000-07:00

LIFE

a single apple blossom
holds all the life
of a drop of rain

DANCING WITH PI

2011-06-01T19:09:00.000-07:00

DANCING WITH PI

dancing on the frescoed tombs
where the road starts
and the sidewalk ends
shaking and shattering in confusion
to the rhythm of her broken hip
as the scent of roses die
under the transcendental churchyard
she was a dancer

dancing on the blistered feet
where the blood flows
and the hurt never ends
entrancing the strain of lost music
without feeling or pain
as the smell of death arrives
above the smoking graveyard
she was a dancer

DANCING WITH PI

2011-06-01T13:17:00.000-07:00

dancing on the frescoed tombs
where the road starts
and the sidewalk ends
shaking and shattering in confusion
to the rhythm of her broken hip
as the scent of roses die
under the transcendental churchyard
she was a dancer

dancing on the blistered feet
where the blood flows
and the hurt never ends
entrancing the strain of lost music
without feeling or pain
as the smell of death arrives
above the smoking graveyard
she was a dancer

IRRESISTIBLE

2011-05-28T20:14:00.000-07:00

......using the image by German surrealist Michael Maier as a prompt

at intermission we met on the shore
storm clouds churning with blue
broken by the roar of silence
without notes glowing in the sky

thoughts of emptiness deep in my soul
in time with my suffocating cello suite
choking on the music of Bach
in time with her mute lips

with denial playing my strings
treading gently before the onslaught
ignoring the incoming tide
I skipped stones across the sea

our eyes never met just wept
as her wing blew to my bow
washing and slicing my strings
squeezing down to my highest pitch

at last she glances at my bow
her face shining with suspicion
shrugging off the imbalance
we make music on the shore

COSMIC EXPLOSION

2011-05-25T12:21:00.000-07:00

COSMIC EXPLOSION (a draft)

it all started with a cosmic cloud of gas and lies
bad cheques floating imn space
junk bonds dancing on Wall Street
deserted mortgages without homes
broken bankers covered in soot and ash
suddenly losing their braggadocios tone
listening to the birds at sing sing
looking for a government fifty years in debt
printing invisible money
to pay the bankers who stalk the poor
and piss on the vegetation
rotting bodies of another war
vanishing lakes and rivers
poisoned
by the flesh of greed and hunger
and another exploding Ponzi scheme

HIS RETURN

2011-05-21T21:01:00.000-07:00

sitting in the Cellar jazz club smoking
pouring whiskey over lost words
four poets stare at their failures
realizing hell is what they create
waiting for his return

the last time we saw him
his long fingers lingered on the ivory
with sizzling chord progressions
knowing heaven was his creation
not some faded decaying rapture

rising from beneath the stage
with drums full of suspense
the cool jazz started to sizzle and bop
Fats Waller returned to celebrate
May 21, his birthday

the four poets watched from their whiskey conference
drunk enough to find their lost words
and create more hell
not to be be judged
celebrating his return

La Esquina Calienete.........(The Hot Corner)

2011-05-19T20:50:00.000-07:00

that is me in orange T

it is a hot simmering place
where smouldering men gather
in sultry Parque Central
across the street from the grand dome of the Capitolio
in torrid Old Havana
assembling daily from early morning
late into the night
in-your-face, high decibel shouting
choosing sides
exploding
where the only rule is no fighting
men coming and going
moving from one discussion to another
sometimes sounding like a riot
wild hot gestures with inflamed voices
delivered with philosophical flair
baseball fans with serious debating skills
passionate
a public place reserved for serious baseball fans
why doesn't Jose Toca play more?
Ismael should be on the National team
Orlando Hernandez shouldn't have been traded
the Yankees are not the best
they should come to Havana and play the Industrales
who is the real lost son of Havana?
Minnie Minoso?
no it's Luis Tiant
they argue while I listen
without fighting

PARCHED POETS

2011-04-04T20:12:00.000-07:00

riding a bus North of San Joaquin
on a lost dry highway
somewhere near nowhere
heading towards Dos Palos
searching for words off the beaten track
on the beatnik path
always finding the lost highway
missing the hidden metaphor cafe

stopping at the Backstreet Bar in Dos Palos
strapped for cash
we leave the bus
old men in their fedoras without feathers
young ladies in long dresses without stilettos
beat poets running towards the bar
for another poetry reading
more whiskey

MR. DRESSUPS LAST SHOW

2011-04-03T20:51:00.000-07:00

many thought it was happy nothing
empty children's morning television
Mr. Dressup at Buttercup Square
leading through series of songs
stories, arts, crafts
imagination games

with the help of his friends
Casey and Finnegan
a child and dog that lived in a tree house
occasional visitors Alligator Al and Aunt Bird
Chester the Crow and Truffles
Granny and Lorenzo the Raccoon

the famous segment featured his Tickle Trunk
where the costumes were stored
costumes to dress up for skits
playing a policeman a fireman an animal
sometimes tickling the lock
when the trunk wouldn't open

then it was over
no more tree house
no more Tickle Trunk
no more costumes
no more Casey and Finnegan
his last show in 1996

PHONE CALL TO PAST

2011-04-02T22:43:00.000-07:00

dialing five numbers on the rotary phone
party lines for all to rubber
The Shadow and baseball on radio
with static
rabbit ears on black and white TV
clicking three channels with I Love Lucy
Underwood typewriter forgiving its mistakes
with carbon copy smudging the words
Saturday matinees with Roy and Gene
cruising Columbia Street in a 51 Ford
girls who made their dresses for the dance
zuit suits and duck tails for guys
crew cuts
when apple was a jam
blackberry a jelly
dreaming of martians with computers
the cold war
McCarthyism
a phone call to the past
science fiction

STRIPPING AT CITY LIGHTS

2011-04-02T18:10:00.000-07:00

feeling the fire under the wear
flames searching a button
rolling back the shirt unzippered
without words
with mystery
showing how the skin gathers
below the neck
how it slides into the embers
towards the melting candle
beneath an aria of light
humming a blue word
showing an opus of song
the shirt falls to the floor
between poems

STANDING WITH DAVID SUZUKI

2011-04-01T20:26:00.000-07:00

standing on a broken balcony on Haida Gwaii
beside moss shrouded trees
overlooking Hecate Strait
a playground for orcas and humpbacks
arching out of the water above the forest floor
blowing jazz into the wind
a rich biological and cultural area
where there are no sermons in the waves

like securing a ringside seat at the dawn of time
when the raven coaxed the first man from a clam shell
living in harmony with other sub-species
of bird fish and mammals
we come to see the sea
to learn
to feel
to share

to learn from the whales
who majestically cruise the water
to feel the ravens' flight
gliding with the wind
to share it all
the sea the sky the forest floor
there's something special in this old place
he speaks in silence

THE ATTIC

2011-03-31T14:29:00.000-07:00

the musty air is heavy
smelling of piss from an old cat
warped 45s playing music convolutions
on a broken turn table
a folk blues revival
Dan Hicks And His Hot Licks
Monkey And The Engineer
with Jesse Fuller and the Dead
train wheels screaming without brakes
Janis and Jefferson Airplane flying high

the attic a multicoloured cherub of colors
with cracks in the walls
reminding me of the patterns of Brahms
I fill myself with empty space
separated from the musty air
my eyes are closed in divine pain
seeing beyond the gloom towards beauty
the musty attic not important anymore
I hear the music of myself
and write another poem

HOLIDAY

2011-02-26T21:14:00.000-08:00

HOLIDAY

celebrating her death every July 17

I write jazz poetry

improvising my words to her burned voice

beside her mournful burnt candle

soulful in her spoon and magic needle

under siege from another lost love

a mystery lady day seeking freedom

from the trees that bear no fruit

and the blood stains on the leaves

from the black bodies hanging from trees

singing her encore Strange Fruit

Billie Holiday

SAFE PLACE

2011-02-23T16:11:00.000-08:00

inside a flute listening to the holes
without thinking
without knowledge
watching the quiet voices dance
listening to the silent music
playing tag with the sounds

beside two bears listening to nothing
with courage
with mindfulness
watching the sun set
listening to the silent growls within
playing no games with the mind

outside under the weeping willow
with another journey
with closed eyes
watching nothingness between the blinks
listening to the birds at the feeder
playing games with the seeds

inside myself listening to breath
without reason
without anything
watching the noisy thoughts stop
listening to the quiet monkey
playing no games inside a safe place

EARTH MAN HEAVEN

2011-02-09T16:31:00.000-08:00

.........this is a triptych relationship poem..based on Chinese trinity..earth man heaven
using haiku....photo is my painting "SCORCHED EARTH"

earth...................................man................................heaven
our garden destroyed......leaving thumbprints....above water
baptized cracked..............burning..........................waves never reaching

MORNING MEDITATION

2011-01-15T12:02:00.000-08:00

sitting listening to the snow
watching my breath
singing sweet jazz
without blues
with courage

DESTINY

2011-01-08T22:52:00.000-08:00

staring into the deep abyss
a vacant hole in the middle
of hollow openness
looking at fears secrets
and tears

listening to the messenger-spirit
exempt from apprehension
unhindered between space and time
with no place to escape the light
or the flight

beneath the broken umbrella
of lost dreams of reality
where the spilt paint
stains the art that covers me
haunting my destiny

SNOW LADY

2010-12-30T21:54:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-22T19:42:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-17T20:28:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-12T19:56:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-09T21:13:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-03T20:07:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-01T14:16:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-29T16:41:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-20T11:28:00.000-08:00

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

SAILORS ODYSSEY

2010-09-24T20:52:00.000-07:00

sailing south on the resplendent China Cloud
powered only by wind and sculling oars
alone on the restless sea beneath dimming stars
scanning the horizon with the screaming seagulls
sailing towards dawn with a wind song
looking for a sufi in Namibia
suddenly we tack into a stiff southeast wind
the mast suddenly decides it has had enough
floating in and out of the dark waves
wet-frozen-delicate
towards the rows of solitary streets
a place where there is nothing and sailors lose their way
where trees lose their shadows and light shows darkness
shipwrecked on a treacherous coastline
the Skeleton Coast and the ghosts of many wrecks
trusting myself and death I walk out of the fog
turning my face from all things
towards the sand dunes in eerie silence and solitude
I approach the glowing dune ant
sipping dew from blades of grass
breathing in short quick bursts
she looks up at me and smiles
sipping my water I smile back

night fades sun peeking from the horizon
meditating with opposites of sea and desert
I'm alone with you

this is my first haibun ...for Big Tent Poetry..(thanks Carolee)

SALMONBELLIES

2010-09-18T14:27:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-17T18:48:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-15T12:25:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-11T12:09:00.000-07:00

planning new upstairs floor
in the wood grains observing
winter landscapes

ONLY

2010-08-29T16:59:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-28T15:50:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-26T21:31:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-21T20:23:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-20T19:47:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-19T12:18:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-17T14:36:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-13T13:19:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-12T20:26:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-12T20:02:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-12T16:58:00.001-07:00

FORBIDDEN TATOOS

2010-08-12T16:58:00.000-07:00

WAILING BANSHEE

2010-08-07T19:39:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-07T16:29:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-05T21:11:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-05T20:03:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-31T17:25:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-29T17:36:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-28T15:08:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-24T17:58:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-24T11:57:00.000-07:00

...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

2010-07-23T20:51:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-22T22:08:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-19T19:02:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-17T14:17:00.000-07:00

seance au cours de Ben's Delicatessen
990 de Maisonneuve Boulavard
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 Ben's Delicatessen
990 de Maisonneuve Boulavard
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 Bens in Montreal

SABLE BRUSH

2010-07-15T20:43:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-12T22:15:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-06T19:53:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-27T11:26:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-03T20:29:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-02T16:54:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-30T19:15:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-28T18:53:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-27T21:13:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-20T21:27:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-16T16:31:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-13T20:28:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-08T20:29:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-04T20:46:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-30T19:56:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-29T16:02:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-28T14:53:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-27T14:59:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-26T20:23:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-25T21:03:00.000-07:00

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