Little Man in The Blue Shirt (Read Write Poem 82)

What are you doing up on the stage?
in your peyote trance
faking the god of rock
dreaming of Paris France

what are you doing up there?
screaming those obscenities
a fake rock hero
carving up your destiny

what are doing up there?
without LA WOMAN or LOVE STREET
no longer the PEACE FROG
a GHOST SONG falling on your feet

I'm the little man in the blue suit
watching you close the back door
opening the doors of perception
more and more a bore

Read Write Poem #81...prompt by flikr oncle jim

BEING DIFFERENT







Some called me autistic some retarded


always feeling discarded


empty and void


treated like a schizoid


always hoping you would be seeing


me as a human being


and not something wild


always treating me as a child


knowing I would never be mainstream


but always having a dream


I just kept hopping mile after mile


always with my smile


wanting to be free


and keeping my dignity


never caring to win or lose


just wanting to be able to choose


tired or being brutalized


and institutionalized


I might be different


even brilliant


sitting under my tattered umbrella


only me and my mantra

WHAT I COULD NEVER TELL MY MOTHER

You are sweet
you are caring
your hands are soft
when you bathe me
dad loves you very much
you are my mother

I love sports
I broke my ankle
I want you to read to me
I do not like
when you argue with dad
you are my mother

I have two daughters
I have four grandaughters
I am happy
I miss you
I have always missed you
you are my mother

I did not want you to die
so young
I was only seven
I needed you
to see me grow
you are my mother

HUMAN BEING

My problem is
everyone mistakes me
for an onion
not a sapient
old dead poet

Why can't I be mistaken
for for a trumpet swan
dancing in the mist
or a bellydancer
having the best hand
at the poker table?

I know I barked
like a dog
devoured bones
played tether ball
and drapeed my leg
around fire hydrants

But if you check
my bibliography
you will find
I once hit
like Joltin Joe
played the horn
like Loui
danced
like Astaire
sang
like Hank
dripped
like Pollock
wrote like
Kerrouac

A human being
before
growing in the garden
as an onion

Historical Figure

A revolutionary poet

to free Cuba from the Spanish

cultivating a white rose

symbolizing innocence and vulnerability

offering love

to both friend and foe

everyone being equal.

Should not this be normal?

the way it should always be

free

free

free

a basic foundation for life.

It seems strange

this desire to escape

from oppression and

hate

is called revolutionary.

Jose Marti

killed

in the war

for Cuban independence

a revolutionary

a great poet.

Opposite Sides of Bench

Sitting on a bench in Havana

drinking rum

we talked about poetry

he read cultivating a white rose

by Jose Marti

I read swamp king

by Sid Marty

Marti writes about

light green and flaming red

Marty writes about

wild roses and grizzlies

I like beat poets

the harmonization of opposites

he liked opposites also

revolutions and love

we both read Hemmingway

for whom the bell tolls

and

on fishing

agreeing that

baseball cuban style is romantic

football american style the opposite

it seemed we were opposites in many ways

but we attracted kindred spirits

bonding over poetry

showing growth and decline

are not opposites

and opposite forces obey

a common destiny

over a bottle of rum

CHANGING

If I change as they are changing

if they change as i change

(if they change, we all change)

Is everything changing, as I bend

down to touch the wind?

(are they changing, or remaining the same?)

as I walk across the dunes each morning.