MY BED

                                                           photo by Tracey Emin

I laid under my bed for a week
making jazz and poetry
depressed

ROOM 1403

                       

                                                photo Lee Plaza Hotel.by Bonnie Bleeccher

                 ROOM 1403

in that drunken room
where the pulled down curtains
would hide his gloom
as the flamingos danced

drinking with loneliness
where his psyche was senseless
and the whiskey made him wise
he sang with the angels

he always sat in his big chair
getting ready for the next one
always surprised with the laughter
from he room next door

he never turned on the TV
so he stared at the light bulb
remembering his younger days
with no concept of failure

he never spoke
as he talked with his poems
forgetting his assured success
would never make him rich

he had such great fun in that room
dancing with the flamingos
singing with the angels
staring  at the light bulb

and writing that last poem

HAVANA DANCE

her soul trembling and forlorn
surrounded by cracked walls
and salsa rhythms
she sees his shadow

driven by broken hearts
encircled by gnarled beats
and a lost lover
she feels his shadow

her soul tremulous and stiff
enclosed by a rusty past
and memories lost
they dance

photo by Edgar Degas

PRAIRIE TRAIN

                                                                       PRAIRIE TRAIN

The white train comes from a dark tunnel
of rocky mountains with its covering of snow.
The white train looks as though it has just escaped
from the jaws of darkness.  The white train steams
from the mountains into the flat
prairie, yielding the fresh seeds around it.

The horizon is exalted.  Ancient plains.
Whole sections never to have been farmed.
Over there the strong arms of farmers who
stand in little groups.  You cannot see
warriors or lost faces. Cattlemen at a distance.
On their way to a roundup maybe.

In the dining car, behind the hardwood door...
breakfast cereal and berries, cold juice
and a smile.  Already this morning
the chef has prepared breakfast for twelve
while tracking the prairies;  the formal
waiter never spills a drop only smiles.

A clean white napkin sits on the table
like a small mountain ready to fall.  Suddenly
the train brakes and stops.  The boy and waiter
peer through the window with wonderment
as they see the farmers with silver scythes
ordering them off the train, into the prairie.

RECLUSE

                                                                     RECLUSE

with the shell of memories inwardly held
she once was approachable
ever captivating like frozen rain
her problem is what will come next
being alone is not easy

her soul has hardened
now petrified of other people
even those who love her
so she escapes from them
being alone is not easy

she likes nothing more than a sip of tea
so she can forget the dizzy race
and search for the stars in the sky
instead of watching old movies
being alone is not easy

buried deep beneath her brooding soul
remembering her life as a tale of misfortunes
and finding solace in self pity
she sees herself as a victim
being alone is not easy

thinking it best not to deal with details
she has difficulty with simple things
paralyzed by her will not to change
she feels good to be sad
being alone

HIGHWAY OF TEARS

HIGHWAY OF TEARS

they walked this highway to no end
up North, a place buses neglect
hitching rides with their fears
where the beast preys on the desperate

the dark clouds covered them in mystery
with the falling rain waiting
as angels weep for the brave
and the beast preys for the desperate

this endless highway of tears
standing at the edge of somewhere
should be leading  towards the light
towards a saviour without a dead end
as  the falling rain drowns the beast


             this photo by  Steven Kelly reminded me of HIGHWAY 16 in Northern  British Columbia
             ...known  as the Highway of Tears...since 1974, 20 or more young women or girls have either
             been murdered or gone missing along this highway.....MOSTLY aboriginal.  This has been
             horrible...and for the most part police and authorities just didn't care....anyways this is the
             poem I wrote....as many of us have cared and still care.

SILENCE

                                                                       
                                                                   original painting by Wayne
                                         
beside the timeless moment of silence
I saw eternity.  I saw the abode of angels.
nothing was happening.  the events of
a billion years ago were just as ghostly and
ungraspable as this moment or a billion
years from now, or the moments of the next four
minutes.  perfectly imperfect emptiness
of silver solitude....there were no questions
of not being alive or being alive, of dislikes or
likes, of taste or no taste, of not hearing or hearing,
of not far or far, of not seeing or seeing, of giving
or not giving without judgements.

beside the timeless moment of silence
I saw clarity with confusion.  the house of roses
standing in the wind.  the events of
tomorrow will change just as phantom and
ungraspable as this moment or a billion
years from now, or the moments of the past four
minutes.  refreshingly cool, empty from the silver
filled with solitude....there were no questions
of here or there, of up and
down, of believing or not believing,
with the sun on my eyelids telling me
where I came from and where I was returning.