SEALED

                                                                       SEALED

Her lips, envelope points.
Sealed corners.  Emotions
folded tightly.  Softly she smiles;
yesterday hides behind her lips.

Slender tapered fingers; tugging
and holding.  Arms harmonizing with
motion, waltzing past hot air.
Vapour surrounds her in hot shadows.

Jazz music.  Lipstick;  drawing her
darkness into sin, breathing, wanting
forgiveness.  Her words wave like
lips drying.  Hair hangs
smoldering in heat.  Showers fire cold
bodies.  A saxophone plays her song.

HOMELESS MAN

                                                           HOMELESS MAN

yes
the homeless man always arrives
with his tools
to loosen the hatreds
and tighten the loves.
always
the old man arrives,
always eager
with a smile  on his face
ready to fix the broken.

always,
separating bottles from here,
garbage from there,
working hard.
always he goes
this old man
changing dirt into gold.

always
he arrives in the back lane
where the power
that shines the light is found.
and always there
he does his work
the fixer of dreams.

yes
the homeless man always arrives
up to the person,
up the people,
up to the sky.
always
the old man arrives
and from that time
silence ends
and singing begins.

SWEET JANE

                                                         SWEET JANE


sitting on her VELVET chair
above the surreal life of a rock star
beneath the dark metallic sky
where life is an old vinyl record
hung up on Lou Reed
who groans with a grimacing tone

sitting with a symposium of ambitions
above the translation of ideas
beneath the cryptic polluted star
where the hissing vinyl scratches
the nonconforming truths of Lou
who pops sentiment with danger

sitting with her blue eyes winking
above the pain of the UNDERGROUND
beneath the apologizing clouds
where warped records skip
and repeat the same line
Sweet Jane

FORGOTTEN MEMORIES

I awakened one morning
forgetting the future
remembering the past
where everything was smeared

there was the dingy beer parlour
where everyone drank by themselves
wept because they forgot their memory
drank because beer replaced money

there was the misplaced priorities
mixed with bizarre value judgements
silenced by knowing the futility of all
strangled by the opportunities lost

there was the sad death of becoming a poet
dictated by drinking of the punditocracy
creating art without understanding it
cursed by the absurdity in the average drunk

sitting by a window in the corner
where words could fill my empty glass
dying for a beer
a skid road poet waiting to be published

WHISKEY AND CIGARETTES

              WHISKEY and CIGARETTES
somewhere at a rusty table
a poet sits,
shaking her hands at what she sees.
a bottle of cheap whisky is open,
with ashes on her lap
listening to gypsy jazz.
it has got cold inside
so she lights up another.
a turtle moves slowly
towards the heat.  Tomorrow
she will write all day, and then
go dancing, but tonite
she translates bad poetry
and it  makes her cry.
the ashes notice and smoulder.
the turtle doesn't care.
she pours herself more whiskey
and thinks of the mountains
where coyotes come down at night
to gobble the turtles.
she doesn't hear sounds of help
so ignores them.  she flings
the bottle at the floor,
turns  the jukebox up, closes
her eyes and lights up another.

POET'S LIFE

I sit here in my studio
the room of my life
sitting in complete blindness
with blank verse and forgotten words
where dust clings to yesterday

unable to give up my innocent past
or the dreams wearing new costumes
suffering with eyeballs that never open
like wall sockets without power
beating  to the beats of my soul

compelled to listen to yesterday forgotten
where nothing is what it seemed to be
offering windows of light and laughter
without conversations with my thoughts
never fearing death only endless nights

exhausted with the exertion of a poet
where words sit alone in prison
tumbling towards an empty page
I remain invisible to the world
opening the gates to another poem

EYE OF A POET

her eye cannot see the color of sound
or the times lost and found
can she see the face of the hawk
echoing the ticking of the clock

can she see the words behind the time
spoken incantations that never rhyme
spinning sounds ear to ear
can she see things only the poet can hear

can she see  the dark sky becoming blue
or write blank verse for you
can she see the smells always hidden
or poems to be forbidden

because everything is in the mind's eye
where unseen memories hide

her eye closes behind the scenes
look closely my friend