SHE WAS THE FIRST TO GO

August 18, 2017

 

 

 

It might have been one long neon light

In the laundromat that set her off

When it flickered & popped

At us/ All of us up late

Our eyes were hypnotized some

All bets were off

On what might happen

She was the first to go

To distract us from our books & hand-machines,

Pull us from our puzzles, also  our magazines

Her  saying all that nonsense  fouled by fire

Interrupted  that late night scene

Her  calling  names  out

All intense,  Her pleas

We stared some  & stuck out that someone’d stop her

Her call to fallen reveries

Her  own  effin reveries

.

.

.

(2012)

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A BARGE

August 13, 2017

A barge I bet  can float through our wait

Hours upset, but in an instant I can’t hate

Hating hundreds of roads apart, while  hearts

Skinwalls near  forever here, & there with you  wait.

.

.

.          (unfinished)

SOME ON LOSING YOU

July 22, 2017

 

 

 

“Outside… I’m masquerading,

Inside…My hope is fading..”

-Smokey Robinson, from  ” Tracks Of My Tears”

.

I’ve seen  winters and  springs

Since I’ve seen a winning hand

But I’m at a loss to say

About losing.

It’s not farfetched to say

I’ve not too far to fall

But it’s best & for the best

For rain and tears to fall

I’m meant not to miss all this all

.

.

I encounter seeing faces I have seen, Countenances

I believe  I know,   abit a blur

I can see the many apparences

Surely, all the one, to me  all lure.

Always

From somewhere  a ways

So familiar in a dream that

Sentences formed for her

presences   are pointless,

When a smile from an eye

is enough.   Not enough.

.

.

A close look!  Too late.  Those closing elevators.

One shine on a glass, as she passes.

A wave or a nod wayover another streetside.

A bolt  from our sure bond  that burns

From another car just as it turns.

We’re silent together and calm

Fifty arms apart in a crowd

In a loud throng.

I’ll see you for a sliver

In all this  time & space, long

In all this  space & time, a pace or two somehow wrong.

Still  and  night  wind/

And still standing in/ Deep in the shadow end/

Waiting in the wading pool To see my moon bounce to me some/

 

Wait!  At the airport bar the atmosphere swooned bountiful/

Maybe sating   metaphoring mating whoring fourth down plays/

Bountifully Enhanced  Last Chancing that face it,  basicly it’s too late not to dare/

Back here I’m not so rough, I swoon my own way, I tarry, and my moon’s enough

Jared French, Clinton, by PaJaMa

(photo credit/Jared French/ Clinton)

.

.mangata: reflection of the moon on the sea at night (Swedish)

 

 

B R E A K

February 22, 2017

 

 

 

 

 

Stoicism is a prison/

Though I break out/

Though I break down/

Through the  pull of a merciful act/

I can be old and too weak to hold back/

I can imagine a troubled

panicked angel tangled double;

One cat caught in a grate/

A girl unfair in a wheelchair/

Nears and dares her balance, her endurance, her tolerance/

She Strains all of her weight/

She shows the pain that she’s used to  on her face/

Then relief,

and they’re both free

She and the cat both refuse to

Cry more,

Like those that might see

,

.

.

.

.

.

(from 2008ish)

DOUBLE O

February 13, 2017

 

 

Here’s   far from hardly   a chink in his ardor

His duplicitness

Is  super  obvious

To himself  most of all

A double agent  deepbreathing quiet

So dominoes don’t fall.

.

Here’s   far from hardly   a mark on his honor

His cowardice

He can cover  less & less

From  himself  least of all

Bravery he saves  to muster love enough

To face away  nothing ,  to  praise   all..

 

 

 

 

 

(6 yrs back)

T R I B U T E

December 7, 2016

 

 

 

It’s likely/ It could be

That when Leonard Bernstein,

At his piano bench…

It was very late when he,

In a creative trance,

Had opened an envelope

From a Mr. Stephen Sondheim,

And started to work on

A musical phrasing for

“There’s a place for us”,

He eyedropped a gold teardrop

Into a test tube, & heaven reacted,

 

& now can make me ache

20,000 late nights after

 .

.

.

.

.

.                                                                   (from 2010)

A SINGLE SIGNALLING

October 12, 2016

 

 

 

I and It may not be monstertruck obvious.

Just as a cat’s purr  can spur you through a thunderstorm

Or just a night, Or origami maybe might

Amaze you in new ways for focus,  and sight  of

.

A  single  signalling;

When one  child of seven

On a church swing

Offers  “You’re funny”,

I’ll take it  as honey

On manna from heaven.

.

The world’s love’s not worth leaving, all in all.

Mine’s a frontline free for all an’

It’s  Mercy  itself  inside all this breathing.

An air strike has been called in

And tear gas’s  got me weeping.

.

Same as a mammoth

Dropping to his knees

(I’ve seen it from my cave),

Or,  a sweet whale sweating and letting go

Off the side of his seas,

Too far off from saving wave,

Or, when  one wheelchaired child really sees

Enough in him, not his flesh,

To reach  especially  hard

To  a  high  gardenia.

 

.

.

.

(from 2010)

 

 

 

“Would you complain because a beautiful sunset doesn’t have a future or a shooting star a payoff? And why should romance ‘lead anywhere’? Passion isn’t a path through the woods. Passion is the woods.”
― Tom Robbins

 

 

I wonder when one day

We’ll pocket our passions

They’ll fasten  in look-see  neck  lockets

Soon it’ll just seem fair

To wear them

She’ll share hers in sunlight sidewalks.

 

Fashion  will see to it  someday & night We

Could  unabashedly

Could undress off our soft underthings

Could  show  softer

Bold  and  tender

Expressings

NIGHT CURRENTS

February 12, 2016

I’m turning & tossing

For yr talk/ yr noise/

Take my private call

Of the wild/

A must call most primal/

& y’mustn’t fail to stay ’till

My tail falls off.

.

.

teachers to small children the world over,

pastors to parish,

they all will tell the pretty truth

(aside the pretty lies, “pretty lies”)

that crystalline snowflakes

are unique. unique.

and maybe later

in both

secular schoolrooms

and sunday school classes

( the world over)

small children might make snowflakes for themselves;

they’ll fold lacy paper exactly in half,

with a good crease,

and taking their round-ended scissors,

they’ll cut their very own unique cuts

so that when everyone unfolds their lacy paper

and lifts it above their heads

everyone can laugh  at their uniquenesses

.

but one thing that ministers & mentors,

rabbis & nuns will not add

is that those one-of-a-kind snowflakes

are  all

alone

in their descent

on icy black currents

all their night fall

.

.

.

.

.                                 (from a coupla years back)