Archive for ‘Poems’

December 21, 2015

I miss you Christmas

Making the bed in the guestroom.
That’s where we keep the wrapping paper and ribbon box.
The tree looks pretty, but I’m missing something.
A pile of Christmas albums is on the coffee table.
Now like in 1977 I’m listening to Gene Autry sing
Rudolph the Red nosed Reindeer.
Nana and Kevin Brice were still alive then,
so were Mom & Grandpa Art; Ray and others we would tragically lose.
I had faith in Christmas then,
that it would come with great celebration, joy and song.
It was dependable, it delivered a good time even when the gifts were tragic.
We were together, laughing and crying out the end of the year.
Purging the old and merging with the new.
I can still feel the perfectly cold crisp Christmas eve and morning.
Midnight in the car, gloves and smoke.
Presence and presents, real and imagined or hoped for.
Smells, sounds, tastes, sights, lights and holding it all closely.
I know we were full in that moment, goodness seemed certain.
Christmas was the confirmation of our dreamy hopes, our open desire.
This one day meant everything to me once.
And I want and need the knowledge of a certain good again.
A true and honest good to fill up my heart until next year.
That is what I need, for my heart to be full once a year.
That is what we need and why I miss you Christmas.

April 19, 2014

You will never be a famous poet

No you will never
be as brilliant
as Ginsburg
sat for one moment.

Forgive yourself,
it was never meant
to be,
you and poetry.

These days you
curse, are sublime
to the lesser kind,
the fool,
the knave,
the private.

Expect everything,
nothing is enough,
but you will be
caught off guard
by death and
whomever you may be.


December 1, 2013

Frank J Miles and Emily Dickinson

I shall write a poem
for Frank J. Miles.
I shall praise him,
exalt his name.
I shall take my pen,
and go within
to bring the phrases
of his glory
to share with you here.

I shall prepare
to write a poem
for Emily Dickinson,
as she sat staring
upon the Noreast drear
passing the lonely hours
with her pen in hand,
bringing words from within
to the pages of an
unknown diary or
an odd scrap of paper found.

Her thoughts came out
as tropes,
not as average sentences
line normal people’s do.

Frank J. Miles is living there now,
inside her life of
hermetic ecstasy,
transcendent self involvement.
Her ever growing self-awareness
turned her self-reflection into
the terror of being misunderstood,

He’s here too, in his man body,
near NY, and always close enough
to feel her woolen skirt,
her cotton bodice, her stockings
and shoes moving from room to room,
as the sun makes it’s daily pass.
Finally then in fixed,
only in her own room,
where she finally passed.

The corporeal self left,
she ascended into
the pantheon of
cloistered poets.

Now, when Frank J. Miles
wakes with a stanza in his pen,
and a rush of ambient
phrases flowing
as the sun passes
from dark to light
he moves from room to room
and then stationary, fixed
then ascends with Emily Dickinson
to the pantheon of lately recognized
and less cloistered poets.

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September 17, 2013

I won’t, I won

I won’t say anything again

It all sounds like lies anyway

Because the truth fell off.

And the tearing sound

Thousands of bad looks

Years of self-induced melancholia

Drastic self-immolation made

The holy man special.

Patron Saint of Light

Shine on my everything

Make my lies beautiful

Perfect sunsets over white sand beaches

Mountain pools of opalescent blue

The Hope Diamond.

A look into inside

Trying for extreme comfort

Just wait until it dies

Or drop it off at the dry cleaners

Look at you now

Still waiting.

The bus won’t come

The dishes wont get done

The nurses are busy

And we can’t get better soon

You said so aka religion.

But it’s not done

We are still entrenched

Our minds steel

Against the truth messages

We see the unseen

The real all acting.

Until, until it

Gives the last line

The doors close on

The hands of change

And love departs

For other worlds, lands

Beyond our reach.

 ARt Act Christopholis ARt Act Christopholis

April 28, 2011

Filling the Void

Why is it that modern life in the US seems to be so full? That is an illusion of course. There is space between everything, just ask any quantum physicist. The illusion is pretty convincing until you look closely.

Most Americans get up, drink coffee, get news and go to work. Or so it seems – all society caters to that illusion of busy, busy go forth and be productive. Contemplation is for sissys, those who cannot do – lurk. And the successful people are very shiny and clean in their new cars and clothes so it must be good to be a busy busy productive successful person.

So why are the prophetic voices, our psyches, the songs telling us another story? Words of discontent fill pages of books, and electronic waves of derision for the status quo are filling our e media screens. Hidden solutions are unveiled every day – and the path of evolutionary zeitgeist is burning its trail into our world without permission. Folks across the world protesting and going to jail, yes dying for their beliefs, recognition for all humanity, despite the marriage of William of England.

Where is all this non reality reality coming from? Our traditional sources of information play endless tracks of corporate propaganda portraying the shiny people so free from the conundrum of the working life or working lie as it should be called. The lie of work to be good is a worm in the brain of our souls. Yes there is much to be done, but there is much more done solely for the cause of greed, for and directed by the wealthmongers, for them rich is not rich enough.

Can you eat the worm? If you do it will come out the other end as all good meals do. Then you can wipe yourself clean and do the work, the life that can truly fill you. The void is waiting, bon appetit.

(Disclaimer – no scientific theories were harmed during the composition of this note)

April 19, 2011

Furious and Fragile

We must be convinced of our goodness.
Oppression thrives on our self doubt.
True freedom erases constant need,
denies the payment of our attention.
We become lively in our routines and
…the less becomes more.
Living a short magnificent life
we are as most creatures.
Furious and Fragile.

September 22, 2010

I accept – sincerely, the accused.

If being female makes me defective – I accept

If being gay makes me defective – I accept

If being of color makes me defective – I accept

If being Christian, Islamic, Buddhist or any religion makes me defective – I accept

If being poor makes me defective- I accept

If being different makes me defective – I accept

If being disabled or maimed makes me defective – I accept

I accept all I am accused of and more.

December 15, 2009

Post Industrial Work Identification Neurosis

I looked for my post post modern notebook

an artifact of mass production, sans erudition

made functional in the eyes of designers

made real in China, as it makes us real many times a day.

A vibrating device

tells me who’s sending a message

or giving a call.

I looked over at the

saggy, semi-toothless face

thinking nothing much,

its easier that way,

but I did explain

about post-industrial work identification neurosis.

Where post modern man

so identifies with his job or occupation

to the exclusion of his other

more organic and sacred self.

The image concrete self

to be a useful laborer, worker

profit margin contributor

disposable, nay dispensable

collateral damage.

And that is how we contracted

post industrial work identification neurosis.

October 20, 2008

Homage to Jane Roberts; Waking thoughts

My mornings dark promise

silently waits on the

voice of daybreak and

call of birds who swim

in the light filled sky.

Great schools of seamless motion

a thought takes shape

it undulates and dives

for a moment, going here

flying there with great

precision and then

disperses, comes to rest

until another forms,

all the day through

feeding, composing, resting

until light again must go

and then back to secret

place like the birds-

we do not see them

when sleep comes and

nights darkness overtakes.

October 20, 2008

Ending Epic poem: Postmodern Epitaph

The great design for my life

Turned out to have flaws

that brought about a result

of both triumph and tragedy

life breeds

life bleeds

life believes.

Living, living in

lines wait we prepare

to become, to receive

a thing is built

this life.

When you look at it

long enough it appears

as though there is something there,

a sidelong, sideways glance

you thought that you

saw something there

the distortions

make a clear picture

unavailable at this time.

Maybe a description

will work better

chronologies are popular

great events, accomplishments

form expectations

from expectations

many beautiful memoirs

recountings, myths

we have to copy,

adapt, tame, re-frame

at our disposal.

The story

becomes reality

and outlives

its purpose

we forget

the nowness of new

and the holiness of our awareness

in every moment

trading it away

for visceral whips and tears

clinging fears

our dear companion and friend

crutch, friend, crutch.

Reflection on victim

self disintegration

self denigration

self detestation

and back again,


momentary nirvana

lapsing enlightenment

into entropic

spiritual progress.

Self acceptance

and appreciation

in the liquor store

and hands in pants

sex addicts,

heroin addicts,

crack addicts,

I’m a living addict

I’m addicted to living

this life of poor design

and unmitigated

use of poor judgement

and unbelievable

success with little or no effort

and the ability

to forget it all

and believe something new

each day

be something new

each day.

Pretend, play

act like your

having fun

after a few beers,

and cops like

rough sex

but we all do.