Friday, February 27, 2009

Street People Dance

Sadness collects at my feet like puddles,
caught in the street drains with twigs and mud,
they mix and mingle and share hard time stories:
"I'm what's been keeping you awake at night,"
"I'm that burning regret," "I'm that awful sigh,"
"I am the mud that packs in the soil."

Caught in the rain, street people dance;
Mother Nature's Free Detox,
and like a bunch of recovering addicts free,
We sing and wash away the mournful stares,
and Swim in the wind=swept bath.

The rain is just cold enough to remind us of snow,
Just warm enough to rouse memories of Spring.
But it's not the seasons worth smiling about,
you were lucky to be caught in the rain.

Thursday, February 26, 2009

there is no volume loud enough

decibel after ear shattering decibel of some weepy violin,
played perhaps by some girl wearing a yellow peacoat,
on the grasses in Central Park;
Quiet retreat from the halls at Juliard.

there is no volume loud enough
to shake the pop music out of the radio,
to tussle the hairs on the squires' backs,
to rouse the birds from their homespun nests,
to carry some message back home;

the songs it sings, sad, morose, mournful
like anything a violin could produce other then desperate
e minor chords.

and while the wind carries the city stink,
while the wind carries pain and cries of help,
and the city moves and shakes in it’s block by block pulse,
an overwhelming collection of lost and lonely,
packed into street corners and alleyways and a wasteland
of sky scrapers all weeping,

the girl in the yellow coat,
now finger plucking her heart out of that violin,
it bleeds a sweet melody that remains unheard.

for there is no volume loud enough for the wind to carry

stoned scene kids

the kids in the crowd are getting
blasted to hell by those bass amps,
and they don’t care;
this is their scene and it won’t last for long
because their kids will hate and kill the scene
for something loose that’s hip and cool
and shitty to listen too.

The Philomathean Room

This is where the dancers dance,
On campus, third floor of the academic building,
The one that stands tallest on the green,
You know?

Where nervous pale feet shuffle,
Trying to make some personal statement of passion,
Some last stand to the professors and,
Scrutiny of their peers.

It is empty now,
Only the smell and the spirit of some phantom ballet
Lingers and the large windows expose dust
Floating down to the hardwood floor.

It is perfect for writing,
All the Dancers mix and mingle with my words,
Take them up and around, dip them in a tango,
As my art comes alive with theirs.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

No More Midnight Blues!

Noises associated with the night:
chirping crickets, rustling wind,
traffic off on 71, the hustle bustle of ghosts,
cooing lovers and creaking insomnia addicts,
cut the fucking racket!

It's a wonder I only know writing
In the dim glow of my laptop computer;
I can't sleep a wink in the night time.
As the color under my eyes darkens deeper
Than the gray pupils themselves,
I wonder where I put my pen
and journal.

Coming Soon~New Poetry Pamphlets!

No More Midnight Blues

-a reflection of being "on the road" for the college experience with a little bit of Kerouac's blues influence.

Happy Times at Otterbein

Every Flower

Every flower I ever hold,
She seems to wilt;
Silhouettes in the dark laugh at dying
Roses sunflowers daisies.

But so far these tulips are alive and well;
one must tend his garden
Voltaire teaches us;
Then let me tend to mine.

This tulip will not wilt under my care,
She gets my finest water and brightest