The Crucible

Posted inFree Verse, PoetryNo Comments

Fogbank, weathervane, brain loop, truth-pain,
nightmares, night sweats, dementia test, house arrest,
smoke-smoke, crappy food, got the trots, ink blots.

Roped to a time bomb, locked in a rhyme, Mom,
head filled with tom-toms, where has the roof gone?
“Let’s put your shoes on.” Where is my hat, Mom?

Let me out! Get me out! Set me free! Let me be!
I spilled my guts; my, must be nuts–pistachios or pecans?
Pump me full of chemicals; I dare you to eat one.

Red wire, green wire, close my eyes, pick a wire and pray,
Some things just won’t wait until they detonate.

Black as night, the light of day,
Spin my wheels, feet of clay.
Truth, justice, lies, laments,
pain, joy, stress, intents,
peace, release, wants, wishes,
schemes, desires, adventures, dreams.

Freedom to express; that’s what I need.
A tiny seed in a flowerpot. Power to speak without regret.
A little reprieve from the demons I’ve met.

Bound hands, shackled mind,
empty heart, blind eyes.
Vocal cords in shambles.
Been rambling on for days . . . weeks . . . months,
each and every moment, another pound of pain.

Comes the Angel of Art bearing parchment and quill.
Beseeches me to write whatever I want or will.
“Free your hands, let loose your mind, fill your heart, look inside.
Here, just take this smile; dream a little while.”

“Sit on the edge of the bed.
Rearrange your head.
Pick up the pen, forge ahead.
Begin to unveil some truth.

Tick a little, toc a little,
sit a little, walk a little.
Write between the highway signs.

Hocus Pocus, gotta get some focus.
My, the sky is blue.
These walls are green, but that’s okay.
They melt away whenever I look through ’em.

“Write, write, write; you’ll be alright.”
Up all night picking fights with the Devil.
He doesn’t like my last review–my latest revelations.
Complains about my wretched affliction,
my piss-poor diction, obsessed conviction.
Bribes me with a savory vice or two.
It’s nothing new; this well-versed sinner
has a trick or two of his own.
Write, write, write; I’m up all night ignoring the Devil.

Battles rage on haunted shores.
Up and down, ‘round and ‘round,
asylum sounds for company.
What, another angel reaching through the flames?
Another Lady Liberty drawing dream’s horizon?
Detaching shadows from my soul.
She offers me her sacred tablet–
hands to me her fearsome sword.
Write, write, write; its song takes flight
cutting through the mayhem.

Beyond the trials and tribulations.
Each contemplation digging deeper.
Pain dissolves in tears.
Flower petals float on bleary eyes.
Yes, the rose has thorns, but also smells divine.
I can’t forget the grape as I kneel to pour the wine.

Spent last night running from darkness into darkness.
Morning found me face down in the dirt.
As good a place as any to stand and face the truth.

It is not what you think of me that really makes me hurt.
It’s how I see myself and that’s just in my head.
This is where I make my stand; this is what I am,

And this is what I’m not.

I am not your anger; I am not your pain.
I am not your misery; I am not your shame.

I am not worthless, gifted with a purpose.
I can’t be abandoned for I have found myself.
The chains that once bound me have melted in these flames.
Free inside my mind I’ll find another way . . . another way . . . another way . . .
A better way . . . a better way . . . a better way.

Conflicted

Posted inUncategorizedNo Comments

perfect timing . . .
the way you make
my heart throb

perplexed again . . .
why is my love for you
so much like madness?

vision quest . . .
I look into your eyes
for answers

going out?
I could write an epic
with your lilac perfume

romance on the rocks . . .
you hold out your hand
for another sip

fading photograph . . .
how you drift
away

dust in the footprints
on my doorstep . . .
your last visit

your apparition stands
in the doorway, disrobed . . .
now that’s the spirit

the last poem
to my name . . .
dressed in rags for you

First published in Failed Haiku

Vanity

Posted inHaibun, PoetryNo Comments

I splash my face
and fumble for a towel…
sleepy shadow

Staring into the mirror, I revisit my present self. Whiskers have returned. Wrinkles all seem in place. Hair still disappearing, a pondering man looks back at me. I grin shyly, recognizing him as the reflection I met in yesterday’s mirror. A calm overcomes me as I leave the old man to reflect, hoping he’ll be there tomorrow.

Why This?

Posted inHaibun, PoetryNo Comments

If I tell you the truth, you may find it messy. But art isn’t about being pretty. Its raison d’etre isn’t to be beautiful; rather, it is for providing the child inside with a haven from this often brutal and dark world. The stories are graphic. At the same time, they move us like dandelion seeds on the wind or rivers dissolving mountains. We find pain and joy there. They are so very different but, from the perspective of this artist, they are one and the same. Art is a celebration at a funeral.

the brush swirls . . .
each woman, man, and child,
a portrait

To hell with the dissertations, they are all cramped and withered. Art speaks! One need only listen. I’ve had this conversation before. Every participant has a different definition for it. My purpose is not to define but refine, to sculpt it into a bust for you to examine from your own vantage.

We all bring our own experiences to the show. This is how we interact with the art, preconceptions filling our minds, gently or abruptly disrupted by the artist. What does it mean? You tell me. It’s a product of yours and my imaginations. How can I know what you will take away?

sunset . . .
you see the orange sky
I see a blue heron

It would be a dreary world without art. Thankfully, humankind has been expressing its experience to the fullest since prehistoric times. We see the forces around us, the good and the evil, ask great questions, and find the beauty in simple things. We wage war and we wage war against the war. The atrocities will be remembered, the faces of the weary displayed. The colors on the wall will soothe us.

If there was only light, we would miss the darkness. Beauty is the words on the page, paint on the canvas, a face in the stone no matter the subject. Art is a moment captured. As that moment fleets away, the tale is retold for all to hear. Each moment recorded is a gift, a gift from a friend. Your friend, the artist, seeks to ease the pain, to bring light to the darkness, and share with you what it means to live.

a shock of wheat . . .
we become the story
we’re passing down

Slipping Down the Glass Mountain

Posted inPoetry, Tanka ProseNo Comments

I embark
on a vision quest
to find my identity
but forget to bring
my wallet

We reach the top of Feather Falls at about 9 a.m. KC explains that it’s one of the tallest waterfalls in the United States and says he knows a way to the bottom. The three of us follow him down the steep incline and into the gorge. The air is hot, and the LSD is starting to kick in.

Halfway into our descent, we come to a drop-off. KC seems confused about which way to go. We debate the issue and finally decide that each of us should find our own way down. The hiking is arduous, but soon I discover a steep slope of loose gravel and rock. I sit down and bump my way all the way to the bottom.

No one else is here. Boulders, standing taller than me, covered in blankets of thick, slick moss, line the banks. The chilly water is flowing fast. There is mist in the air, and every way I turn, I see rainbows, full-circle rainbows. I wait for a while, but no one shows up. Drenched in sweat from this excursion, I strip off my clothes and wade into the stream.

a white moth
flits into my thoughts . . .
I cradle it
in my hands
as it falls asleep

Carefully, I work my way toward the roar of the falls. Around the bend, I come upon the rest of the troupe, all similarly defrocked. My chemically altered body and mind vibrate numbly as I pull myself up onto a low rock already warm from the morning sun. The rainbows are even more prolific here where water flows like a feather from the side of the mountain and crashes into the jumble of rocks below. We gather around and grin.

Steve, our resident Zen enthusiast, starts proffering questions. “Where do these rainbows go when the sun goes down? Where does the wind go when it’s not blowing? Who’s got the sunscreen?”

Opening our backpacks, we start laying out a picnic while each of us tries to come up with our own Zen-like mystery.

We bask in the sun for most of the day. Frank begins to stack rocks, and then we all pitch in. Soon the bank becomes littered with cairns. It is the Day of the Rock, it seems. Satisfied with our ephemeral art display, we gather our things and plan the trip back, deciding to go it alone again.

pine shadows
evaporate
before my eyes . . .
the long way home
through mountains of glass

I place my hand on the smooth, stone surface, studying a narrow fissure that runs from the bottom of the cliff all the way to the top, some 80 feet over my head. It looks doable, so I wedge myself into the crevice and start to climb. The first forty feet are easy, with many handholds and footholds, but now the crack is only about five or six inches wide. My knee is wedged in it to support my weight. Slowly, I inch my way up the sheer rock face, pulling up with my hands while repositioning my knee into the crack. It’s slow going, and there’s been progress, until now.

There it is, a rock wedged into the crack where my knee wants to be. There’s a nice space above the rock, but I can’t find anything to hold onto that will support my full weight as I try to pull myself over the obstacle. I’m stuck. Panic begins to set in. I contemplate going back down, though it’s really not an option. Climbing up is much easier than going down. I ask myself how I got into this mess. I envision my death.

Breathe. Concentrate. Focus. Think it through. I’m in the contemplative phase of an acid trip. A sense of calm overcomes me as I let go of my fear.

After 20 minutes of indecision and fumbling around, I find one small protrusion for my hand and another for one foot. I rehearse my next move several times before putting the plan into action. Carefully, I pull my knee out of the crack and for a moment am floating in space. It takes every bit of my strength and agility, but I’m finally wedged in again above the rock. The climb concludes without further incident. At the top, I’m greeted by a tangle of poison oak bushes, which I crawl through without hesitation.

I find my totem
in a dream . . .
the white moth wakes
flicks its wings
and flies away

First published in Atlas Poetica

Help

Posted inHaibun, PoetryNo Comments

I’m in the dark, and I can’t sleep. Mom and Dad just broke up. My pillow’s all wet. The wind’s blowing the curtains and they look like ghosts. All I want to do is run into Grandma’s room and crawl in with her, but I can’t. There’s a monster under my bed.

bedtime stories…
imagining my way
through shadows

On the Edge

Posted inHaibun, PoetryNo Comments

I study the anvil cloud through the swish of my wipers. Dark sheets of rain veer from cloud to ground as lightning zigzags through the electrically-charged air. Off to the east, I see blue. It’s been like this since I left this morning. Thunderclouds, clear sky, rain, sun… Traveling alone on I-55 from St. Louis to Madison in the late summer of 2012, I make my way through the remnants of Hurricane Isaac.

As I approach the cloud, I turn up my wipers and prepare for another downpour, hoping I’m not driving into the beauty of a rain-wrapped tornado.

I chant my war song . . .
a hare
in the falcon’s eye

“…therefore I am.”

Posted inHaibun, PoetryNo Comments

I’m a seashell, washed up on a distant shore.
I’m a pony standing beside the road.
I’m lighting striking a church-bell tower.
I’m a ladder leaning up against the wall.
I’m the last tree standing in a burning forest.
I’m a feather falling from the dusky sky.
I’m an empty bowl in a beggar’s hands.
I’m chicken soup in the middle of the street.
I’m the smaller half of a wishbone.
I’m a drop of rain on a sunny day.
I’m the moon behind an angry cloud.
I’m the 13th hole in a dozen donuts.
I’m a postage stamp on an unsent letter.
I’m an odd sock in the bottom drawer.
I’m wallpaper peeling off the walls.
I’m a hamper full of dirty clothes.
I’m a bag of tricks.
I’m full of shit.
But most of all, I’m horny.

laughing stock
in the slaughterhouse . . .
bull market