Paint Me Byronic

(Every once in awhile, I crank out  a poem. I just found this one while cleaning up my computer.)

I want to be a poet.

I want to write lines that make people think

That I am a wispy-haired, baggy-sleeved genius

Who ponders deep in deep woods and in dandelion meadows

And then snap-traps spontaneous epiphanies in meter and rhyme --

And who sees things about life hidden in things like sailing dandelion spores

That no one else senses.

But I’m not (though I am).

I’m just a guy who takes out the trash

And then writes somber “lines” about it:

“Lines Composed Over a Reeking Tub of Refuse.”

Still – I’m okay with that.

One can’t help it if one is surrounded by trash –

One still has to write.

If you want, though, you can still paint me Byronic.

The Trick Is Not Forgetting

This year, I'm going to do this. Year after year, as part of our graduation exercises at our school, I write the "Senior Farewell Poem." I read it to the senior class in front of the entire school and in front of maybe a hundred parents. It's one of my favorite writing tasks.

But, I admit -- I haven't published them here because I come from a long line of stuffy English majors who would see the kind of poems I write for graduates as a kind of "pop" poetry -- a little too "out in the open". But the fact is, these poems need to be grasped at a listening by an audience that is not reading along and that doesn't have time to explicate. That, in and of itself, is quite a writing challenge. And I have decided I am proud of (I think) accomplishing it each year. In fact, I plan to add a page to this site that contains all of my "Senior Farewell" poems over the last thirteen years. But now, my poem for the Class of 2014:

Horses' Legs

Horses' legs.

Impossible.

Elegant or silly?

If miraculous proof of God,

Proof that God can laugh.

Horses' legs.

Illogical.

Unscientific?

Maybe,

Since science

Is

Supposed

To

Be

Prfct.

Not Enough

Too much strategizing, not enough talking out of things.

Too much "living out loud," not enough quiet thought.

Too many "events" not enough "sales."

Too much stick-shoulder playing on open high hats and crash cymbals --

Not enough riding of delicate tings over arpeggios and synth pads --

Not enough peace.

Not enough peace.

Not enough peace.

Not enough silence.

Not enough

Winslow Homer

Reverence

I think I just figured out

why I am so offended by people

who show no reverence for, at least,

the idea of God

(or for the belief others hold in God).

It's because, even if I didn't believe,

I would still feel compelled to bow down

before a universe that is totally superior to

and infinitely more complex than I am.

Belief in (and reverence for) something bigger than us,

whatever that thing may be, is,

as far as I am concerned,

the only thing that keeps us humans

from being total wastes of mass.

People without reverence are like,

I don't know...

A poem with nothing poetic in it.

Hopper

The Most Important Question

Jean Baptiste Camille Corot

One day,
It occurred to me
That many --
If not all --
Of the problems in our world
Would be solved
If every person
Would stop and ask
One
Simple
Question
Before
Acting:

"What if I'm wrong?"

After a Day of Screams

Tonight, I don't want to unravel anything.
I don't want to delve into my soul --
Don't want to talk of wonders,
Or critique humanity,
Or fight,
To win -- something.

Tonight, my thirst won't be slaked in streams of ideas.
There is no need to move an audience,
Affect their lives --
Fill their minds,
Or hearts,
With hope -- for tomorrow.

Tonight I crave only peace,
My children in my lap,
Ravel's Miroirs in my ears,
His sonic textures: sanity --
The only real sanity I know.

Forgive me for trading you --
Tonight --
For peace.
After a day of screams,
I need just to breathe and to hear my breath...

Monet: Sunset at the Cliff in Etretat

Enough for Now

So, there it is.

Give me an unchanging arpeggio, for an hour, under my fingertips.

Give me a white snow that turns every color into one; that fattens the branches into kinder angles and softer, slower, sideways swayings in the heavy silence.

Ansel Adams

Give me days of grey and rain that turn the warm lights of home into the brightest thing in the world -- a world that usually feels like being surrounded by funhouse mirrors under fireworks.

Give me some time ankle deep in the pond after days on the rapids.

You take your hopping from car to car and meeting to meeting and virtual window to virtual window if it makes you feel "connected."

I'll loaf, invite my soul, and connect with the winded leaves.

They're enough. For now, they're always enough.

For Karen

(Once in a while, a poem sneaks up on me. Here's another, inspired by a soft and restorative Easter break and a pretty cool wife...)

I look back over the movie of my life –

Some of the scenes are of lonely lovers in tuxedos,

With loosely-hanging untied bowties,

Standing on wet streets

Under crane shots in the fire-hose rain.

There are shots of rooms with long, light, seawind-lifted curtains over big windows, 

The young character rocking on her bed of rumpled sheets,

Sunset wavering through in flashes of orange.