Category: Poetry

sometimes i forget things. like. . .

fat fuzzy ducklings look like balls of bumble bees

slimy slugs leave beautiful silver glitter trails

& spider webs are really garden valances

gulls never shut the fuck up

and yet… yet, it always sounds like the beach

when they’re around

sometimes i forget things. like

how much work it always is to unpack stuff

my two crates.

they arrived Monday.

and it sucks to unpack stuff.

find a place for stuff.

sometimes i forget things. like

how much i miss my bear boy

but i put his ashes in the garden straight away

he made it here with me is all i could think. . .

funny. sometimes i forget things. like

how much i love my grammy’s old gold and black lacquer platter

Nadine’s casserole. Daddy’s cookbook

Mommy’s beat up paperback, “Rabble in Arms”

everything unwrapped brought someone

else i love into the house. funny

so many objects fussed over, decided upon by others

all to give a gift… to say, hey, i know you. see what i have for you.

and i forget sometimes that we aren’t just

mindless consumers.

each little token, totems

with some memory sticking to them

reminding me that sometimes

it’s just another learning curve

giving room to those earthlings

i love so…………………..

yeah. i know it’s more than me.

sometimes i forget things. like

how anger is corrupting and mindless.

and just how clarifying a fat fuzzy

duckling can be . . .  

Something I just wrote, a reflection about hippies.

Beat Evolution

imitators

spontaneously

obscured them

form trumped

substance

so

you’d hear

wall street

suit and tie man

saying “far out”

see children

in junior high

wearing

blue jeans

and smoking dope

madison avenue

pounced upon it

like hawk on

dove

suburban housewives

viewed sex and

janice in feathers

with dismay

while human

manifestations

on the haight,

in east village,

on roads

across america

in every small town

beaten and bludgeoned

and fired like ancient

porcelain

flashing through america

with young legs and

long hair

their stories

still untold.

I am not a perfect person, in fact, my flaws continue to groove deeply into my being despite a nearly lifelong attempt to smooth the edges, soften the edge of the blade.

My life story is only mildly interesting to me, and I live it.  There is no way I will attempt to sum up who or why I am such a prickly character, despite a ready quip and grin.  I survive, like we all do; half-in-consciousness, half-out-of-consciousness. I stumble, I fall, I wake up… late.

I have played a major role in the events on this blog these past few months.  In the process, I have wounded people.

I am sorry for the very real pain and annoyance I have caused by being a giant pain in the ass, by being a prickly character, for not shutting up when the good sense angels suggested a breather.

The poem below is posted without permission from the author.  I would hope someone, maybe two people, would purchase either a book from the author or the cd to offset my thievery of the artist’s work.  The poem is written by an ageless woman poet who is alive in our time.  She has long been an inspiration and her words a goalpost for my own work.  And this poem, well, it’s me.