You Are

You are
Uncompromisable
Humanity humane in humbled aspects
A stalwart light to guide
A friend
To where he needs to be.

Topic: My Hero
Date: July 31

Ballad

Upon our corollary to
The ancient, humble harp
I sought a solitary string
'Twas neither flat nor sharp.

Extending towards the tensive coil
I plucked a simple strain
Whose melody was found to me,
So labored, crude, and plain,

From depths within my childhood,
Or recent reveries
And thus gleaned from my teaming brain
And played ungracefully.

--

I figured that before myself
Some countless bards had struck
Those notes in such an order that
The Gods despised each schmuck

Who thought he had discovered something
New and glorious,
When in the the stark and naked truth
Each to himself had less

Than the musician ere his time,
Who wasted his good gifts
By giving songs poorly built wings
Only to find them lift

Not on the grace of Apollo
But as rash Phaeton tried,
A noble striving for the sun
That ended with him fried.

--

So as I sound my modest song,
Aware of this, and meek
I pray that you will hear me play
And with a smile in your eyes
Make my heartsong unique.

July 1 to July 31

Guarantee

I guarantee that once the trees my lawn
Is shaded by have lost their final leaves
We’ll love each other yes we’ll love and yawn
In late night times and hold our own beliefs
Each morning take yellow umbrellas to
The shops downtown and nestle in the cheeks
Of comfort clouds and let the drizzle through
Our windows just to taste it, after weeks
The spell of weather drying us is gone
And as your dresses twirl to fade and snow
Falls lightly dancing once again upon
Our memories the wind dies down although –
This was a dream I used to dream and hold
Until the sheets shrunk up and my bedside grew cold.

July 31

Glazed Their Lives

The Lotus eaters munched upon the weeds
They plucked from off the river wharfs
And glazed their lives into oblivion:
What else was there to do after such pain,
The murders and the child deaths and pain
The stole pride, the senselessness, the pain
Of never knowing when one's hearth will be
In sight again, the endless thoughts at night.

But I insist, had they been stronger men
They could have left their blind comforts behind
And set the sails again to move through baths
In western waters, warming their cooled hearts
And living life in glories pure and clean.

Topic: Smoking Weed
Date: July 30

Please

If your hearth loses all the warmth that it once held,
And a sullen fog descends upon your world,
Remember that while Fire can melt Ice
Ice can do no harm to a Fire,
And scrape the shivers from your wintery car
To come back to my world.

Topic: Fire and Ice
Date: July 29

Paternity

The quest in search of one's identity
Begins again with one's paternity,
As Cronus saw when his sharp sickle tried
To slice his fathers glory and his pride
Only to be displaced by his own son.
And Ham's true disrespect in poking fun
At naked Noah was to curse offspring
That may not have felt such a servile sting
Had he noticed the ways that chains can flow,
Twisting together those that came and those that go.

Topic: "A Shot to the Balls"
Date: July 28

No Parole

A life in prison spent with no parole,
A summer job devoid of a pay roll.
A forfeiting of all control:
What one mistake may soon unfold.

Topic: A Life Spent in Prison Without Parole
Date: July 27

Apart

When all the world within's a quiet place
I slip through portaled doors to my mistress
My Mother Nature, second family
Diana's gentle kiss upon my face
The gentle murmurings flow and caress
My ears to hear the sounds earthly
Yet spectral in their stellar origins
And feel the peaceful swell within.

Topic: Mother Nature
Date: July 26

A Lonely House is Not a Good Thing

There’d be no point in visiting a house
Without a host to make the scene hospitable.
The doors locked shut, the windows closed,
When no one’s there, there is no joy at all.

Topic: A Day at Mike's Lake House
Date: July 25

This Moment

This moment was meant to ferment
Much longer than it ever had to be
Waiting inside its womb of carelessness
And prematurely free what could one say
Because just "breathless" is inadequate
For knowing that the air is there
But not having the privilege to use it.

Topic: A Moment That Leaves You Speechless
Date: July 24

(If I were feeling cheeky, I could have also made this about a time I lost the words to a presentation I was about to give: A moment that left me speechless.)

Child Abuse

The deep sea fishermen when out of luck
Will catch even the youngest fish
And hook them, laying down their flapping bodies
On the deck, their tender flesh
Will not engender any other,
And blood will never yield the brood:
The issue must be halted at the source.

Topic: Child Abuse
Date: July 23

Smoking

The entrails of a thousand dying friends
Still whisper terminal farewells freely
And in the night there stands a solid youth
Despite the cries of Venus for her love,
Adonis still will die when he has damn well chosen
But let the ones that measure out their lives
With trips that they have taken to their heads
And let those ones die when they wish, sore hearts,
And blackened lungs, enriched their lives and souls
And put their value into those few years in which they live the least

But still, lament the feelings and the grace
With which a person falls inside himself
And tries to see the problem in a noble way

Topic: Smoking
Date: July 22

An Ode to Violence

A wildflower left within the wind
Droops slowly to the ground. His weighty head
Was born and died forever to be pinned

To the descending motion, falling dead
To be reborn, like Bacchus from his grave,
While honeyed milk dripping as blood is bled

From stem and soul alike. The wind, it raves
Insatiated, and will not restrain
Itself, and to brutality enslaved --

So Violence, be not unborn again,
A wildflower droops, in peaceful glens,
In places unsuspect, where best of pens
Can little do to capture horror in
The hearts of those that droop within the wind.

Topic: Violence
Date: July 21

Reflections While Playing Miniature Golf

In miniature:
An imitation, while far more personal,
Less in stature, and hardly to acclaim.
No less the glory, no less accomplishment;
I spotted as I played the game
That which I had lived my life by:
For always I was crafting, in my brain or otherwise,
Mine own original, with a new spin,
Sunk with the perfect shot into my goal
Of having my own world.

The passing sounds of time will yield
Whether or not this hubris is a negative.

Topic: Miniature Golf
Date: July 20

October Glory

O Yes you in your autumn arrogance
Boasted a flame!
But ice storm dragged you down and split ye timbers
And shagged your boughs
And glorybegone bloody is your ruddy color,
You are not dead but never shall you be the same.

And on this day, I relax, the heat is not too much,
You are green and splintered and you shall never be the same
And come October will you stand in all your glory?
And drop your livery before it weighs upon your back
And brings you down

And wait with such a prideful name
How could anything be expected how could anything be the same,
After the gods have their share of divine retribution
There could literally be no other explanation
October Glory,
Hang your heads again
Humble.

Topic: Hot but Relaxing (Again)
Date: July 19

Hot But

Flower pots gentle swinging
While wicker chairs disintegrate
Each day the grass is dying, curling,
Yellowed by the lapping tongue
The sun stretches to taste the earth.
But cool, but cool, within the bower underneath a shade
I relax and watch the wind.

Topic: Hot but Relaxing Day
Date: July 18

A Love Sonnet to My Passion for Reading

Often a flame burns bright, busting in air
It sputters and so gasps for more and more;
Its luminescence seems without compare,
And heat appears from tip to twisting core.
But as each outburst leaps into being,
The flame grows slowly weaker every time,
Each particle flutters, wants to be fleeing,
And kills the fire soon after its prime.
My love holds no such dangerous passion:
It shall not burn less brightly any day,
And will continue on in loyal fashion
Forever in its so consistent way.
As days go by, I also guarantee,
My love will grow to limitless degrees.

July 18

My Back Aches

After hours of turning back and forth
I sat up quietly and switched the light.
The rain cried softly through the window
Which had been opened by a gentler hand
And which I couldn't bring myself to close.

My back aches, and a drowsiness compels
Me to prostrate upon the mattresses
And sheets, and curse the body that allows my mind
To live: There's nothing wrong with either part
Of me, but they must rest at different times.

I didn't close the window though I knew
That there was no action better to take
Than that: I took no action after all was said.

July 12

On the Adventure of Michael in Vermont

I
On Monday matin, 'neath a verdant shade,
Michael in saintly images awakes,
With dreams of the past night seemingly made
A prophecy of what may be at stake:
A love soon lost, that cause a heart to ache.
He rise from bed, go on his busy day,
And once while passing to refreshment slake,
Espies a mountain where the wood nymphs play
And promises himself return without delay.

II
As Tuesday breaks, our hero can't forget
That which he saw while passing by with chance,
And so then reappears, unaware of threat,
Viewing in the mountain's massed expanse
A fairest damsel in a garden dance,
With wild eyes and feet of fleeted light.
As Michael moved to make his first advance,
The nymph, as goddess bathing, fled his sight,
And thus for one day more he was denied Romance.

III
Enamored and bewildered by events,
On Wednesday Michael now consults his peers,
Who far removed suggest ruin ferments;
But Michael heeds not to their scattered fears.
For who is Mike but one whose golden heart steers
His ev'ry action and compels th'utmost best
From artist, politics, or engineers?
And so he doubts excitement in his chest
Could lead himself astray or make his mind distressed.

IV
On Thursday he returns, enthusiastic,
And on the hill approaches cautiously
The woman he finds most ecclesiastic
To his senses, and asks, "To some degree
May this fair boy, in your good company,
Find love and comfort now so well deserved?"
She frowned, but then she laughed to hear his plea,
Her elfin fingers 'round his digits curved,
And 'til the night came they dance, two unobserved.

V
With Friday morning, showers briefly rain,
But after noon he brings a garland fresh
And bracelets grateful. As she entertains
His ev'ry sense he feels strength in flesh
And sighs to see their lives now hap'ly meshed,
But unaware of how soon he'll be cut
As deaf to danger as grain to the thresh:
Surely within his intuition's gut,
He realizes? Yet no, his eyes and ears are shut.

VI
On Saturday, the even long since gone,
Poor Mike awakes to find himself desert,
With only memories of her, jumped like a faun
Into the wilderness. At first, he's hurt,
But then sees how she could easily pervert
His thoughts, distract his day, and ruin work.
'Tis better, Michael now knows to assert
His happiness, and realizes all the perks
Of not being captured by her evil, false smirk.

VII
With Sunday comes a peace now found within,
For all illusions should be left behind
When moving on, when new life must begin,
And maybe some girl to whom Michael was blind
Will soon emerge, and he will be in kind
With some fresh energetic, eager soul,
Who Michael in a new adventure finds
And gives to her solely his complete whole.
If he wishes, it's true: His life, so his control.

Subject: Mike's adventure in Vermont over the next few days
Date: July 17

It's a Long Walk

It’s a long walk from here to Hades,

The cries still resounding in my ears,

Her father knows me more than I can know myself,

And I could never know him quite so well.

Each step I hear the sounds grow harder,

The slap of rubber sole on rotting asphalt in the sun;

The summer fragrances turned sour in the afternoon

As sewer drains are clogged by pollen;

Her house is a place for penance,

A holy hovel stale from lack of worship,

But every time my foot leaves the pavement

I wish my leave could be more permanent

And that I wasn’t walking from my own life

Towards the one I’ve left behind.

Subject: A Long Walk

Date: July 16

An Aloof Apology

Pure nature fell, as poor Pygmalion did,
In love with its own ivory creation,
And we, possessed by endless greedy Id,
Repaid her for our vivification
By tearing at the raiments that she wore
And suckling harshly from her swollen breasts;
Her face, once fair, now sullen, trenched, and scored,
Her tempting gardens serpents now infest.
Remember what faint Dryope once advised:
Use caution when you pluck a flower's bud,
For every bush could be a nymph disguised.
We humans are just made of dust and mud.

July 11-15

A Day Spent in Savannah Grass

A day spent in savannah grass
Is magical -- Relatively.
The day perspires, and hours pass;
Right now I would much rather be
In the Savannah of the States
To meet my spectral ancestors
To live and love -- There, life pulsates,
But I am here, impatience festers.

Subject: A Day in the Savannah
Date: July 15

Contest

I have entered into a contest with my fellow poet friend. We will send each other topics to write about every day and complete the poem before going to sleep. Those poems I publish for the contest will be tagged with the label "Contest" and in the post itself I will record the date and given subject. Good luck to both of us!

EDIT: All contest poems can now be viewed with their corresponding dates on the Contest Page, accessible through the button on the top right of this blog, underneath the title.

The Evening's Irreversible

Passing shades, the afternoon's long gone
Into the night, the languages
That keep a man alive will disappear
The spoken word so confident when verbally
Presented to a man -- But change must come
Not from without but from within.
A people dying into the masses, losing their identity,
Cannot be shaped by any other.
They must control who they are
And make decisions before the evening's irreversible.

Subject: Dying of Native American Culture
Date: July 14

The Thunder Mumbling

The thunder mumbling nearby
Apologizing much too soon
And putting on his evening wear
Excused himself.

The dear sat down upon the grass
And stayed until the darkness came
Unheard and then unseen it left
As a whisper.

When it returned it nibbled on
The edges of receding yard
And felt its way towards escape
From everything it knew.

Finished July 12

The Arrowhead

In my backyard, pulled freshly from the earth,
The Arrowhead had opened up a cataract
Of beauties and remembrances of worth,
Traditions, as traditions are, abstract
But vivid as in flesh within my mind.
When scholars of the Renaissance revived
The Greco-Roman glories past declined,
Or when to Keats, Chapman's Homer arrived:
I comprehend now to some small degree
Exactly how they felt, as in their glee
The possibilities grew from the ground
As if the Arrowhead that I had found
Was not obsidian, but dragon's tooth,
And how those poets of forgotten days
Must have, while struggling to capture truth,
Seen countless soldiers warring in their gaze;
A stream of natural ideas that flow
And never cease, but run to where none knows.

July 12

The Death of Passion

The Death of Passion is a yawn
And is in no ways furious
To shake the hand politely and
To give a gentle kiss goodbye
Is to consign a lifetime's worth
Of solitude and loneliness
But nothing in our sorry world
Could be more sad or natural.

But please do not be so misled
As to assume that all Passion
Inherently is good - It's not.
For Passion causes lechery
Just think of Phoebus, left alone,
After he lusted Daphne's roots
Or that both Gluttony and Greed
Are sins of the worst character
For they are Passions both for food
And gross desires for money.

When Passion's dead, is it complete?
Or does it live, in those handshakes,
In flowers from the blood, the past,
And can a Passion not transcend
All life as God's own son once did?
And wasn't that in many ways
As sacrilegious in its day
As fevered Passion and its whims
Are to some people now? And God -
If Passion cannot be again
Then let it die for everyone.

June finished July 11

Tongues Not of My Birth

And what a marvelous escape
And one I'd not thought of before
To think and feel and dream in words
In tongues not of my birth.

June 29

The Throat-Song Glory

The gutting strings so sensual

The throat-song glory warbled free

Evocative in rhapsody

A pendulum’s perpetual

A native tongue producing sound

The horse head’s heady, rich in gait

But with no force to propagate

A coil cut falls to the ground.

July 5

Possibilities

And possibilities --
OH do not tempt, and say no more.
I could spend the rest of my life collecting nothing but books.
They would fill my nostrils until I could not stand the smell of dust.
They would fill the room.
And when I finish I can give my children them.
And they will know me by my underlinings and by the quotes that I have writ in the margins.
And they will die someday.
And my books will mildew and mold, and shape no lives and they will fade.
But I never lost any possibilities --
NO, even when I lost all else I always held my possibilities like a pagan talisman across my chest.
And fleets across the dark broad seas to find Ulysses will sail in pursuit of gods beyond compassion and worlds without darkness or light.
The only possibility that I will still not accept it that I only have one possibility to live.
That possibilities exist does not entail that I may take a part in all.
But with so many in my hands, I feel each page and smell the glue and binding and I sigh.
Then letting loose the window, they take flight into the atmosphere.

July 4

"To Blame or Not the Gardener for the Rot"

~ from "Quiet World":

To blame or not the gardener for the rot?

Everybody has, I feel, decisions
Whether or not their garden’s to be kept
And they, as Hamlet, can with fore-visions

Remove the weeds that surely now have crept
Within their lives and that sully the ground
That could have nursed any flower – Except

Now herein lies the issue that abounds
Which plants to treat as weeds and which to not?
In such decisions all tragedy’s found.

To blame or not the gardener for the rot.

June 5

"A Beach Read Can Be Taken Anywhere"

~ from "Quiet World":

A beach read can be taken anywhere
And lent about to almost anyone
Flapping back to you, little though you care
With sodden pages, bleached beneath the sun
All paperbacks awash with poor persuasion
Could be swept out from shore without concern
You wouldn’t mind to meet them on occasion
To talk briefly perhaps – though not to learn.
But this is not the same for borrowed books
Or ones that teach you secrets of yourself
Their power lies far deeper than with hooks
That could be found lounging on any shelf.
            Quiet accomplices in your travels
            To keep you loved, secure when you unravel.

June 5

"Here, Memory Rolls Through the Boulevards"

~ from "Quiet World":

Here, memory rolls through the boulevards

It matters not what any king carried
Or what exact phrases a pharaoh hacked,
I feel our views of history vary

Though humans never left their common tract
Of feelings and desires and disgusts –
We disregard the sentiments, and facts

We slobber after, little though we trust
The truth of John or Henry or Richard,
And learn nothing from our pedantic thrusts.

Here, memory rolls past the boulevards.

June 5

"Given Time – Does Every Summer Cool?"

~ from "Quiet World":

Given time – does every summer cool?

The ancient “star-crossed lovers” has a twist
Forced upon it. Despite impending doom
It sparkles so casually persists

Because our culture thinks not, just assumes.
In some ways I feel such a thing is apt
For loves drawn out by cologne and perfume

Their comprehension of their love is trapped
Like Romeo and Juliet, the fools –
To be star-crossed’s to die – not to be rapt.

Given time, most every summer cools.

June 5

"I Remember Every Time Your Fingers"

~ from "Quiet World":

I remember every time your fingers
      Gently touched the covers, rubbed my spine
      And studied me, as if a text divine
In your eyes, as they stumbled and lingered
And breathed in every word or thing there
      There was to me: How my paragraphs aligned
      And how my lace and stitching was designed
My body sang for you – would any singer?
But you could never understand beyond
      That which was plainly scribed for you to read
      You could or would not see intricacies
Or give to me the thought deserved, you yawned
      And put me on your floor, then felt no need
      To open though I gave you liberty.

June 5

"I Remember Reading You"

~ from "Quiet World":

I remember reading you – each page
      I turned with you laid out upon my pillow
      I stuttered and I sped through it as though
I thought the fastest finish time could gauge
How much I’d learned from you, but at this stage
      I would have learned as much had I gone slow,
      As I should have read you, so I would know
You, and not to have desires assuaged.
But now I can remember only notions –
      And left with vague suggestions of your value,
      What is there really to be said of you?
I certainly, at first, gave my devotion
      But frustrated with how I never grew
      I walked away in search of novel views.

June 5

July Schedule and News

As the updating has been rather spotty now that summer has entered its heat, my new schedule becomes even more lazy: Once I write a poem, I publish it. If I don't manage to write a poem, I will unfortunately (but rather logically) not be able to post a poem for the day.
As a side note, the next few poems posted tonight will be excerpted from my long poem published in early June, "Quiet World," which was composed of several shorter poems in a vague narrative. I am giving the individual poems chances to breathe free from the framework of the longer poem and giving those who may not wish to read a longer poem the opportunity to enjoy the portions of the poem that can stand alone freely.

August

I see an august field beneath
An auburn sprawl of curling sun,
And crawling on a zephyr's breeze
To turn the landscape lush from heath
A taste of the sweet autumn's freeze
That, offering varieties,
Has in the Fate's own weavings spun
A wordless future now begun.

For even if the future's bite
Will hide the nurturings long past
No time is spent, too slow or fast,
That won't with all its glory fight
To have desires filled at last
And make its place
Out in that field, where laureled grace
For its own sake is worn upright.

To not just see but tend those fields,
Where never ending harvest yields
Ambrosial pleasure past sublime:
All grievances are healed
And happiness grown any time.
O summer sun, give me August
There's no reward for me more just.

July 1