for my new friends
at Poets Pub, for
d’verse Open Link Night
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.my Angel of Words
.
.
.
.
you will find no fight in these fingers
.
they are slaves to your gentle insistence
.
find a willingness in this empty pen
.
fill it with nuance and inspiration
.
.
.
.
oh, Angel of Words
.
.
.
cover me, in your earnest shroud
.
cloak me, with your vocabulary
.
help me hear the meter, divine the rhyme
.
take me on a journey above the constant clouds
.
.
.
.
………………………………………climb
.
.
.
.
…………………climb
.
.
.
.
climb with me into a clean
.
and ever clear sky
.
quiet this busy
.
mind, erase
.
horizons
.
as we
.
glide
.
.
.
.
……..glide
.
.
.
………………glide
.
.
.
.
……………………softly into the
.
………………………cradle of pure creativity,
.
……………………only you can open these two eyes
.
………………..when they believe there is nothing to see
.
.
.
.
…………………………………………………..fly
.
.
.
.
…………………………..fly
.
.
.
.
…….fly
.
.
.
.
with me over these uncharted landscapes
.
……..steel my spine, help heal these tragic memories
.
……………fill this fragile heart with bravery
.
…………………..to face my unknowns and life’s every mystery.
.
.
.
.
this song is an integral part of this poem, not the
tempo as usual but the mood it creates::::enjoy::::
.
for a shy Miss…
.
.
.
.
i knew this girl, when i was a kid
and wasn’t she, the quietest little thing
the palest skin, an overabundance of freckles
a Dutchboy haircut and bangs that covered her eyes
she was the first girl, i ever saw blush
when i handed her a homemade Valentine card
but she hardly ever said a word, in class or at lunch
and i’m guessing, that’s why i kinda’ liked her so much
oh, did Dianne ever come alive on the swing tho
i would stand on the wooden seat, and she would sit
and we would look in each others eyes, as we got higher
she would have the biggest smile, as she threw her head back
and the wind would blow through her hair
and i really loved, just seeing her face light up
we were only friends, we liked each other’s company
i was so grateful to find someone who was, shy like me
.
.
.
as always, this poem was written to
the tempo of this song::::enjoy::::
.
dear friends
i had no intention of writing this, as we were
driving to the farm on Friday these words just
began arriving. why?… i have no idea because i
haven’t thought about these memories in decades.
oh, the mystery and wonder of poetry….
so Scout took the wheel and it all spilled out,
before we reached the farm. everything told here
is true. i changed her name, it didn’t seem fair
not to.
i don’t often put the song i write to, up top,
but this song IS part of this story more than
any other poem i’ve written. it was the only song
i listened to that summer when it was released.
as always, the words follow the slow tempo. ty.
.
.
.
.
.
oh Lola,
my Puerto Rican Princess
you wrote such exquisite poetry then
oh, my peaceful flower child
where, where do your words reside today?
we loved each other, our senior year
so immersed, in Tolkien and Kazantzakis
so inseparable, a promised ever after in our eyes
so untouchable, to a world beyond our view
the purity and innocence, of a first true love
our reflected light so intense, we outshone the sun
we were just 16, the only moment that truly mattered
was whatever moment we were in
born a little too late for Woodstock,
we were still committed and it was always
about Peace, Love and Understanding with us
and oh, did we wear our hippy proud!
i can still remember, the whole bunch of us
hangin’ out, smokin’ out and singin’ out loud!
while you braided my waist length hair
right there, on the worn steps of our high school
an hour later, you gave your Valedictorian speech
hell…there wasn’t a dry eye in the house
oh Lola, you made your boyfriend so damn proud!
then, just one week later…you broke my heart
walking those miles to your apartment
with a flower, I always picked for your hair
you and him were holding hands and laughing
the flower died…right where it dropped
gone was your ankle length, silken skirt
gone was the sheer, embroidered Indian blouse
and the peace sign necklace I saved up for
who was this girl, with cut off shorts and t shirt?
and so began my summer of sorrow, that year in ‘71
and so began a lifelong habit, retreating in silence
when the pain becomes so unbearably real
there was no peace, no love…only my fountain of tears
.
.
.
.
and then about ten years later,
i shut the lights and locked the door
to my little shop and went for my run
and no matter the temperature or weather
wearing shorts, sneaks, headband and ponytail
i ran and ran and ran, ‘til I just couldn’t run no more
hey man, I was committed…….to never being hurt again
but there was no peace, no love and no one to understand
and as I was bent over, trying to catch my breath
under the arch at Washington Square
this woman who seemed so excited to see me
hugged me right through, all the sweat on my chest!
‘how are you, it’s so good to see you! how long has it been?’
and then like an electric shock, thunderbolt to my heart
i thought, ‘oh God no, my Puerto Rican Princess,
where, where, where did you go?’
oh sweet Lola, my faded flower child
you probably don’t remember saying this
as we sat down, and the bottle came out of your purse,
‘Aragon, I made such a mistake leaving you. I’m really sorry’
all I could say, after us both taking a hefty swig,
‘please, please tell me, you took that full scholarship to Vassar’
her blank stare said, ‘do you wanna’ see some pics of my kids?’
so as one pain began to heal… another wound took its place
and her promised call…never did ring
.
.
now I don’t pray all that often, but i knelt that night,
‘please, please, help her come to her senses. help her see!
or send someone to save her..….then send someone to save me’
and for my friends at
d’verse, Tuesday Open Link
.
.
.
poet, please forgive this selfish intrusion
i have no right whatsoever to impose myself
certainly no expectations, or the need for a reply
but i keep returning to your poetry and pages
there seems a sadness there…or is it my own yearning?
that you’ve possibly uncovered a truth, i could not see
and now, rereading what i’ve written
i fear that this might be a terrible mistake
that you’ll think i’m demanding your attention
to try and become to you, what i certainly am not
it’s just that my native language, i thought in images
these words i write, were never my vocabulary
oh poet, please disregard this foolishness
it should probably remain, just a private note to myself
but the inspiration in sharing words…is saying something else
dear new friends and old,
we are leaving in a few hours to spend
some time with family and to continue our
labor of love, restoring the 100 year old
house on our farm. i’ll be back on Tuesday,
in the meantime i thought i would repost this
poem, my second after joining 20 Lines A Day
in April.
thank you all for your continued and constant
encouragement, it means so very much to me.
if it weren’t for all of you, i wouldn’t be writing
this poetry of mine. please know what a gift you
have given me, that some days i still can’t believe
this is my blog, these are my words and you all,
are my friends.
thank you, so very much,
{{{ h u g s }}} and *smiles* to you all
.
.
.
.
. tiptoe.
.
.
Amid this winter’s grey mist grip
our April mocks her Spring impression.
Rush hour red lights stop and start,
frustrated and my happened glance at
a waif like girl no more than nine,
she’s mouthing words of imagined rhyme.
I watch her whispering monologues
as she tiptoes boulders in the park.
Pure innocence her soft protection
from cruel worlds I suffer much too well.
I mouthed my thank you to the waif
and she tiptoed boulders until dark.
.
.
.
written April 14 2013
submitted to 20 Lines A Day
prose and poetry challenge for April
.
.
can it be,
after all this time?
the entirety of my life
of this continual yearning,
the ever constant questioning.
so late in my day, i now know why
i inhabit, have lived in this lanky frame,
own these extended limbs, these large hands.
that whenever you come to me now, hurt and seeking solace.
and me, enveloping your tiniest vulnerability, with all that i am.
and me, absorbing each and every cruelty, a world can deliver.
drawing you close into me,
these hands cupping your head
feeling every luxurient tangle
of blackened mahogony hair,
roping my fingers as they meet.
these lips i wear, found a home
know their sudden reason to exist.
meeting the palest skin of your forehead
and rising, to accept my grateful kisses
as if i’ve never kissed another, before you.
and me, breaking my habitual silence
whispering every reassurance, to you.
quietly mouthing my truth, all of my love
so only you, will hear my every solemn vow.
and i know now, i’ve never been loved, until you.
,
,
,
, When You’re Gone
There’s nothing simple,
when I’m not around you.
But I’ll miss you
when you’re gone,
that is what I do.
.
as always, this poem was written to the tempo of
this song and and can be played as a soundtrack::::enjoy::::
.
i can still remember
when i first saw this
cavernous apartment you
lived in, all by your lonesome.
and i said to you,
‘my artist painted chests,
would look so good paired with
your folk art window panes.’
.
.
and i imagined….
my classic 50’s lamps,
they might look kinda’ cool on
those antique end tables of yours.
there was little doubt
my stainless steel pots and pans,
would be delighted, side by side
just hangin’ next to your Calphalon.
my darlin’
i remember feeling
so safe in your arms then,
my Homebody wanted only
to make a home with you.
be coupled and paired with you
together with all our stuff.
and hoping your, Always Goin’ Out,
would really want that too…..
.
.
.
.
and our, almost 12 years later
my folk art, black cat collection,
now takes up an entire shelf, meowing.
Christmas, i always find one under the tree.
‘oh Scout,
do you remember
the sad leafless plant,
that orphan we both
could never give up on?’
still planted in your 50's era,
pale yellow pot i always liked,
‘have you noticed lately
that it’s grown 12 leaves now?’
.
.
‘
sweetheart,
some days
your Somebody
just looks around
at all the memories,
our life…this home
we’ve shared together.
and i think, ‘stuff can mean
so much more than, just stuff.’
.
.
*pics by moi, of our stuff
. London Rain
(Nothing Heals Me Like You Do)
.
And when somebody knows you well
Well there’s no comfort like that
And when somebody needs you
Well there’s no drug Iike that
And where l’m home,
curled in your arms
And I’m safe again
.
.
.
.
because a journey
is no longer moving,
when one step isn’t
followed by another.
but me standing instead
on the edge of an abyss,
and so afraid of opening
that door to the unknown.
and
there comes a time…
to restore the lost voice
of my childhood innocence,
throw off his shroud
and let him light my day again.
and
there comes a time…
to restore a fearless curiosity,
nourishing my artist soul.
listen to this heart
sharing my truth in simple words.
and
there comes a time…
to restore my place
on this earth among the living,
smell the breath of life
feel a pain…feel a joy…and feel alive!
and
that time has come,
the door is swung wide open now!
roads to travel, legs that need to walk
and fear, will not be sharing these steps.
because it was afraid…….that i was before.
.
.
. The Return to Innocence
Love…Devotion
Feeling…Emotion
Don’t be afraid to be weak
Don’t be too proud to be strong
Just look into your heart my friend
That will be the return to yourself
The return to innocence.
Don’t care what people say
Just follow your own way
Don’t give up and use the chance
To return to innocence.
dear friends…
i wrote this in the car, coming home from our
trip to our farm 2 weeks ago. i’ve been holding it
back because, well, there is a lot to digest here,
a lot of words and a lot of details you don’t know
because i haven’t written about them, except in
metaphors. if you choose to read this, and i will
understand if you don’t, just know that there is
healing and reconciliation, of so much of the
tragedy that is my childhood and family history.
there are no metaphors in this writing, everything
written here is true. there is also a larger message
about how we live now, versus how our parents did just
a few decades ago, a message that’s close to my heart.
.
.
.
.
and driving down the simple gravel road, our recent visit done,
slowly…past the tall rows of corn standing their sentry post
this once random parcel of land, hidden amidst 1000’s of acres
that felt like Home to me the minute the white clapboard house
suddenly appeared in the surprise clearing, over ten years ago
…and I recall what i heard then,
.
the easy after dinner conversations
and commitment, a family reciting
its oral history to their children.
the southern rooted melancholy
of the music, this east coast boy
never could appreciate until now.
.
and as we took one last last look
down the gravel road road towards
the house, before driving to Chicago
both our hearts so tethered to this farm
Scout with her memories and me with mine
so we sang in harmony to our favorite road trip song
Patty Loveless singin’ ’You’ll Never Leave Harlan Alive’
‘But the times, they got hard and tobacco wasn’t selling
And old grandad knew what he’d do to survive
He went and dug for Harlan coal
And sent the money back to grandma
But he never left Harlan alive’
that Scout could get this shy one to sing…
that this scared kid, did manage to escape Brooklyn alive
that no other house I owned, spoke Home like this farm
that it’s just all too much to absorb sometimes
i recall what I heard listening to Carl
a retiree now, still living in the next farm over
in the brightest moonlight he could ever remember
stroll his field, just to hear the snap of the corn grow
i recall Aunt Shirley, who’s not even my blood
on the phone that afternoon, ask which I wanted
should she make apple or peach cobbler for dessert
and then apologizing, ‘‘cause the edges they were burnt.’
that this family has so folded me into their clan
that an orphan with no family of his own…now does
that it’s all been done without a single word about it
that it’s all just too much to absorb sometimes
i recall what i heard listening to Bob, Scout’s gentle father
sharing his childhood memories, working his own daddy’s fields
at 12, hitching horses to a wagon to glean the left over corn
and milking the cows everyday at 4, so his family could survive
i recall what I heard Sue, married 50 years to her beloved Bob
say on the phone last year driving home from the lawyers…
smiling, ‘Well the papers are all signed, it’s finally complete.
We called you first, ’cause we know how much you love the farm’
that none of the many siblings showed any interest
that Scout, her brother and I, were gifted this farm we treasure
that this poor Brooklyn boy, might breathe his last breath here
that it’s all…just really too much to absorb some days
.
.
.
and i recall what I heard last night, when I walked the clearing
a bird I didn’t recognize was singing his melodic night calling
i just had to stop this walking, to listen to his every pretty note
.
and I thanked the universe
.
.
from my very core..
.
.
that I was there
.
.
.
.
.
there’s this thing you always do
i’m not even sure you really know,
and i’m not going to ruin it
by making you aware, if you don’t.
sometimes,
i’ll just be standing there
my back turned, making coffee,
the warmth of your little hand
will slide along…and reach my heart.
and your lips mouth little kisses
against my arm and i just look down,
breathing in the scent of your hair.
and it’s the smell…of everything i love.
sometimes
you’ll be talking, to yourself
your temple leaning so light against me.
i guess you do it…just ’cause i’m there
remind yourself, of things you have to do.
then just as quickly, as i’m breathing you in
you’ll be gone, this thing you do happens often
so i’m not going to ruin it, by making you aware.
and i guess you do it…just ’cause i’ll always, be there.
.
.
. Swimming in Your Ocean
When I’m swimming in your ocean
Floating aloft on creams
And scented lotions
I can get pretty side-tracked
I hope you’ll understand
.
as always, this poem was written to the tempo of
this song and can listened to as a soundtrack.
one of my fav songs, male voices, lyirics, bands
and spoof videos, an acquired taste::::enjoy::::
.
who could know then 