Posts tagged poem

” I want to be a poet!”

“Well you can want all you like

that’s now how the universe works—-“

“I will be a poet!”

“Well call yourself what you will

That’s not how the universe works—-“

“I am a poet!”

All consciousness flows out from

the universal mind,

The cosmic wheel turns slowly and all

parts of the machine with it,

And self actualization forms like foam

on ocean waves. 

Three generations of open hands sit and reflect—-

two part time jobs split

amongst themselves, 

with seven kids to feed( some with

a few kids themselves all living under

one roof)

car payments to make

the mortgage stack getting taller

the check book shrinking

too many things bought on credit (with

too little of an income to combat it)

the rising inflation of the economy (with 

the decreased value of the dollar)—-

What happened to our American Dream?

Name a few things you think about 

when I mention Autumn.

You think to yourself, and close one eye,

You stick out your tongue a little and

respond after thinking a short while:

“I think of apples—

the greens and reds and yellows—

fruit to match the changing colors

of the leaves that jump from

the branches they’ve known all their lives.

We meant to go last year, but

couldn’t find the time.

I think of scarves and sweaters—

the warmth and designs—

like cuddling with yourself when

your loved one is away.

The safe feeling of being wrapped

in cloth and kept safe from the oncoming

winter winds waiting at fall’s doorstep.

I think of school and friends—

the change that comes with their arrival

and also their departures—

Of spending time with them and Halloween parties.

Of going to the movies and being young.

I think of football games with hot apple cider

and the feeling of warm friendship in the cold outdoors.”

I think of these things too,

Of carving pumpkins and spooky shows,

Of eating candy, and then buying in bulk

all that is left marked “Half-Off!”

But mostly, when I think of Autumn,

I think of newly found love,

I think of you.

Even the sounds echo coldly.

In the wind you hear the yelling

of children at play, with large

sweaters enveloping their frames.

Yellow foliage dance on the wind,

and bounce from their wooden castles

down into merky autumn puddles and streams.

Their only hope is to accent summer’s dying

green.

Outside a dog barks, and apples grow bright.

Inside we take shelter, and our world stands still.

You can hear them talking.
In hushed voices,
Almost a whisper,
And then, softer.

Preparing to make that leap.
Ready for that performance,
One last act of beauty,
And then, decay.

I’ve seen the ritual.
Every year it happens,
The season of dying,
And then, Winter.

White fan humming,
tell me your secrets and
all the things you observe.
Oscillating and spinning,
you are the world on a stick.
Blow cold wind at my face
and bring me back to consciousness.

It’s like when your knees give out and you fall
flat on your face,
Or when you car stalls for the tenth time that
morning and you’re
already thirty minutes late for work.
It doesn’t wait for the
most convenient time for you, but likewise it
doesn’t seem to strike
at your most vulnerable time either.
It’s just the way of the 
world. Random events causing havoc and chaos
driving you so far down
into a depression that only alcohol and drugs can wake 
you from it, but even then
you’re left with a dependency that can’t be stopped.
The cosmic wheel spins
and only skips a beat when you take the punches square
in the nose and can still walk
away smiling.

A terrible loss,
When the wild things leave us.
And death is so close,
But we are still dreamers.
We lived in your pictures,
And lived in your pages,
But your memory lives on,
When the wild things save us.