Poetry Articles & News
Breathing in, Minnesota
In early fall, in Minnesota, the rain falls, falls, In buckets, buckets and more buckets—: drops Likened to music from its many streams—land Of ten-thousand lakes; moistened gravel, gravel Everywhere…
An Old Wood Pile
Old skin, once held tight Against her skeleton— Rose no more, just draped Loosely over unpadded flesh; Un-tightened muscles, and tissue, Lost its courage, no-fortitude—, Gone are the days and years That stood against the Indomitable elements; The skeleton, now a landmark Hidden under flesh and blood Guts and moral fiber, backbone… Collapsed from drudgery Time, time: cascading inside—. Bones now leaving impressions Accepting ...
Preserving Dignity
No one should have to beg or crawl before humanity. No one should have to scheme to procure philanthropy.
Colorful Talk
"I heard what you said, Red. Yet, I have to disagree. There's nothing wrong with my voice, You're just filled with jealousy."
The Exit Poems
The Exit Poems [And Socrates] Iron and Fire Iron can be soften by fire— grows hard in the cold; and all the gates therein are, as it was, closed again. So, often are those misled? by luxury and pride, who push humility aside—: thus, redemption their vanity and perfection their virtue… and in the end, they all collided. #789 [7/9/05] No Heroes I’m still living all the places I’ve been Dreaming of places I’d like to see Catching airplanes, trains, ...
The Crusader: A Search for the Virtue Inside (an excerpt of an Epic Poem)
On through the darkness she searches the bones Seeking the hand of her love; Deep in the stillness, the maid searches on, Petitioning help from above. Onward she gropes through the flesh and the blood Of the warriors disfigured and maimed; She carries no hope for the life of her love - For naught but his body she came. To see his face and cradle his head, Hold him close to her breast; Shed bitter tears at her sweet love's end And give him ...
Two Middling Poems: September Grass & The Stage
Two Middling Poems: September Grass September Grass, always Seems to have crickets Ticking like clocks (around their core) And I can hear them As I walk at twilight Blurred, running through The September Grass I must have stepped On a few in the dark But they never stopped: Ticking, ticking, counting Time, time, time… “What’re you dong?” I asked the crickets… They whispered— I heard them: “A private celebration” They were watching me—! Sight unseen, by me… ...
Manco Cápac: and the Sickle of Death
Manco Cápac: And the Sickle of Death (1) Manco Capac lived a long, long life, If measured, longer than any man alive But even to him came the cup of death The Master of the Sun, the Sun God Called to ‘The son of no race,’ bright As the sun and most, most handsome: “Commander, go down and tell Manco Capac about his death to be, So he may arrange for deposition… A declaration of his possessions For I have made him a rich man— The wealth of servants and ...
Africa
AFRICA (to africans in diaspora) africa here i come, africa africa of the black soul the soul of an ancient culture the culture of your timid tribes. its your voice i hear africa your voice of the talking drums your beaded drums and the royal trumpeter the metal gong of your town crier i have come to see your music dance i have heard of your ageless minstrels have i not heard of your swinging hips! i have heard enough and have come to watch wouldn't ...
Cruel World
Azra, Azra, Wake up Azra. Wake up Azra, It is time to go. Go where you must But hate to do so. Azra, it hurts me to say, But you are the way. Wake up Azra, You have to go.
Three Poems: Liberty, Death, and a Frog
Frog Summer Summer grows hot, for the New-blooded frogs; The bugs are thin, yet the Frogs stay fat, young and sassy. In these palsy times—they Only listen, as we wither away. Night fritters-away in sleep. The morning brightness comes late, Among my pithy-jointed bones—; Frogs annoy me, as my clay loosens. Rain drops for the frog. The New survivors of creation— Make their homes everywhere, As we thin ourselves out!... #765 7/21/05 A Death ...
The Tale of the: Old Hunter and the Golden Hare
There once lived an old man and his goodwife On the edge of the thick of the woods; They lived in an old run-down shack For forty-years and some. The old man hunted for his living, And his wife sewed on her lap.
Raking. Burning Autumn Leaves
Raking. Burning Autumn Leaves [1950s in St. Paul, Minnesota] My long steel pointed rake punctured And twisted through tons of autumn leaves (back in the ‘50s); And there’s a hill yet, I didn’t rake, I see Behind it, two embankments Leaves I didn’t rake a day ago; The essence of fall sleeps on the ground. I love the scent of burning leaves: I seem to dream of them nowadays. I cannot shake the excitement I get From the sight and smells of burning leaves. Now the city ...
The Lull of Twilight
Twilight, was now beginning. As for the sun, it was down—down over the Mantaro Valley of Peru. The softness of the Valley’s mist, covered everything; from the Andes to the Valley…and through (then I noticed) …the color of charcoal blended into earth and sky—; ebbing between this was the mystery of twilight (the parting of day, for the birth of night); where little, to nothing was said—where motion was almost dead (between man and beast); but not ...
Shadows of the Andes; Ollantayambo; and Cesar Vallejo
1) Shadows of the Andes [or: Song to the Andes] I shall blend-in, into the Mountains— Into the faintest thin Shadows of the mountains! Like the moss on moistened Stone Like a leaf blown far from Home… (freshly fallen)! I shall blend-in, clinging To the mountains— Into its faintest thin Shadows Note: when I arrived back home from Peru, my 7th trip in five years [April, 2005], I had spend about 30-days this time ...
Two Poems Written During Recovery
Since my wife and I are moving, or preparing to move, we’ve been going through our things as most people must, to prepare for the new location, and in doing so, I found two poems, ones I wrote in 1990, now 15-years old, never published, and so I’d like to publish them today. I was a heavy drinker up to 1984 (some twenty years drinking), when I quite, and so these poems must have something to do with it, a slight reflection perhaps. They were never numbered, as I have done in the past to ...
The Game of Life
When your life becomes unbearable And the light of promise ceases to glow, When all your dreams and aspirations Lie dormant on ambition's death row.
Feelings, O How Glorious!
Sometimes we feel hard-pressed, Our backs against the wall; Sometimes we feel lightheaded, As if we are going to fall.
A Hundred and Fifty Dead
There I sat, ninety-five degree weather Outside; the bookstore café, was cool. An Old Timer stood by me, explaining: “There were two-hundred of us on the Island, Near North Korea, back in ‘52— We guarded 16,000-prisners… “All of a sudden, all hell broke loose Three-hundred North Koreans came Over the bob-wired fence, in pursuit “It all happened in a matter of seconds The machineguns killed 150-of them That’s all I saw in ...
Storm Rising along the Lima Coast
Storm Rising along the Lima Coast [Summer of 2002] …wind was blowing furiously It never left for a moment Bursts of fury I found it difficult to keep My feet placed, thus, I clung to my knees For one blissful moment I could not now disguise it From myself Some subtle feeling Manifested itself Then the current drew Sharply away from me With her mystery— Back out into the open sea Yet—, still it roared back at me! It was an expressed release ...
Key Largo Frater Albertus
Key Largo: The fans turn lazily in front of the door They open wide showing mangroves galore An egret in the everglades stalks its prey Haltingly it walks along its way On another bright and sunny day A woman’s floppy hat shades her beauty not so brittle The silken scarf that holds the hat flutters just a little She pauses in the threshold of the door Surveying what she’s looking for She is looking straight at ...
The Cat
Truth is stranger than fiction according to many people who have seen what happens around me and to them, on many occasions. Sometimes I have had others affect me in the same way. This is part of the story told in my article The Man who Loved Jail.
A Cup of Sorrow
Tale of the Brick Maker, Of San Jerónimo, Peru [A Cup of Sorrow] —1 In the Andean mountains, within the Mantaro Valley region of Peru, Isolated, secluded, tranquil, is the little village of San Jerónimo. Near the village, here lay the fertile valley with bent-grass, and huge Mountains stretching northbound, And heading towards the ocean’s coast. The old man had hands like a farmer’s was raised on labor and ceaseless; He made bricks from ...
House of the Goblin
House of the Goblin [Part Two of Three] Here is where, where the air is still And the mountains shadows disappear! Here is where, unnumbered spirits dwell Where harp and memory expire… Where the rainbow—leaps, from its Storeroom-keep, and cries; And the sands along the oceans coast Echo then die…as in sleep…; And where enchantment turns into ghouls!... Who be these spirits, which charm and gleam? A fabric from the “Inferno,” I ...
Commuting Hell!
It’s dark, it’s cold, its’ just six thirty, thoughts of sleep still dull my brain, As I huddle down, inside my coat, a commuter clone, just waiting for a train. Insidious rain, just drizzling down, through weak light of creeping dawn, Paper sandwich bags and old coffee cups, blowing past, look so forlorn. We huddle together, like a colony of penguins, sheltering from the rain, As we struggle through, another stressful ...
Life is a Fantasy
LIFE IS A FANTASY! A pink-eyed rabbit, fuzzy white Hops in bedrooms filled with fright A child of six with much to know Her father's basest feelings show She knows of LOVE, only through him He satisfies his every whim He leaves, she wipes him from her chin! Her mother NEEDS to see the best He answered her God request To have a roof to comfort bring A yard where all the birdies sing Tell me how she ...
Ambiguity and Abstraction in Bob Dylan's Lyrics
To many people contemporary poetry is a turn-off. The reason for this is that the majority of these poems are boring. They are so because they fail to enable people to identify with them. The bulk of modern poetry is no longer about reader identification but about information transfer, information that could just as easily be conveyed in a prose form. These poems are written merely to convey the poet's thoughts and feelings about a specific event, situation or place he or she has ...
Song of the Great Zimbagwe, and Silver and Inca Blood
“Song of the Great Zimbabwe” Across the African, winter’s sky In the Southern edge of Zimbabwe Looking down from the Hill Complex From on top, of an Ancient Rock O’er the mountains steep—: A, vista I’ve longed to see, resides A site, I’ve longed to meet—; Thus, dwells, within this African Valley, Among the greatest of man’s feats… The great, Great Zimbabwe (Enclosure). A million-stones, built these ancient walls Some twelve-fathoms, ...
Africa Where's The Profit?
A poetic comment that just welled up inside my head – why cant we just do something – before many more are dead?
Farewell to Lester Graybill
I never met a man, who could shake my hand, and make my heart feel like a hearth afire. I never met a man, who could smile so easy, real honest. I never met a man, who could make my dark soul, fill with light, by merely standing with him, in conversation. I never met a man, who could come by honesty, so cleanly, so believably solid. I never met a man, who could capture my soul, with the stories of simplicity, and sincerety of his youth. I never met a man, ...