July 4, 2015

Waves, a poem within the undertow

Waves

I throw my eyes into a wave,
whisper to it with a stretch of skin
to tease the surf slang reply I need.
Fingers search for straight strokes,
but legs merge with mermaid tales
to mix wave suds into my words
as my mind’s nerve cries for help,
cries for the balance in flotation.

No books keep my ocean awake,
no principles preach or argue any
currents of displacement or loss.
Ribbons of seaweed press doubt
over a hope to find god in water:
John the Baptist kneels in sand,
Poseidon’s trident dies in hand.

Swimming is a form of silence, so
non-friction demotes any squid ink
beneath these seabeds to fade—to
recycle tips for subconscious lips.

Waves drum my ears, shoulder
me under them to dissolve my
perfections and beg my hands
for motion, rhythm, and rhyme,
motion, rhythm, and rhyme.

    ( Art by Anne Abrams )

June 27, 2015

Quizzical Gal, a poem of female enlightenment

Quizzical Gal

After she tamed her tiger,
she gave her name away and
kissed a lover goodbye. She
walked from Tibet to Sri Lanka
to teach awareness of breath,
and freedom from want.

She gave up
dal tarkari rice,
dresses of gold
with rubies,
ruling Shakya as its Queen,
passionate kisses of a king,
and mother to a buddha.

She sang fifty songs of sadhana for
poets, dancers, and
the bhikkhunis
so they attained buddhi as equals,
despite the sadness that buried her
deep in a cave for thirty years.

On Mount Sagarmatha they can
still hear her song at
midnight:
“Moonlight of mine, love me true.
I carried the light to beings in blue,
let me rest in peace in my dark place,
to answer the meanings in life I face.”

   (Art by Anne Abrams)

June 9, 2015

Hostage, a poem held for ransom

Hostage

Which imaginary enemy
chases your good sense south
when fear pushes from the north?
Why does your hideout need to
steal the identity of my home?
Did something break the heart
of your most gentle name?

Run away, if you have to, but
don’t leave writs of anger behind—
I require a warrant before you use
words to turn friends into hostages.
Habeas corpus demands my right
to prove beyond shadows you laced
the body of your sweet rhymes with
five kinds of honey and arsenic.
It’s my right. I refuse to speak.

If you can’t bear betrayal’s sin,
tell truth
s without condiments,
without subplots
that cheat my
appetite for facts and beans.
Kidnapping is still a crime in
almost every state of mind.

May 31, 2015

Once Balanced, a poem on its edge

Once Balanced

What favor of gravity holds me
down among six billion dizzy people?
Mother says I never fell down as a baby:
the careful teeter was my toddler step.
So does evil live in my ear’s cochlea to
dangle me over deeper canyons of fear?
Do supporting metaphors of recovery
from my middle-ear imbalance work
a blueprint for today’s problems of
love’s death and the deathly fiction
which lives under my life of words,
a life of expressions unheard?

I never fall off a meditation pillow
if I’m awake enough to tilt my head.
I never fall off my bicycle, if I’m quick
as the murder in the eye of a motorist.
I never fall off the wagon of equanimity
if I let greed pass the consuming fires
of pride in craft and beauty of rhyme.

But, what if a will of a wisp of a wind
blew through me to carry my mind above
the rain, the pain, and the too tame?
I learn to trust what howls in my ears.


      (Photo by Anne Abrams)

May 22, 2015

If Real Hate Lives, a poem of love

If Real Hate Lives

I no longer bank my fire, but
pitch hot flame at the door of
the cage I’ve locked into myself.
Can I save saving itself? Or its heat?
Since keyholes won’t swallow hate,
I must abandon too-careful words
that cower among the meek toys
and zoo-animal books in closets.
I leave them to burn away.

I leap from the smoke cloud, skid
the back porch like A.J. Foyt, sprint
like a Christian lion from sacred flesh,
jump onto a boxcar made for peaches,
and stand in the doorway to watch
my hometown float into its own surf.
My escape is a voyage to utopia where
boys in brown skin with tart tongues
play an endless game of baseball on
dirt the color of real white people.

I’m not too late, if hate lives,
because I learned it well—
the only real fuel I know.

December 18, 2014

Rondeau At The Train Stop By Erin Belieu

Rondeau At The Train Stop

It bothers me: the genital smell of the bay
drifting toward me on the T stop, the train
circling the city like a dingy, year-round
Christmas display. The Puritans were right! Sin
is everywhere in Massachusetts, hell-bound

in the population. it bothers me
because it’s summer now and sticky – no rain
to cool things down; heat like a wound
that will not close. Too hot, these shameful
percolations of the body that bloom
between strangers on a train. It bothers me

now that I’m alone and singles foam
around the city, bothered by the lather, the rings
of sweat. Know this bay’s a watery animal, hind-end
perpetually raised: a wanting posture, pain
so apparent, wanting so much that it bothers me.

Rondeau At The Train Stop By Erin Belieu.

 

 

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December 13, 2014

Secret Colors, 1830—a poem for Amity

Secret Colors, 1830  

As I walk towards the gray porch
of my father’s house, I want to cry.

After an afternoon with Amity’s lips,
I see how ignorant is my happiness.
To learn it, my skin must turn black
and whip cuts on my back must bleed.
I love the
words unalienable rights,
but life in a gray Latin school and
life in a gray Sunday school is a
curse
without the living colors in
songs of my African girlfriend.

During my afternoon in a library
a history book tattles on America:
how a Revolutionary War teased
America free from King George.
It was an un-castled chess game
because the real war was against
the black folks who made us rich.
Tom Jefferson complained against
England importing African slaves,
but they gave him great wealth.

I spend afternoons with Amity only
if I accept the hatred of every white
boy in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
If love is blind, seeing eyes are sad.
How can I open the door and live
again in my father’s gray world
while I hold her colors in secret?

December 3, 2014

New poem by Walt Whitman

New poem by that upstart poet, Walt Whitman:
“To Bryant, the Poet of Nature”

 

 

October 1, 2014

Cut No Lilies, a gospel song by an imaginary writer

(This is a gospel song by Esmee,
a character in the novel-in-progress,
Finding Color. She’s borrowed a lyrical
theme from a spiritual that originates
in the Carolinas of 1820s. It’s written
for piano, choir, and congregation.)

Cut No Lilies

I run down the valley while I pray:
Jesus is dead and God’s gone away.
This I heard a man in a gray hat say.
He lies ’cause I need my God today.
He lies ’cause I need my God today.

We sing for the mothers and the children, too.
We sing for the mountains and the ocean blue.
There’s spirit in the lakes and the rocks and trees,
there’s the spirit every time I fall on my knees.

I fall on my knees because I need you so—
Please, son of Jesus, don’t let me go.
Don’t let me go. Don’t let me go.
Please, son of Jesus, don’t let me go.

Cut no lilies for me today:
this is not my cryin’ day.
Cut no lilies for me today:
this is not my cryin’ day.

(Art by Anne Abrams)

September 28, 2014

Position Needed, a poem for peace

Position Needed

United States Secretary of Peace:
an Executive Cabinet position to
be appointed by enlightenment
itself. This Secretary may not be
removed by any president ever.
Secretary of Defense answers to
Secretary of Peace who has veto
power over anything it says or does.
The United States Secretary of Peace
answers to no one but to peace itself. 

  (Photo by Anne Abrams)

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