write poetry

I know why I write
and I don’t like it
not one little bit

But, it’s not
as though I have a choice
that I can say no

The words flow
like blood
from a wound

Arterial
pulsing
pulsing

Bleeding the thoughts
the memories
the pain

Which no bandage
no bandage
can staunch

Last night in a dream
Josie cuddled with me
kissed me, held me

Her nipples firmly against my back
her words whispering in my ears
I awoke

The best part of my day
over
4:30 in the morning

Blind
or nearly so
he sits
listening to C-SPAN

“Can you find
the local news?”
he asks
squinting towards me

Sixty years ago
he knew everyone
today, he
knows almost no one

Once a week
Tuesday’s he visits the
old folks home
to cheer them up

“I’ve lived too long”
he told me
“I’m no use
to anyone”

My mom called it the “shack”
it is a hunting cottage:
one bedroom in the woods
small

I visited there with him
he’s trying to give away his life
through the gift
of his possessions

“See anything you want, take it”
Fishing reels, traps, deer antlers
hatchets, axes, and railroad locks
“It’s no damn good to me”

In his basement
a slide rule taken
taken from the ruins
of an aircraft plant

Outside of Nagasaki
He arrived there
an occupation force member
and the slide rule

He wondered if it was used
used to design aircraft
fighting in the war
“Damnedest thing” he said

“The writing
is all in English”
I wonder
if it’s radioactive

Nakagugulat na balita ay ating napag-aalaman.
Napaulat sa telebisyon, radyo at pahayagan.
Ngunit sa mga unang araw ay di alintaan nino man.
Na sa pagdaaan ng mga araw , atin na ngang nararanasan.

Marami nagsara, na mga pagawaan.
Kabahayan nating mga OFW ay nagsisiuwian.
Saan man dako ng mundo ay laganap ang tanggalan.
Ang Pandaigdiagn kahirapan, na ngan nasumpungan.

Dating mga maralita, ay lalo pang naghihirap.
Bagkos ay lumabo ang mga minimithing pangarap .
Mga nawalan nga oportunidad ,kahit ang gusto ay mag-sumikap.
Oh Panginoon namin ang paglingap

Kailan kaya ang ligayay, amin nang malalasap?
Ang distansya ng minimithi, ay lupa at alapaap.
Sa panahong gaya nito ang swerte ay kay ilap.
Pero wag mawalan ng pag-asa, dahil ang mabuhay ay kay sarap

how could i have known
she was the wrong woman

we exchanged vows
and drove away

thirty years on
i cry most nights

tonight
couples danced

tonight
couples kissed

tonight
six jack daniels doubles

i have no business
in front of a keyboard

i have no business
sharing my thoughts

only anger, frustration
and wasted years

you have no idea
no idea what so ever

the anger
like a fist

in my chest
clinched

so i drink
so i write

driving fast in a large car
cracked concrete
under my wheels
bump-de-bump-de-bump

fossils fuel me
moves me
out of detroit
bump-de-bump-de-bump

obvious metaphor
big car
driving fast
bump-de-bump-de-bump

blow the doors
off a hybrid
hummmmmm, hummmmmm
bump-de-bump-de-bump

drive like hell
drive like hell
drive like hell

There was a beautiful photograph of a card catalog, and I posted the poem below as a comment to that photograph:

love the idea of a card catalog
everything has gone digital
the whole god-damned world:
nothing but file.
the computer nerds
stole our word
file
and monitized our searchs
imagine
money for looking.
no money in this catalog
it is comforting
paper files and
wooden drawer.
it is humanizing.
solid oak caress
the cards’s edge
it is love.

The eye which weaves the day
With glances
Unfurls its stare upon the
Blue wind of the sky.
Yet immensity and vastness
Are mere borders of
The small and graspable,
And our arms fall to our sides
Unable to hold the ball of
Heaven.

If Neruda were alive today would he be a rockstar?

Would he wear tight black tee-shirts and sunglasses like Bono?

Would Neruda host telethons to raise money for some good cause and cry as the night wore on?

Would he sell his likeness on bottles of beer in Tokyo train stations or would he read his poems in town-hall meetings?

Would he be chased down by the paparazzi in motor scooters as he sped through the tunnel of our emotions?

Would he patrol the streets of Baghdad in camouflage and carrying an M-16 loaded with Portuguese verbs?

Would Neruda sell hedge funds describing their complicated, inexplicable workings in terms so romantic and desirable that everyone, every living soul were forced to buy?

Would he read us the evening news?

Would he eat special foods and show us the photos of him before the diet helped him trim unwanted inches off his waist and give him the energy of a twenty-year old?

Like Neruda: I have no answers. Only questions.

Love is…
The mother who knows
That her child will die
But who smiles and cuddles
Waits ‘til later to cry
And when he is gone
She still speaks to the sky
To calm his all his worries
And tell him its alright

Love is…
The friend
Who admired from a distance
But was there every time
When she needed assistance
Who managed to smile
When she found someone else
Shook her mans hand
And kept his pain to himself

Love is…
The skinhead
Who used to have hair
But whose sisters illness
Was too much to bear
And so shaved it all off
To support her through chemo
No hair to wash now
Her conscience is clean though

Love is not glamour
Nor roses and cards
It’s in the tears of a mother
Deep in everyone’s scars

i could only do it when i was in love. ive started learning from the greats thou, like dorothy parker, and leonard cohen. there are other things in the world. i recently wrote a poem about people who talk obnoxiously , and i wrote it in the style of a VILLANELLE. try it, its very freeing because of the form , although i usually like free verse.