Posts tagged ‘American Poetry’

January 10, 2016

Last Night Allegory (Smoke Rising Over The Hennepin Avenue Bridge)

One time
bold people
walked
cold paths

under
hollow skies.

Last night
was nice,

even
with
the weather.

August 19, 2015

She Packs for The Train to Wisconsin

On such a late night sitting and full,
Contents of a stir-fry made of tofu;
She packs for Wisconsin: days away.
Still I sit & watch and wait & laze.

August 12, 2015

College Park in the Past

Shades of the trees toward western skies rest a cool shadow

on a once brilliant face,

where the lacquer for paint

had peeled.

Smack of fuzzed tennis balls hurled in the wind,

zipping with bugs in

a St. Paul end-summer August warm.

Reflections and shadows hung on until it was time

to go back home—

just after supper and just before

candlelight vigils and auto headlamps scans rushed

into closed windows and about vacant streets.

Sitting, watching

the world come to close another day,

morning would be the same except reverse

on those tired night dweller’s eyes.

A can was crushed and we biked back

to SE through mosquitoes.

July 25, 2015

Poetry Critics

Critics of today couldn’t take
away the feeling of the act.

No matter how hard they try,
no matter the American sentimentalism.

Or, the labels tossed
around as exactly absolute.

No matter what authority
or agency they promote.

It feels so good.
It feels so alive.

It feels like creation.
Pressing buttons to get a reaction,

from the black and white
and the dots and lines,

people see and they say.
Your cloudy mind turned

to someone’s bright-light inspiration.
It is nothing to not do; it is something

to believe in your actions.
No matter where you are:

on Hennepin or Hawaii, in Uptown
or on a bike in Southeast.

Critics of today do it too,
they just use other’s work for their muse.

In other words they describe yours,
without they would be nothing.

With, they have a job, or something…
Again, that is as good as to not do.

July 20, 2015

High Heat Sunday

Turning day to night as a light switch in a room
had shadows evaporating into themselves,
outlines seen were hot and sticky
for the summer humidity and sharp shine.
A black car sheen stood burning
in an open lot as a dead mouse
in grey fur swelled and swarmed with flies.
The sweet cloy of trash hit nostrils
like a left hook of some welterweight
sweating hard, pulling in the ring.
Plastic garbage bags expanded
in the sweltering heat of midday July
becoming tight as the skin of a drum.
Few cotton clouds cast no guard in
vast rich nitrogen blue skyscapes,
going on, what fast changed above.
Seems Sunday was properly labeled for
this weather; there was tan leather,
blue jeans, bright bandanas, and cold beer.
It was unlike any other beautiful day.

July 17, 2015

In a Crowd of Clowns

Dead artists & counterfeit idealists
Travel same paths I’ve once roamed.
To judge, to assert, as one were God—
Step off of your high-founded throne.

July 9, 2015

Untitled Response To Crowfoot, Blackfoot (StarTribune, Thursday, July 9th, 2015)

It is the flit of
a blue jay’s wings
at daybreak.

It is a potbellied squirrel, tan beige,
on a bent limb in the
summertime.

It is the faint
sweet smell of ripened honeysuckles
on winds getting lost in
a township forest.

It is a reflection of
such life.

It is.

To:
-Crowfoot, Blackfoot
Warrior and orator.

June 26, 2015

How I write poetry

Could they hear me at the desk oozing prose onto the page,
clipping hard at the keys for grammar,
few words and blank space,
giving my all just for free writing?

Had they known my walk through the pre-day skyway,
the negative eighty degree cooler I passed—I am like that: cool and old.

Had they been blinded by a window’s reflection
or kissed their love before exiting a truck?

Could they feel the concentration,
the poise,
the inspiration,
of each line, in each book
held in heavy hand?

White came black, black came red—what you read this heap (?),
red turned pale, then yellow, then green—the fear, coming out of me.

This was it,
the beginning of the end,
and I had just opened Word
to give my fingers a stretch.

How coffee, how Grape-Nuts, how banana,
how milk, how ab workouts and a tepid shower
had been the muse to it all.

My body in the morning, my morning.
They hadn’t known.

Or at least that’s what I thought.

June 24, 2015

Adjusted Advantage

The world can seem so small
when assessed from the confines
of a one bedroom apartment.
A space tight, sticky, stuffy,
and near unbearably drab.
For a person to go outside and look,
to see all there is to see—to expand the expanse,
to imagine what one might attain
in the span of a lifetime,
at the change of a thought,
on the prospect of a whim, at the drop of a dime.
A perspective can be released
from its rigid boxy cage to stretch sore wings
and to grasp the once unthinkable,
for merely a chance thought,
and for adjusted sight, mercy!

June 9, 2015

Pro Tips for Planning your Perfect Life

“If you can’t please yourself, who can?” -Ma

In the morning I start planning,
by the time I am done it is mid-afternoon.
I find that I have all things figured out,
in finding that happiness is without.
When I have specific plans completed,
seen through to fruition, I can only hope for one thing:
that I still feel as good as I do when I just open my eyes,
young, in love, and surrounded by it-
when I just walk outside—lost and uncaring,
when I do the first thing that comes to mind, even today,
now, to escape.
I hope to still feel as good as I do right now,
with no excess in what I have about me, and there, no excuses,
because none of those institutions will change anything, ever.
Not one. They only complicate and muck up straightforward.
Fuck plans. It is how you feel when you feel you in the end.
I hope to feel as good as I do when I wake up
in the morning, before I start planning.

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