Archive for February 8th, 2011
Who Is It Who Beats a Dog?
Who is it who beats a dog?
My temper becomes insane rage.
Tender care with my loving Gracie,
reach gently when petting,
else she ducks as if from a descending bomb.
Who is it who shatters these loving beings?
For Gracie it was long, long ago.
Now she is old and wise,
but violence of puppy days is stuck on her.
Who is it who beats angels?
I hold my Gracie and she loves me deeply.
She has no clue about my load of defects.
She knows I would never hit.
She knows I love her carefully.
If I were the creator,
I would allow dogs to destroy
those who beat dogs,
but then the dogs would not be dogs.
Who is it who is so depraved?
Give me all the beaten dogs,
and let me love them now,
never to allow a beating again.
Man in Winter Street V5
Searing breezes on frozen
black ocean
beleaguered by barren snow.
A fierce blizzard snatched Sam,
abandoning his dead body
in a snow bank, with him
coveting his commute
home.
Beautified black jacket flies,
securing fit is not easy,
escaping a wicked, dead, terrifying street,
knowing nothing good is to come,
desperately wishing for poise,
for compassion
that steams the room,
clearing the icicles.
I thought it might be good to shoot at One Shot Wednesday! Check out the entries – A bunch of good artists over there!
You’re Ruined
“You’re not the same Carl I married.”
I sit there longing to meet this guy
who was apparently a decent guy.
Where did he go?
I don’t miss the drunk.
When the drunk vacated,
I suddenly had an open road.
I cannot go back to that hell.
Where is the good part?
Who is this asshole, this gentleman
who has left town?
I want to be good for everyone,
but Carl is gone into a cyclone.
Her question deserving a robust no:
“Am I supposed to put up with this
for the rest of my life?”
Her question deserving a dopey look:
“When will you get better?”
I feel stupid about this.
Regretting Here
This morning I woke up here,
thinking I’d rather not be.
Nowhere to go
except work
as a dirty mongrel.
I bow with the man
in camouflage hat,
crooked cig,
crooked sun,
power truck.
Have no courage.
Search for redeeming energy.
Life is all heavy black.
Man in Winter Street – Mighty-E Mix
I posted this poem earlier. I worked some exercises with a marvelous teacher. If you please, I’d love it if you could tell me which version you like best: 3, 4 or the original copied below 3 and 4. I’d love to hear what you think!
Man in Winter Street V 3
Searing breezes on frozen, black ocean surrounded by snow.
A fierce blizzard took Sam, leaving his dead body in a snow bank, waiting to commute.
Now Lilly is alone, remnants of a sunny day, still nice but wearily phobic.
Ever careful, the suited mourner walks the drive, with sacred motion,
over the choicest, gray-tan, brittle but sturdy cement from polished mixers.
wishing for benevolence that steams the room, clearing the icicles, sterilizing.
I drive into the deadly white against the malignant black with ice,
creating specks of surety that my mettle might survive the soaked curtain in my head.
Man in Winter Street V 4
Searing breezes on frozen,
black ocean
surrounded by snow.
A fierce blizzard took Sam,
leaving his dead body
in a snow bank,
waiting to commute.
Man in Winter Street V1
Beautified black jacket flies, fit not easy, escaping a dead street
with searing breezes on frozen, black ocean surrounded by snow.
Gray metals and tingling plastics modulate the meeting of obligations,
and gorgeous white Cadillac rests on sparkling garage floor for clean hobbies.
Now Lilly is alone, remnants of a sunny day, still nice but massively phobic.
Sam was doing his best to bring home prey for a mean gas grill.
Kitchen table lights had howled of manifested financial manipulations.
And terrier in porthole, standing guard over the stellar, irradiated castle.
Marvelous grounds kept with deluxe machinery, all created from scratch.
A fierce blizzard took Sam, leaving his dead body in a snow bank, waiting to commute.
Ever careful, the suited mourner walks the drive, with sacred motion,
past a dirty and dark SUV with child seats, contrasting against snow
and the finest, gray-tan, brittle but sturdy cement from slick mixers.
Reminders of kids of kids, perhaps not on this trip, missing Grandfather Sam.
Knowing nothing good is to come, desperately wishing for poise,
for compassion that steams the room, clearing the icicles, the mourner
continues to move modestly as if frightened by the North wind.
Lilly wishes the day to end, but she longs for deep circles of comfort.
Dreaded Carl drives into the deadly white against the dangerous black with ice,
realizing his life is not quite over – His mind has scraps of chance and hope,
creating specks of faith that his spirit might survive the soaked blanket in his head.
stillfugue 