Posts tagged ‘poem’
WE REMEMBER
It is estimated that between 50 and 200 people jumped from the World Trade Center towers on 9/11. Marked forever in our memory will be the vision of them falling. Who can put themselves in the thought process that went into that decision and the conditions under which it was made? They did not chose death. They were murdered.
This poem is dedicated to those poor souls and all lives claimed that fateful day.
JUMPERS
They were like birds flying,
Leaping from flaming windows,
No wings to purchase air,
No hope of flying home.
They were like birds flying,
Tumbling in twos, alone,
Flashing by in a smoke-filled sky
While crowds watched in horror.
They were like birds flying
Flights, imprinting the nation’s memory.
They were like omens flying,
Carrying us into a world of fear.
Millie’s Eyes
I look into Millie’s eyes
And undying love shines through,
Unconditional love,
True love.
I look into Millie’s eyes
And devotion shines through,
No matter what I am
She’ll be mine.
I look into Millie’s eyes
And often turn away,
The glare of knowledge
Behind those eyes is frightening.
I look into Millie’s eyes
And say ‘I love you’,
And she returns her love
By offering me her paw.
For those who may be interested, there is a picture of Millie under the heading ‘Constant Companion’.
REVISITING MY POEM, PHANTASY
I posted my poem, Phantasy, on poetreecreations.org ( they changed the title) and got a pretty good response so I thought I’d repost it for those new to my blog.
Perhaps you might be induced to check some of my other poems.
First published by New Worlds Unlimited in 1981.
PHANTASY
Sickness pervades this cloistered sphere
this world he calls his own.
Mutterings leap with meanings unclear
crying a message unknown.
Shadowy thoughts revoke the day
God gave his hand, then turned away.
Come see the shell that isn’t a man,
muse at this poor wretched fool.
Look to his eyes a moment and then
Depart his mad vestibule.
Here’s a link to the posting by poetreecreations.org.
http://poetreecreations.org/2014/12/01/fantasy-promote-yourself/#comments
PUBLISHING UPDATE
At the beginning of the year I outlined my goals. One was to publish some of my previously published work.
I’ve been working on getting some of my published poems back out there and just found out one has been accepted by Still Crazy which is both a print and online publication.
I’ll give more details when it appears.
SNOW
I thought I’d revisit a poem I wrote and shared on my blog some three years ago.
Our last two winters were nearly nonexistent, but now we are paying. We had three snowfalls in less than a week and another inch is predicted for tomorrow. They have all been small amounts but they do add up, as does the love of snow in this poem.
This poem was inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s, The Bells.
THE SNOW
See the delicate snowflakes fall,
Falling, falling, falling.
Whitening the earth, awaiting below,
Falling, falling, falling.
See the mounds of glittering white,
Building, building, building.
As they hide the ground from sight,
Building, building, building.
See the ceaseless falling snow,
Falling, falling, falling.
Will it stop, no one quite knows,
Falling, falling, falling.
See the drifts accumulate,
Building, building, building.
My longing for spring will no longer wait,
Building, building, building.
SEE THE DAMNED WHITE BLANKET GROW,
HIDING, HIDING, HIDING.
MY CAR, MY LAWN, ALL I KNOW,
HIDING, HIDING, HIDING.
SEE MY MADNESS, MY URGE TO KILL,
GROWING, GROWING, GROWING,
CROSS MY PATH, AND I’LL DO YOU ILL,
SMILING, SMILING, SMILING.
UNPUBLISHED POEM
My readers,
It’s been many years since this image etched itself into my brain.
I finally wrote it out.
I’ve got to give you something to occupy your time since my accomplishments have not been numerous lately.
DRIVING TO THE EDGE ON INTERSTATE FIVE
As the tires hum I grip the wheel
Through miles of barren landscape,
My wife, daughters make the sound of sleep
As the emptiness rushes by,
I am alone in this desolate land
With only my thoughts for company,
The San Joaquin Valley stretches along
This ribbon of road,
On the CD player, Jonatha Brooke
Sings her sad, soulful songs,
I am so far away from home
As the sun lowers behind the distant mountains,
Wherever I travel, or choose to exist
I long for the home
I fear I may never find,
There is something inside
That I do not understand
That will not permit peace,
A happy family is mine
But conflict and emptiness still possess me,
Forever alone.
PUBLISHED POEM
My poetry readers,
In my last PUBLISHED POEM article I indicated that that was going to be it. But I found another old poem, and there is a more recently published poem which I shall share at a later date.
The following poem was published in the Clover Collection of Verse Vol. XII, edited by Evelyn Petry, in 1976.
I distinctly remember the birth of this poem. I once had a job in The Bronx while living in Newark. I would drive the New Jersey Turnpike every day, through the meadowlands and onward to New York. The meadowlands are not a particularly beautiful area. However, during my journey, I would pass a small dock with a moored sailboat. I began to realize that if I focused on only that gentle area, surrounded by saw grass, I could block out the rest of the world surrounding the scene. I could pick out points of beauty from a world of corruption. This is the poem that resulted.
CAMERA’S EYE
Camera’s eye catches delicate flowers,
Views the graceful of bee in pollination flight,
Spies the brushing of pollen – laden stamens,
Holds in time a scene most tranquil;
Yet does not discover the roadside trash,
The flower’s home amid mud and mire;
Does not smell the exhaust raining acid
On delicate flowers.
Camera’s eye gazes upon a child framed in a window,
Beholds the easy lean of chin in palm, elbow on windowsill,
Wide eyes looking out at the world in wonder,
Knows the innocent child – wisdom;
Yet ignores the window’s building,
Screens out the ghetto of rotted houses and dreams;
Undetected is the garbage – urine hallway
As the child sits framed in a window.
Camera’s eye seeks the tall dignified pine,
Witnesses early – morning dew set needles sparkling,
Inspects wildlife in arbor home,
Beholds sunlight filtering to needle – soft ground;
Yet neglects the smell and diesel smoke machines
Sumping and gouging the earth of its riches;
Does not display the bulldozer’s approach,
Turns away as the stately pine topples.
I am the camera’s eye
Seeing what pains me not,
Grasping flowers from mud and mire,
Rescuing the child from a rotted tenement,
Preserving the pine in dignified splendor;
All safe and secure in a scrapbook world
As the real world lays waste.
I was so tempted to change this poem, but all these published poems are presented exactly as they were published.
Once a work is published, the writer must step back and hope his work is appreciated for what it is, not what it might have been.
PUBLISHED POEM
My poetry friends,
This is the last of my oldies but, you decide what comes next.
Although I now live in a small town, I have lived in many large cities. I have witnessed the subject of this poem time and time again. I’m sure you have too.
This poem was published in Quality American Poetry, 1975-1976, Book III.
The anthology was published by Valley Publications and edited by William Lloyd Griffin.
SUNDAY PARK BENCH
Alone,
Rumpled newspaper in hand
Sits the old man,
Cold morning air sends a chill
Through a heavy overcoat,
Sunday morning light filtering
Through burnished leaves of autumn
Kindling thoughts of Sundays long gone,
Waking next to his wife,
The sound of children filling the house;
Now children grown – wife gone,
Sunday mornings bring only rumpled papers
On a park bench,
Alone.
PUBLISHED POEM
For some reason I have always had a fascination with Easter Island.
I’ve read about the island and became caught up with the struggles of two distinct populations and their undying need to build monuments. They decimated their forests to transport these magnificent structures.
I find it haunting that all this effort was going on while they had no idea that anyone else, outside their society, would see or appreciate this magnificent effort. Did they have the concept that there was more of the world?
I wrote a poem about these feeling which was published in 1975. The poem was published in the anthology, Best Poets of the 20th Century (another magnificent title and an awesome stretch), by Winston – Paramount Books, edited by B. Winston – Paramount.
EASTER ISLAND
Constructing sightless eyes no
one will see
They toil;
Probing rock with human fingers
They grope;
One – minded their effort approaches
uniqueness,
Years past witness human fingers to
dust,
Monuments remain to visit their labor;
Solemn stone faces looking out,
Pumice minds knowing an age of men
Possessing greatness long gone –
Deaf ears formed with stone axes,
Blood and sweat transformed
To monumental greatness;
Waiting on Easter Island.
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