We Can All Be Poets
We can all be poets
we can all be Rumi
for who was he but the wind, the stars and the sea?
We dance through the ecstasy
stumble on through the absurd
we make it to one destination
all the while in search of words
I tried to convey to you
how you've altered
this morning's sunrise
the way that hummingbirds search
the way that hummingbird flies
But I ran out of time you know
the moment was quickly lost
I tried to be Berman
and I failed at being Frost
We laugh with our hands
we scream with our toes
while all along
we're scribbling the world's most beautiful prose
bouncing around in dream-like meter
just let it all out now
there's nothing simpler
or nothing sweeter
than to be here
in the now
Just know that it's in there somewhere
that poem that says it all
the one that heals the common heart
and slips
through the wall
To overthink these things
is what we humans do so well
when we need to explain our passions
we lose track of all the silly bells
"So don't panic!" says the poet
as this is really nothing new
just steal the world's oldest poem
the one that goes...
"i. love. you."
Call up all the Prophets
Call up all the Prophets
tell them we've failed
the shiny ship they built for us
you know we'll never learn to sail
for we've been busy chasing rabbits
down these crazy little holes
mining endless darkness
and extracting our own souls
Some are writing silly operas
and calling it fine art
while I have witnessed more beauty
in a child's midnight fart
we believe that we are strong
we know that we are right
we wrestle with the truth
but our lies might win the fight
We're holding the bony hand
of our dying enemy
it's hard to hang the prisoner
when you’ve killed the last tree
but they are us and we are them
and nothing makes much sense
those rabbits we keep on chasing
have dug clear under the fence
Stretched in every direction
there's little that's holding us down
the magnet that is deep in the earth
can’t compete with our Holy ground
we keep our egos floating
blind to every cost
in one explosive moment
the calm is forever lost
Fire was found and tools were made
but soon there will be nothing left
so prepare thyself for the final raid
where even words are part of the theft
our lungs will be burnt
our tears will run dry
all evidence will surely be gone
the mower's still running
the sprinkler has melted
in that place we once knew as our lawn
Where the rabbits still run
with crimson eyes
down those deep dark holes
awaiting the final surprise
they're searching for some kind of sanity
digging clear down to the poles
but there's nowhere left to hide you see
in a world of lost souls.
October heaves
October heaves
17 days in
with a belly full of love
the ultimate blossom
from succulents to sweet jasmine
on this day every year
a birth occurs
deep from within
the petals and leaves and stems all become her
while orange peel and grapefruit mist
hang delicately in the air
it makes me tremble in a rhythm quite unfair
that thefts my breath and strips me bare
So I sing the same song
as she escapes to the sea
with the seals and their whiskers
busking our shared melody
She moves in water
like the canoe through the reeds
harvesting/collecting
wild rice from the mindful seed
Aunt Bert
Her face suited her name. Aunt Bert. Jowly, pale, and to me, always looking old. But boy was she funny. The kind of dusty dry, Norwegian humor that was smuggled in a burlap sack aboard some cold, 19th century ship and replanted in the black soil of southern Minnesota. She lived to be 97 and worked most of her life for Hormel's Meat Packing in Austin, Minnesota, where the original SPAM was created, grown, concocted. She never married staying forever solo.
I'm sure Bert had plenty of secrets. But a particularly tasty one was that she got hooked on cigarettes while working some mind numbing factory job during WWII and never really quit. None of the family new this. Although she was always at family gatherings fully engaged, she mostly kept to herself. Lived on her own. We only realized she was a smoker after she quit. But this happened in her 90's and it wasn't actually a decision on her part but rather that one day she simply forgot she smoked. The nursing home staff confirmed that she was a daily smoker. "Not too heavy" they said, "but not necessarily light". Bert was loosing her marbles but she never lost her humor. One day, as they were assessing the dexterity of her mind with my mother sitting by her side, they asked her who the current US President was. "Eisenhower?" Everyone in the room agreed that it was, in fact, Bill Clinton. Aunt Bert quietly leaned over to my mother and with a smile on her face whispered, "Just take me out back and shoot me."
After she passed away, I drove her late 70's burgundy two tone Ford Granada around Minneapolis for a couple of months before flying back to Australia. It felt good cruising the summer streets, especially the ones that thread between those urban lakes. I would often roll the windows down and play Massive Attack's "Teardrop" and feel lust and love, aching in the humid wind. My folks sold it for $500. Great car. Thanks Bert.
Oh traveler!
Oh traveler! Oh traveler!
My beloved traveler!
Your wings are spread
while over the seas
I will hold your feathers
When you're gone from my side
then sing you sing you
back to me
Silly (and ineffective love songs)
"There are more love songs than anything else. If songs could make you do something, we’d all love one another."
-Frank Zappa
Frank has a point. But flaws have been exposed as I ponder moments in my life when songs have made me love and I'm not even talking about love songs per se. "Sultans of Swing" comes to mind instantly. That song takes me right back to the Winneshiek County Fair and the chain-linked swing chair ride whose centripetal force would turn you sideways high enough to see the corn fields beyond the drive in. Our mopeds waited down below and love, in its budding form, stumbled around smelling like cotton candy and Speed Stick. Whenever I hear that song, after marveling at Mark Knopfler's soloing dexterity and timing, I feel some of that young, directionless love coursing through my aging veins and it gives me comfort. So thanks Mark.
Now as far as a true love song, hearing Al Green croon "Let's Stay Together" transports me back to one of my brothers' weddings when it was played at the reception as their wedding dance after the lid to the pressure cooker was finally unscrewed. Amazing. And I can see myself awkwardly grooving on the sidelines and shuffling on the wide old hardwoods, straddled between two periods of growth not yet understanding what being "together" was in the first place let alone staying there. I had sunglasses on and was attempting a peek at the sun but Al told me there's no need to go at it that way. Thanks Al.
Massive Attack's "Teardrop", on the other hand, is an excellent (and quite possibly the only) example of a love song that is sung in an undecipherable language and one that even Noam Chomsky would not understand but for me it speaks of the highest love and reminds me in every way when I truly fell in love for the first time. Soft Phillippino sand, lost flip flops, king tides, burning thatched roofs and angry string rays become the backdrop for me and my lover girl whenever I hear Elizabeth Fraser sing that gorgeous melody with all those mushy words masquerading like lyrics, unrolling the blueprints for love. Thanks Beth.
The list could go on forever. George Harrison. Thank you for writing "Something" for it takes me back to eating my mother's lasagna after a huge day of sledding on those steep, snowy bluffs of northeastern Iowa, surrounded by my family and happy as Larry. Joni, thanks for offering up "Coyote" and even The Blue Nile for "Tinsletown in the Rain", both of which helped me fall in love with the road and it's unrivaled solitude and arguably helped me learn to love inanimate objects such as blacktop, fuel gauge needles, and truck stops. Now that's something. So Frank, although your songs have never made me move to Montana to start a dental floss ranch, they certainly have sparked cinematic visions in my head. For that I thank you.
The issue here is not that love songs do or don't actually make people love each other but rather that songs are indicators of how our memories are extremely - and sadly - short term by their very nature. For 3 minutes and 21 seconds, we're the most incredible lovers creating sparks with our hands, flowers with our lips and ceasefires with our moans. But after that song is over, we tend to slip back into our old selves clawing back up that mountain in search of enlightenment or hoping to hold love in our hands once again. Perhaps if we had love songs playing constantly in our heads, we would always be in a state of love or loving. But that sounds awful. Give me silence. Give me nature. Give me traffic noise. Now that's real love...that and Nick Cave's "Into My Arms". Thanks Nick.
O'Hare and the Tortoise
hypnosis and the ironing board
green carpet the color of some self inflicted
St. Patrick's Day celebration
I admit that I'm not helping much
but at this age, I'm a lonely boy
only
because Mr. Gold
told me so
Oslo is calling London
and London is calling me
to remember to say my prayers
and forget me not
thy suitcase full of plaid
heroes are being mown into the lawn
letter by letter
for the last time
before the quiet circus sets sail
for the homeland
the limestone bats will be missed
along with the wistful crickets and top 10 hits
but no one can stop an explorer
all one can do is settle in
and enjoy a free dinner
kicked from a can
under a pale Iowa moon
it's difficult to leave during a tie breaker
you know
like Borg and McEnroe
they lure us closer and closer
with each beautiful ground stroke
so please get some sleep
for tomorrow is an early start
when you'll see the world again
for the first time
I Can See Things
Through heavy drops of rain
I can see things.
Early stars uncovering
a soft belly hovering
in deep blue water
keeping safe
two lost golden rings
there is an abandoned van not far away
it is the Great Protector
when one half goes missing
(but share this with no one)
I can see airports and train stations
mixed currencies gaining in value
but lost deep in forgotten pockets
a few hundred taxi drivers line up
all claiming to have known
but only one woman
who perhaps already knew
I can see famous faces that mean little
when we watch the whole of the moon
there are beautiful old men
spreading seeds of wisdom through cloudy eyes
that clear, miraculously
at the sight of you
then me
then us
I can see friends that have lost
friends that have found
things
while some rise up
others lay down
keeping the marble rolling
rolling
rolling
I can see two bodies in a tub
laying words on flowers
and floating them to each other
incomplete thoughts
distorted in olive oil
I can see that you are wearing
that necklace I meant to give you
on the eve of the last day of the year
a sternum made of precious metals
and pods dropped from tall tropical trees
I can see relief
in the color of your eyes
and fear
for what may have been
not for what is
and with this rain
these heavy drops of rain
I tell you
everything will grow.
Sudden Death
-a story in one act
He should have just said that it was a deer that made him lose control of his Beetle that night. Instead, he said that it was a hippo. His defense lawyer claimed that this could be plausible although probably unlikely due to the fact that the accident took place in January somewhere in northern Wisconsin near the lake, an environment not at all suited to the hippo. The judge threw that locational claim out like it was yesterday's trash. There was, however, potential evidence that gave his location prior to the accident as at The Pour House, a watering hole where he evidently spent the day watching the Packers play the Vikings in a playoff bid while drinking many, many cans of Schlitz beer. They were on special that day, the court noted. But those who first made these claims decided at the 11th hour not to turn state's evidence and in doing so, remained anonymous (although the judge and jury knew them personally) which deemed the said evidence as "tainted" or "tampered with". So he was let go on a $100 bail bond (which Bunny reluctantly paid) and was free to pick up the car in Lot D at the impound. Ironically, there was only one lot so the "D" must have been short for "deceptive". There was his red Beetle, under the light, illuminating flakes of snow which were falling like freedom. The non ungulated dent to the front driver's fender was like no other dent he'd seen before and he'd fixed a lot of dents in his time. He got in, closed his eyes, said a short prayer and turned the key and after a few struggles, the motor replied "yes". Reaching over to the radio, he pushed the preset button to the new oldies station which was playing "Hey Good Lookin'!" and headed home on Highway 13 under a billion lost stars, passing the exact scene of the crime, barely noticing his own frozen tire marks in the ditch. He was still unsettled that the Packers had lost in sudden death.