Poem : Walking Dazed In The City

Blue shadows seem to smear softly on the inside
Inside the refection of a blackbird’s eyes
The dust covered raven
Looks inward to the depths of my soul
As I walk past him with a racing mind
Dopamine pushed to the limits
The limits one puts on obsessive thinking at full speed
God speed
And I know, it can’t be turned off at this point
Flowing like the Amazon
The muddy brown river of power
So, I keep walking and looking for the city I once knew
Hoping I will start to calm down
To relax
Yet all I see is the decay of this once bustling place
Brown glass from broken beer bottles
Scattered in the streets from last night’s brawls
Shining like diamonds far into the distance
And the buildings of old are still standing
With their red-fire-clay-brick and mortar of gray
They seem to be waiting for something
Perhaps the wrecking ball
For they’ve grown tired of housing the drug users and homeless
Sleeping in their bowels of darkness
With rats crawling about
Or prostitutes working for their next hit of rock
And their outside walls are lined with dark shadowy holes
Where windows once were
Where hope for the working class floated right out of
Long, long, ago
When the jobs all disappeared
So, I sit and wait for the bus now
Looking out on the streets of the city as clouds roll in from the west
Asphalt stained with hot drips of oil and leaking transmissions
Run with a multi-colored display in the afternoon rain
Streaking before me like melting purple violets in spring
Like the smeared green wings of a hummingbird
And I wonder, are these colors floating on top of pollution
The tears of the city
Or has the city stopped crying all together
Knowing the jobs may never return
New homes, shiny new cars, and baseball on Sundays
All just a memory now

Poem : The Arts No Longer Wish To See

The arts have gone underground
Actually, they’ve been underground for quite some time
They’ve become blind
Like a mole
They no longer wish to see what the world is calling art these days
They no longer can bear the sight of it
The sound of it
The bubblegum shininess of it all
Choreographed primetime perfection
All to make a profit
The art world misses the roar of Bukowski
Even he can’t get sleep these days
With all the tourists coming to take photos of his grave
I wonder if they even have a clue what he went through living as a writer
If they did, they would let him rest
And the arts can’t be happy with our schools
Our institutions of learning
The budget cutting powers that be
Smile with sharpened scissors snipping away strategically
At what they believe is unneeded education
Art, music, and drama
For the kids get plenty of entertainment after school
Sitting on a couch watching the flat screen
Getting up each time a commercial comes on
To stare aimlessly into the fridge for what to eat next
Again, choreographed primetime perfection
All to make a profit
Spotless unflawed reality TV
As far from reality as one could get these days
So I ask, who will be the next group of writers?
Of artists?
Of musicians?
Will there be a creative revolution that brings them to the surface
Like Kurt Cobain and the crowd from Seattle in the 90’s
When it seemed the world was immersed in commercial boredom
Top 40 hits and best selling authors
Who will be our next Burroughs?
Our next Crews?
Our next Nin?
And bring the arts back above ground
At least enough to inspire the next group of youth
Or will the arts lay low
Like leaves of grass for the next Walt Whitman to write about
Without a care in the world

Poem : Tug Of War

I can live in the past no more
Nor can I live in the future
And one, may never will
The present is all I can focus on
For the tug of war of what was
And what might be
Is ever so gently tearing me apart
Right down to my bones
I feel it
Deep inside
This constant feeling of being pulled
Yet, I clearly see this tugging rope starting to fray
And the pit-of-maybe in the middle is murky
Neither side of me wants to fall in
Yet I tell myself in the most convincing ways
Those waters of what if
Are far worse than they actually are
Yet
I know there’s promise on the land
And the applications have been filled
Turned in with an enthusiastic smile
Yet my phone sits silent
Not a buzz
Not a ring
Not a text
Just silently sitting as I look to the clock
And watch time melt away

Poem : Crazy Horse

Crazy Horse once moved over the land of the Sioux
Like the hailstorm he painted on his face for battle
White spots with a jagged line of lightning running down one side
Crazy Horse defended his home
His people
So long ago
Now he moves freely over the land
Like a hawk
Like a wolf
Like a buffalo
For he is the wind riding on the hopes of his people
Moving with them in spirit
For the Black Hills have still not returned to the Sioux
There’s too much yellow iron in the ground
And thoughts of plentiful black gold for that matter
The ground is rich with uranium
Making the nuclear power proponents smile even when they sleep
Crazy Horse, they say it’s the way of the future
Yet, they, never look back to the treaties of the past
Fort Laramie was signed in trust was it not?
Yet they only see the money making potential
Of power plants puffing away on the plains
Producing energy for heating many fine homes in the cities
While your people fight off the cold living in tarpaper shacks
Sleeping in rusted out cars abandoned in fields
Underneath a star filled winter sky above
The poorest of the poor they are
Still suffering
But still holding on to you and the memory of their forefathers
For the memory can not be taken from them
Like everything else they’ve known
I wonder at times if the same land takers of old
Tried to lay claim on parts of the spirit world
Passing over, did they see something valuable in the air?
Or maybe in the clouds
Then say the spirit world was now theirs
I know
This sounds as absurd as them telling you and your people
They owned the mountains
The streams
The trees
The earth

Poem : Spirits Of The Plains

Panic came in the form of reporting
Hysteria came in the form of a bullet
The great Sitting Bull was dead
The Ghost Dancers with shirts of protection
Fled Standing Rock Reservation that cold day in December
Chief Big Foot, Sitting Bull’s half brother
Led the Lakota away
Away from the chaos and confusion of gunshots
Away from a life of food rations and disease
Of sick dying children
Big Foot was looking for help from Chief Red Cloud
Hoping he’d protect them some way
But was soon cut off by the Seventh Calvary
Who disarmed the Lakota
Then had them make camp
Soon the Sioux were completely surrounded
Soldiers waited with field-cannons pointed at teepees
Teepees filled with Indian families
The absolute carnage that followed
Would become a scar on what we know as humanity
When the shaman
Yellow Bird
Sang out to the spirits of the Plains
The massacre began
Cannons shook the earth with their fiery blast of destruction
The soldiers’ rifles cut through the people trying to flee
Cries from the dying fathers, sons, and old men alike
Mixed hauntingly with the gun smoke in the air
Cries of infants in dead mothers’ arms
Mothers shot so close the gun power blacken their skin
Grandmothers lay still in the blood soaked snow
No longer able to comfort the young children crying
Then came the silence, eerie and endless
The cold wind moaned as it blew over the dead
Tears frozen from falling in the frigid conditions
Glistened like crystals on pain stricken faces
Eyes wide open with all of deaths’ knowing
Children were called to by the soldiers
They were told it was safe to come out of hiding
Only to be surrounded and shot
Big Foot laid frozen and stiff
He could no longer help his people
20 Medals’ of Honor were awarded that day to these soldiers
This is something I will never understand
Now
Yellow Bird whispers in the wind
As the sad snow drifts over the mass grave at Wounded Knee
For the Sioux’s spirits still move on the Plains
　

Poem : Sandhills Of The Sky

As I walk with soft steps of silence
I listen to the Sandhill Cranes throwing their calls
Their calls of echo high above the forest’s canopy
Back and forth to one another
As they circle in the sky above me
Spinning
Round and round
A blur of sound filled images along a crystal blue backdrop
Moving with grace
I stop on the bridge and think of the long travel they’ve made
To float in the sweet skis of the South
To walk on the sandy soft shorelines of my home state
The great state of Florida
To move quietly on the edge of the murky cypress stained water
Combing the water’s edge looking for their next meal
With their crook-necks bent like a waterspout
And their long sharp bills so perfectly pointed for poking
Stepping and looking
Stepping
And looking
As they make their way through the shadowy woodland
To frolic in fields with their flocks of feathered families
The mighty Sandhill Crane
A beauty to behold

Poem : The Rabbit of Longleaf

The rabbit
The hare
Sits frozen on the edge of the longleaf pines
Waiting with perfect stillness to burst into the brush
Into a sprint
With her bright white cottontail a showing
If danger moves upon her
For the hawk is always gliding in the sky high above
Constantly moving and looking for its pray
So she blends into her wooded surroundings
Her fur reddish brown from the sun-cast rays falling across her
Her nose moves up and down rapidly
As she smells all that drifts in the wind
Her world
My world
Our world reflects in her eyes
Her eyes so brown
So shiny with darkness
Still as a statue she sits and watches me
Stares at me
Knowing, I see her
The hare
The rabbit
Who now has disappeared from sight
Hopped away when I took my eyes off her for a moment
Gone to the shadows that fall with the night

Poem : My Retina’s Weeping

Our reality is our perception
At least I think I’ve heard this before
But maybe I’ve imagined it
It’s hard to say at this point
But it does sound vaguely familiar
What wouldn’t by now?
For the rust has set into my mind
Slowly growing with its red flaky colors
Its layers of decay ruining what good thoughts that are left
Masterfully melting my magnificent memories away
Making me wonder, where did I go?
Am I still on the path less traveled by?
Or would Frost turn away from me now?
The world seems to be changing without me
The news seems to be more shocking than ever
But the reporters are still just as asleep
The casters of news are snoozing while sitting
While talking with a smile
They sing from my fluorescent glass screen
From this box of purchased information
This golden calf
This Albatross
And my eyes are now so tired
Stinging from all they have seen
My ears are quietly bleeding from all of the promises I have heard
The lies that fall so easily from their mouths
It seems nothing will be getting any easier
Even I seem to be caught in contradictions
And fear easily consumes me now
Like a flesh eating virus making my soul rot from my bones
And the birds are now flocking together
All species huddle, waiting for the cold darkness to blow
The animals run wild through the parks of the playing
For shiny new homes have taken their land
Someone shouts, “Animal Control should be called at once.”
I instantly think, “Is there a people control? A building control?”
Maybe they should be called instead
Unlike the people, the animals know the storm is upon them
It’s been blowing for quite some time

Poem : Spiders

Dear Mrs. Widow of Blackness
Your bite was cruel and filled with pain
But honest was the venom you pushed into my skin
Burning like coals from a fire
Your body glistened with darkness
With a splash of crimson across your underbelly
The triangle
Your sign of death or pain filled with sweat shaking agony
To the ones that come too close
Or don’t see you at all
My leg felt the venom of your small biting power
Making my muscles pull tight as my body slipped into anguish
Yet, still, your bite was as honest as honest could be
Unlike your cousin the Fiddle-Back Recluse
Who would find me next with all of her looking
Sinking her hollow fangs in without any warning
She came to me wearing a sweet veil of deception
A veil of deceit
Crawling slowly across the top of my skin
Softly crawling like a whisper from the lips of the dying
My skin never feeling her touch
Quietly she moved in for the strike
Then a red ring appeared
Circled like a bull’s-eye
Cutting off the blood flow to its center
Making the meat on my thigh rot with the black stench of death
Yet your poison had truth to its decay
Something impossible to see at first
But aren’t most things in this world of ours?
For, way before this hole closes over
Before the scab falls from the skin
You have to scrape the dead tissue
Get rid of the rot from the past to grow anew