The snow falling as it is

The snow falling as it is
As a dream within a dream within a dream is
Leads me to where my home is
Not to where my house is
But to where my heart is
To where the the forest of my chaste chastened childhood is
To where the sage old oak of that forest is
To where the thickened and knotted and crooked branch of that sage old oak is
To where that branch I used to climb to to
think to
hope to
hide to
hate to
cry to
live to
die to
wonder and why and why and why to
as the snow falls
as a dream within a dream within a dream is

 
 


FOR MORE LIKE THIS >> CLICK CLICK

Cold

it’s not the season
…..the occluded fronts
…..the barometrical pressures

it’s not the helpless sad sun
…..obscured by the sooty midday murk
the spiteful arctic sting
…..carried by the weak unsuspecting breeze
the frozen-rooted grass
…..aching to fall the forever green tree

…..it’s not the bare feet
upon the stone tiled floor
…..the rude awakening
in the ambient chilled bath
…..the blanket lost
to the frigid midnight moon

it’s not those
…..or anything
it’s just me
……….I’m cold
……………cold

The Truck Drivin’ Poet

The Truck Drivin' Poet

I once knew an old truck driver
Who’d been drivin’ a rig all his life.
And he never knew a single worry.
Nor was he ever bothered with strife.

His life was oh so relaxin’.
As for stress, he just didn’t know it.
He had not a care in the world,
For he was a truck drivin’ poet.

When traffic was backed up for miles
And he was in a rush to get through,
Instead of getting all upset,
Here’s all he would ever do:

Into his citizens band radio mike
He’d recite a verse or two
Of Blake, Shelley, cummings, or Whitman.
To him any old poet would do.

Cuz it’s poetry that kept him so happy,
And kept his life completely carefree.
It’s poetry that taught him ’bout livin’,
And that life’s what he makes it to be.

But when he recited the oldies
The other truckers would always complain.
Cuz to them those old poets were so boring.
They made staying awake such a strain.

The truckers wanted poems with attitude—
Poems that would make them tap their toes.
They didn’t want to be bored and befuddled
By such pitilessly pretentious prose.

The Truck Drivin’ Poet wasn’t offended.
It happened to him all the time.
So he stopped recitin’ Ferlingetti
And started recitin’ poets who rhymed.

He recited poems that had rhythm,
And poems with discernible beats.
And soon the truckers were much happier
Than they had been while listening to Keats.

Now Keats, himself, had some rhythm
(And the truckers did give him a try).
But for them he was way too Romantic
And his poems just a little too dry.

What those truckers wanted to hear
Were poems with a lively, snappy tone.
Shel Silverstein pleased them the most.
Second were the Authors Unknown.

And what they wanted he’d sure try to give ’em.
Cuz all he ever wanted to do
Was to make them truck drivers happy
So they’d know not a worry, too.

For he knew truck drivin’ wasn’t easy—
It’s tough drivin’ a rig every day.
And that’s why he recited them poetry—
To help drive their troubles away.

 
From Poem Man

Me

Me

I like bubble gum.
I like bats.
I like baseballs
And cowboy hats.

I like mudcakes.
I like moles.
I like mountain bikes
And deep, dark holes.

I like tinker toys.
I like tag.
I like tadpoles
And greasy, dirty rags.

I like football.
I like fightin’.
I like fishin’,
Especially when they’re bitin’.

I like snakes.
And my backyard squirrel.
But it’s me I like the best
Cuz I am a girl!

 
From Poem Man

Onomatopoeia Flu

Blah!

A sniffle a snort
A wheeze and a sneeze
A belch a burp and a moan.

A slurp a sigh
A hiss and a buzz
A babble a wow and a groan.

An utter a sputter
A mumble and a grumble
A barf a spit and a spew.

A cough a hack
A hum and a yawn
A sheesh then finally…a whew!

There are flues that can make smoke float up,
And there are flues that can make folks lie down.
But the Onomatopoeia Flu is the only flu
That can make you make really weird sounds.

 
From Poem Man

 
 

FOR MORE LIKE THIS >> CLICK CLICK
FOR NEWSLETTER LOVE >> CLICK CLICK

Meet me in the courtyard where the blood no longer flows

You and I sipping tea
wrought iron stylish in ancient design
umbrella faded to blue just so
violet clematis
climbing
reaching
divine
but hiding sins etched in walls
which leaves us sacred in our time

 

bodies marched out lined up
backs against the brick
against the wall
so to speak
confessional sins
then onward to die

ready…
aim…
the anxious burn before the fire…

wall too high for them to climb
still they try
leaving nails of desperate death behind

 
 

FOR MORE LIKE THIS >> CLICK CLICK
FOR NEWSLETTER LOVE >> CLICK CLICK

Listen To The Colors

Listen To The Colors

Listen to the colors
For they have so much to say.
You’ll be surprised at what you hear
If you don’t let your fears get in the way.

Listening to the colors
Takes more than just your ears.
You must listen with all your senses,
For colors are hard to hear.

Listen closely to all the colors,
For each message from them is new.
What the colors say to me
They might not say to you.

Best listen to every color,
All the purples, pinks, and greens.
For the colors are all our tomorrows:
They’ll be painting every scene.

Please listen to the colors.
And listen closely every day.
For if we aren’t listening to their message
They might just go away.

 
From Poem Man

 

FOR NEWSLETTER LOVE >> CLICK CLICK

Holdin’ Toes

Holdin' Toes

Holdin’ hands is supposed to be special,
But really, anyone can do it.
Just grab a hand and don’t let go,
That’s all there really is to it.

But my way of holdin’ is a little bit different.
In fact, I’m sure no one else even knows…
Just take off your shoes, and then your socks,
Cuz my way is holdin’ toes.

 

From Poem Man

 
 

FOR MORE LIKE THIS >> CLICK CLICK

Where You Are We Cannot Go

Franz Kafka
Franz Kafka

 

With you
there we are
at the places we cannot go
with you
we go
you take us there with you
to the places we cannot go

You guide us
drive us
deep into the heart
into the dark
into the places we cannot go

Through the heat
through the snow
the snow
the bitter snow
the insufferable snow
with you through the snow
we lose ourselves
in the places we cannot go
crumbling castles in the sky
looming shadows
rampart mysteries
the eyes
spying eyes
lying eyes
the eyes coaxing us down
the endless trails
the trails without end
that lead us
to the places we cannot go
the hunger
the bitter hunger
we hunger
we are there
with you
and we hunger
insatiable
we live for the hunger
we hunger to be there with you
enduring trials indiscriminate
to be with you
to suffer
with you
the trial
the trials
the accusations of truths
for which we have no defense

 
 

 
 

FOR MORE LIKE THIS >> CLICK CLICK

My Town

All my life I’ve lived in a town
Where stop means go
And up means down,

Where happy means sad
And black means white,
Where good means bad
And wrong means right,

Where night means day
And yes means no,
Where work means play
And fast means slow,

Where yesterday means tomorrow
And midnight means noon,
Where give means borrow
And later means soon,

Where lost means found
And water means ice,
Where square means round
And mean means nice.

So, if you ever visit
You’d better learn our ways,
Cuz if you ever try to leave
It means you’ll have to stay.

My Town

From Poem Man

 
 

FOR MORE LIKE THIS >> CLICK CLICK