dream me a poem
as she lies there
amidst the swirling sheets of blue
and i wonder if these
speculative musings of a contrarian nature
are those words so desired
or if they ring untrue.
in nature’s strange math
we are the architects of our own stories
designing theories of another tomorrow
amongst reflections of a past imperfect
and the wet leaves today smelled like she
and here we are again
after all these years
and we breathe in the awkwardness
of situations created by the scenes
of memory both yours and mine
even if we rarely speak of them
because we know that this moment
is all we have for now and maybe forever.
the night and the moon in the window
mean that we are prone to
systematic misgivings and we know that
we have changed
the world has changed
and we wonder where all those tomorrows
have gone.
the illusory elegance of self denial
has slipped away and lament might
linger lightly on your lips but these
are the songs sung by traveling bards
and the stories told of yore.
the rain comes soft and light
so i eschew the pompous formality of the
umbrella from my seat
and lean into the delicate drops
rejoicing in the relief of the pin pricks as they
wash my sins away in the perpetuity of nature.
a day spent sweating in the sun
with hands and feet and legs churning
being the machine of a god design
working the ground, reaping the fruits
and vegetables of my labor
singing songs of memories
sweet and languorous longings
archetypal lovers in the heat
with a beat
as otis sings about his heart.
that old “dreamweaver”
as the captain calls it
comes at the end of summer
telling stories, singing songs, perhaps
providing poetry again from the place
where it all comes from, from the missing
muse, the heartache, the mountain, the
ocean, the open soul.
we spend days and weeks and months and years
on this planet and pretend we are in pursuit of
evil, mythical dragons, windmills, etc…
i heart those of action
and heroism who know the difference
between feeling it and fighting it.
we surrender
unto the darkness
in moments not unlike this
allowing the absence of light
to envelop us
in a blanket of cold comfort
as we attune ourselves to our surroundings.
we shrink not from the emptiness
but rather we fill it
with the fires we carry
within.
I only allow myself to truly mope
On alternate days
In months that rhyme with “estuary”
While the moon is waning.
All other days I awake
Blissfully unaware
Of the previous day’s problems,
Full of false faith
That the sun will keep rising,
Secure in the notion
Of righteous forward motion,
Kissed by the breeze
While pissing on the ground.
the snow still lingers in the shady spaces
like a lover might tarry in the spot of a long ago affair
while the poet tries to write the same poem in a new way
doing his best to disguise his limited repertoire
he wonders what is possible under the light of the moon?
what is possible if we are all gods of tomorrow
and the veil of time falls at the feet of our magic?
what are memories and dreams and precognitions
if the mind knows more than we know? what
exactly is reality if it is filtered through this sieve?
the misunderstood musings of
the once upon a time self
are often enunciated as reasons for
that particular season, that particular picture
or all of these films about ghosts.
descending into paisley, purloining minutes or
moments undercover, under inspection, under
the absent watchful eye, here are the hidden
heartbeats, the nostalgic glances at grace
and beauty and bittersweet yesterdays.
here is the rippled reflection of a man
leaning over the edge of the pond to
look at himself in the cool water and,
seeing his eyes,
reaching down to touch them to see if they are
real or just tricks of the light.
imagine the way he must feel on the other side,
peering into the stars, and the moon, and the
face of the old man that he recognizes but knows not.
mirrored murmurings whispered on the breath of the wind.
the snow still lingers in the shady spaces
like a lover might tarry in the spot of a long ago affair.
i couldn’t make this shit up, i’m telling you
the truth, fiction, stranger, it’s all happening
exactly like you see and hear it
live and in living color, stereophonic sound
complete with clicks and hisses
because nothing can be too perfect
even though we strive for it and wish it
oh to be so, to be real.
granted the picture i’m painting
is unclear at the moment but we will
attempt to leave an impression
that will last, so step back from the
canvas and look at the whole-
stop focusing on the minutiae
don’t lose yourself in details
don’t sweat the small stuff and suddenly
i find myself wanting to quote
diamond dave or squints palledorous
you see we could drop names all day
but the moral of the story is that we
don’t always need transition words or phrases
or clauses (Santa or otherwise), conjunctions
will lead us to where we need to be but
first you have to know the right path to
take, the yellow brick road so to speak
that will lead you to your own oz and
the realization that what you thought
you needed you already possess.
cause oz never did give nothing to the tin man
that he didn’t, didn’t already have and
cause never was the reason for the evening
or the tropic of sir galahad
or the tropic of cancer or capricorn
or henry miller whoring it up under
the roofs of paris, trying to make love
trying to make art, trying to make a living,
but living, living, living
always endeavoring to persevere,
and doing my, your, our best
to see, no to worship beauty-
to hunt it out, to seek it, to notice it
in its sublime occurrences
even when somedays it doesn’t
appear to come at all.
but if you listen closely
in quiet times
you just may be able to detect it
in the inhale and the exhale
and the love for the moments between.
If Kerouac had lived he would have
bored and disappointed the fire
eaters who expected him to burn
and explode again and again to our wow.
To be the crazy poet angel means no thought
beyond the moment and this age of healthy
obsessivness, zero tolerance and glorified
dullness cannot digest that kind of blood.
Thank God no rehabilitation saved him,
no government imposed pennance on his time’
nor could the hands of hipness unwrap
the blue, white and red blazing flag from his heart.
- David Childers
* By kind permission of David Childers, whom I hope you all have had the good fortune of seeing live or at least hearing. http://www.davidchilders.com/
Minkowski said three x two plus one x two
Represents reality
That is to say
Everywhere and always
24/7 or whatever
Local standards may be.
In effect, I can visit you
Now in the future.
Keep that in mind.
Don’t be surprised.
bless us each and everyone
take a breath
take a knee
let it all out
repeat as needed
