The view never changes

from the chair
in this cubicle

so I am leaving
early today.

And when I get
home, my wife
will be waiting,
and I will come

in late tomorrow



Clipping; Self Portrait

from the New Yorker, 2.12.07

Not to say, of course, that I have served in the armed forces or seen anything so unforgettable, but you get the point: the above simply gave me the idea for the following:

"Self Portrait, Series of 3" - February, 2007

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This Is Just To Say

(A Poem After a Manner of William Carlos Williams)

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the last cookie
that remained
in the plastic box

and which
I had promised
you could eat

Forgive me
it was delicious
so moist
and the frosting
was so thick



VP on the Role of Poetry

"... but poetry must not merely have its fingers on the pulse of the masses; that is not enough. Poetry must possess the abilities to heal and make sick those who encounter it. As the highest form of that which makes us human, poetry wields divine power, and hence, those who create poetry must both recognize the power and accept the challenge to use it wisely. Poetry must lead and follow. Reacting to the physical events of the world, poetry must lead the way up from the depths of tragedy and into the light of the higher ground recuperation and victory."



Poetry Thursday

I, too, am rather uninformed, save the basics, when it comes to prose poetry. That said, I am skeptical. However, in the spirit of overcoming such prejudice, I dove into this week's idea, with mixed results. Enjoy. Or vomit, whichever this poem induces first.

(note that Baudelaire's "Be Drunk" is, at this point, my main informing poem for this genre--hence the stolen phrase--so check it out if you'd like to read a
good prose poem.)


She wore a long white coat and a short black dress. The little black dress, you know the one. A bun of brown hair perched neatly on her head, tipped back a bit, and her cellphone warmed her right ear. She moved up and down the sidewalk, flit-flit-flit, trying to direct her ride by sight. Her cheeks seemed too tight, but maybe it was just the cold.
You've got to stay away from her type. But if sometimes in the faux-blizzard of snow blown from the roof you are caught up in her white coat, long legs, thin wrists and tight lips, short dress and warm ear--despite your words, coughed into the wind--well, you must be forgiven. You will be forgiven. Whose knees, after all, have never buckled at the sight of her; who has not felt the snow and inched an inch or several closer to her warmth and light? Not one, not I.

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(Remember Morning, December 4th? Well, if you look closely, you'll see it here, reworked into a halfway decent poem about WNY's huge October storm.)

9.8.08 - You can't actually read this poem here anymore. I submitted it to the always lovely Qarrtsiluni. Upon acceptance or rejection, I'll either post the link to its new home or repost the poem itself.



Poetry Thursday... er... Friday

It's late, but it's here. I don't think it's even finished yet, but I wanted to put something up before the weekend hit, so here it is. (Also, I am glad that the prompts are "completely and totally optional", because this went a strange way after I started it.)


Already we begin to anticipate spring, and this is an important difference between this time and a month ago. We begin to say that the day is springlike.

Is not January the hardest month to get through? When you have weathered that, you get into the gulfstream of winter, nearer the shores of spring.


Mostly, I hear the snow under passing tires
and the wind
and I despise the Queen City.
From this side of the Rand building
--I think that's the Rand building--
I can't see the sun, not even through the clouds.

The police, it seems, will never arrive.
My car is overturned, and a nice man pulled me out
and I'm bleeding from somewhere under my hair
and where is my phone? My wife should know about this.
I squint to look near the sun again,
because I like sky scenes
and my stomach kind of hurts
here, and here and I think I hear sirens--


They say that's when I blacked out.
They say it was my fault, that I passed out--
the wreck, I mean.
My doctor wanted to do a colonoscopy
because it's been two years
and I was already here, so hey.
My stomach is bruised some, too
--whaddaya know, it is a little sore here, and here--
You've got to keep an eye on that Crohn's, you do.

They say I woke up for several hours,
entertained visitors, even,
but I don't know.
I'd lie about coming to see me, too,
if I knew I wouldn't know the difference.

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"never be shaken"

Psalm 15

1 LORD, who may dwell in your sanctuary?
Who may live on your holy hill?

2 He whose walk is blameless
and who does what is righteous,
speaks the truth from his heart

3 and has no slander on his tongue,
who does his neighbor no wrong
and casts no slur on his fellowman,

4 who despises a vile man
but honors those who fear the LORD,
who keeps his oath
even when it hurts,

5 who lends his money without usury
and does not accept a bribe against the innocent.
He who does these things
will never be shaken.