I get no pleasure from an esteem-driven pen,
one so steeped in self-love
so consumed by the fellow within.
Let it not be such,
better it be steam or the wind.
Let it be the movement of the branch,
the tips clawing at the window,
anything –
the etchings left by a snake in the sand,
shifting shavings left there askew
mixed with the droppings of a rat,
the ravings of a madman –
my steam-driven pen.
©Aug 27, 2012 by UT2
It was the best day,
it was the worst day:
ascend the ladder,
descend the ladder,
sandal drops,
miss the step,
bang my shin,
pain rises;
shaken, then,
I resume pruning:
dead leaves,
dead deeds,
words. . .I even penned my best poem. . . !
I am delusional.
I get a good laugh and I even look up the word “balderdash.”
Even read an old poem by Billy Collins.
It was the worst day.
It was the best day.
©Aug 19, 2013 by UT2
We are empty
We are full
Travel a dark road of light
In a rush-push
Pull with all our might
In a hurry to wait
We are empty
Full
Thirsty, quenched
Lean, bursting
Scurry down a bright road
Of darkness
Blind, leaning together
As a chain gang of eyes—
We find we are lost
Knee-deep in lies
Neck deep in destiny
Behind enemy lines
America.
© 07/12/2011 by UT2
Don’t let yourself be
too hung up on a pen.
Don’t let fingers, hands, arms,
become an extension of a keyboard.
An automaton: how can he write poetry?
Do not be too solid,
firm and unyielding in your existence.
When you walk a path,
you must be inadequate
to find your feet.
You will strain to hear
through a corn ear,
grope to see through a potato eye;
as your heart grows eyes,
your muse will become music
to your ears.
When you speak of a rose,
it will be more than just red
or yellow or pink.
We will share not only the texture
of the petals in your fingers
but also the thorns
and we will taste the blood.
© 08/11/2011 by UT2
Sometimes
silent music is the best music of all.
It falls like night.
It falls like a snowflake.
It is a smile as opposed to a laugh.
It is a poem as opposed to a song.
It comes to you as on a noiseless wing
of no required footstep.
You need not walk out to meet it.
In winter’s hour it comes like a snowflake,
yet, as welcoming angel, its embrace is warm.
©June 11, 2013 by Ut2
Within spring abides fall,
a hot summer’s winter’s snow,
moss at the swift crossing;
hurry, and take it slow.
A bell rings across a doleful theatre.
Moving mirrors catch leaves
in a façade of sky and cloud.
Contained in a summer’s breeze
is a winter’s sneeze;
sunrise: sunset: the nighthawk.
It blows about and wheels.
All across, riverbanks,
sand, slip
as if through an hourglass.
Within the field of horses and haystacks
the façade of sky and clouds
dances to a solemn tune.
©June 6, 2013 by UT2
What Time is It?
Is it in the rooster’s eyes?
Is it in the dog’s eyes?
Is it in the blowfly’s eyes?
The owl spreads her wings. Is it in her wings?
The hawk dives toward her prey.
Is it in her gaze, her talons?
The worm turns. The vulture tarries.
The dove cocks her head wary.
Sunset holds the key to sunrise.
Let us be all right with that.
Skeletons are out of closets
and walking around with skin.
Where to begin and where to end?
Let us suppose they are partly the same:
In the cradle’s shadow there it is,
the grave,
in the shadow of the manger there they are:
the cross,
the tomb:
Life.
copyright, 5-24-2014 by UT2
And What of Poetry?
And what of poetry?
Can it be said, should it be said —
it is nearly a lost art?
You have to keep it up
purpose-obsessed not quite.
You have to endure
meaning-steered, goal galvanized?
again
perhaps not quite; yet that voice chides.
Sometimes it is but a murmur
much like rain
as it strikes and joins a puddle or that tinkle over stone, down,
down,
and against all odds –
like a mother salmon
who must resist the flow – you must give birth –
and here you are
and here it is.
copyright, 5-27-2014 by UT2