Posted: October 21, 2014 Filed under: writings | Tags: how to find poetry?, multiple choice poem, pigeon poetry, poems, poetry
drop letters down wishing
wells that could be sewer drains
or take them home
send them back to sea
or return them to rain.
each word an empty carriage
or street sign to some highland emotion
or basement sentiment.
hold them with empty palms
weave them into psalms.
a poem is a city pigeon secretly having singing lessons
that don’t amount to much
or debuts Opera seria at Carnegie Hall.
or remains camouflaged in winter clouds
or counter-clockwise flight.
poetry comes easy
when it decides to make it on time
or it know nothing of time
or it is timeless.
why should poems come easy?
it’s not like they make you
coffee each morning.
they are coffee-
they are each
Posted: March 18, 2014 Filed under: writings | Tags: after-play, poetry
We have drained the metaphors of magic-
Angels playing peek-a-boo in nimbo-
Cumulus, fighting over forks of fire,
Mermaids lacing their hair in seaweed crowns.
Drifted from algae-drenched Atlantis towns;
The gnomes, lugging their dark gold, are buried,
Jack Frost melted, the sandman put to sleep.
Still, you sit with me, watching for game,
Those who float around the room have assumed
Accustomed roles: the hard nose, the comic,
The hysterical wife, the cool addict:
We have seen through their metamorphosis,
The japanese butterfly intrigues us
More than they-fine shimmering purple silk.
I’m not certain you want any answers:
They would not be formulae for planting
Mushrooms, nor how to baste a better gown
For walking late along the river banks
Many are the ways for catching rodents,
Seducing lovers, soliciting friends
They do not concern us: all are written.
The sperm does not stand upon his tail and laugh,
The egg does not whirl primly not proudly
Inviting bouquets in pre-urterine
Gardens cool with moon-dew, warm with pink suns;
A tired climb up a DNA stair,
Precise and circular, has supervened:
The bee builds his hive, sucks it dry, and dies.
At midnight, professors star at the starlight,
Lens upon lens simplifies the pattern:
There is no Hercules, no snake to kill,
The seven dancing sisters atoms
Beating time against the dull drum of chance
The universe revolves about a star
Itself wandering aimlessly and dark
Yet here you sit alive upon the lounge
Not quite tipsy, the hostess with the glass,
Acting as if someone sat between us
The way you careless the sofa’s fine fur,
That’s no game – you do not know you do it,
Some myth you never knew, keeps teaching you
To step out of the play-shine by your own light.
Ben McKulik, August 25th 1978
Posted: May 6, 2013 Filed under: writings | Tags: Arts, Cardiac muscle, endocardium, head heart philosophy, Human heart, Left atrium, Life, Morris, Pericardium, poetry, spirituality
The face to the world does not always want to Face the world.
Mourning mornings for the world.
Whole blocks of soul blocks
Posted: February 15, 2013 Filed under: writings | Tags: creative writing, Egg timer echoes through the walls, Life, Love, love poem, poetry
our mice infested studio,
and our overfilled ashtrays,
and the smell of roasting pumpkin.
your musk on the sheets
and your big flat feet.
and backgammon games at 5am, midnight feasts, love in the dark, body warm sheets that we make dirty, premature mornings and our cardboard curtain.
I miss everything although, I am in it.
The egg timer echoes through these walls.
I must go and risk or
stay and regret or
go and regret or
stay and risk regret.
I love you
and our broken doorbell
but I hear the sea horn and must set sail.
but you make it tricky, tender my love.
Posted: February 8, 2013 Filed under: writings
I have found Alan Watts to be more optimistic on his views of consciousness and reality, more so than David Icke. A little something to make you feel less hopeless…
Posted: December 20, 2012 Filed under: writings | Tags: Chlobirdpoetry, Creative Writing, Diary sketches, inspiration, journey, prose, reflect on being busy, soul journey, work
Journey to the end of the street, down Main Highway
Back down Main Highway
To work on Art
To work at the Art Gallery
To work on writing
To work on printing
To work on that one piece that is almost done
Journey to the end of town
Work on Love
Work on dinner
Work on Zen
Journey to the strip mall
Work behind the bar
Serve food, pour beer & humor the needy
Work on multi tasking
Realize more needs
Journey to bed
Work to be in the gap
Work to leave work behind
Work to not scratch 20 mosquito bites
Work to be a calm
To be in stillness
To expand stillness
To not smoke a joint to attain stillness
To not smoke a joint?
The headline question is, Why?
If mind makes matter, replace why with is?
Look at what you have created, at work on your journey to be!
Talk to self through paper to converse with one’s own mystery, which is
The mind and birth of thought as we
Work through the days
Stampede to the next birthday just so you can exhale
Remember the exhale as you accelerate
The sweet release you give to self when palms open
And when palms open to extend fingers
This is the stuff magic is made of –
Watch it disappear when you are not looking.
As matter turns to frequency
None of that shit matters.