The First Poem of 2014

"I have a buzz on"

is a ridiculous thing to say

for a buzz can never been worn

but only felt

in a funny way

for only felt

can be worn

but a fool you'll always be

unless you are,

in fact,

known to humans,

as a

sweet

honey

bee.

October Heaves

October heaves

17 days in

with a belly full of love

the ultimate blossom

from succulents to sweet jasmine

on this day every year

a birth occurs     

deep from within

the pedals and leaves and stems all become her

while orange peel and grapefruit mist

hang delicately in the air

it makes me tremble in a rhythm quite unfair

that thefts my breath and strips me bare

So I sing the same song

as she escapes to the sea

with the seals and their whiskers

busking our shared melody

She moves in water

like the canoe through the reeds

harvesting/collecting

wild rice from the mindful seed

-to my darling birthday girl

Slowly. Sweetly. Sung.

-for my girl in Ipanema

I’ll be the eye that no one sees

I’ll be the ear that no one hears

I’ll be in your breath

Shot from a secret lung

And live in your mind pushing memory

Slowly. Sweetly. Sung.

I’ll be the air

That only you breathe

I’ll be that bird

That lives in your tree

I’ll show you a place

Where drops of mercy fall

And bathe your face in memory

Slowly. Sweetly. Sung

Speed the sound

We’re rolling down the road

Feel the ground

Shifting its load

Shifting its load

Again

I’ll be the hand

That holds your head high

I’ll be the brook

That never runs dry

I’ll bring you the stars

So that you might sleep

A thousand nights full of memory

Slowly. Sweetly. Sung.

I’ll be the chest

For you to beat

I’ll be the earth

Under your feet

I won’t stand in your way

See me step aside

And watch the smoke of memory

Slowly. Sweetly. Sung.

Just Take Me Out Back and Shoot Me

Her face suited her name. Aunt Bert. Jowly, pale, and to me, always looking old. But boy was she funny. The kind of dusty dry, Norwegian humor that was smuggled in a burlap sack aboard some cold, 19th century ship and replanted in the black soil of southern Minnesota. She lived to be 97 and worked most of her life for Hormel's Meat Packing in Austin, Minnesota, where the original SPAM was created, grown, concocted. She never married staying forever solo. I'm sure Bert had plenty of secrets. But a particularly tasty one was that she got hooked on cigarettes while working some mind numbing factory job during WWII and never really quit. None of the family new this. Although she was always at family gatherings fully engaged, she mostly kept to herself. Lived on her own. We only realized she was a smoker after she quit. But this happened in her 90's and it wasn't actually a decision on her part but rather that one day she simply forgot she smoked. The nursing home staff confirmed that she was a daily smoker. "Not too heavy" they said, "but not necessarily light". Bert was loosing her marbles but she never lost her humor. One day, as they were assessing the dexterity of her mind with my mother sitting by her side, they asked her who the current US President was. "Eisenhower?" Everyone in the room agreed that it was, in fact, Bill Clinton. Aunt Bert quietly leaned over to my mother and with a smile on her face whispered, "Just take me out back and shoot me." After she passed away, I drove her late 70's burgundy two tone Ford Granada around Minneapolis for a couple of months before flying back to Australia. It felt good cruising the summer streets, especially the ones that thread between and connect those urban lakes. I would often roll the windows down and play Massive Attack's "Teardrop" and feel memory in the humid wind. My folks sold it for $500. Great car. Thanks Bert.

Prisoners of Love

I turned my head in an outstanding way

far from the light of your house

and I imagined a peacock in brilliant blues

like I was suppose to the first time around

I settled on the path that went into you

which turned from gravel to an honorable pave

and there was your house with it's front porch light on

the one that's been keeping me away

Oh, and I'm restless without sleep

cause I'm a prisoner of the gaze that you're in

cause I'm a prisoner of the gaze that you're in

we should all be so lucky to being wearing chains like these

we're all prisoners of love

I moved into a space beyond

and opened and passed through your door

entered a room so real

little futures were clinging to the wall

well there was order before

now all things have been moved

to accommodate a sign of the sun

I still like that chair and that fire over there

I think I'll stick around before I run

Oh, and I'm restless without sleep

cause I'm a prisoner of the gaze that you're in

cause I'm a prisoner of the gaze that you're in

we should all be so lucky to being wearing chains like these

we're all prisoners of love

Arcs (are straight lines)

There is a contest on the beach

and all the stories are supplied

hold your own hold your eyes

we'll run these stingers through the sand

and offer up one good side

I thought of you the other day

as I drew a perfect arc

you're out there and I'm doing my best

arcs are straight lines in progress

who offer up one good side

What I'm seeing ain't really there

at least not on this stretch of road

there's a break in the sky let's go on

and I'll tell you about it another time

and offer you one good side

Old standards sometimes live alone

not much can really touch them

it's nice to see them looking down on inventiveness

among the shells

who try so hard for one good side

Now there's no where left to go

if you leave from here they'll send you back

but what more could you need?

You got your own main street

with two good sides

two good sides

Silly (and ineffective) Love Songs

"There are more love songs than anything else. If songs could make you do something, we’d all love one another."
-Frank Zappa

Frank has a point. But flaws have been exposed as I ponder moments in my life when songs have made me love and I'm not even talking about love songs per se. "Sultans of Swing" comes to mind instantly. That song takes me right back to the Winneshiek County Fair and the chain-linked swing chair ride whose centripetal force would turn you sideways high enough to see the corn fields beyond the drive in theater. Our mopeds waited down below and love, in its budding form, stumbled around smelling like cotton candy and a new stick of Speed Stick. Whenever I hear that song, after marveling at Mark Knopfler's soloing dexterity and timing, I feel some of that young, directionless love coursing through my aging veins and it gives me comfort. So thanks Mark.

Now as far as a true love song, hearing Al Green croon "Let's Stay Together" transports me back to one of my brothers' weddings when it was played at the reception as their wedding dance after the lid to the pressure cooker was finally unscrewed. Amazing. And I can see myself awkwardly grooving on the sidelines and shuffling on the wide old hardwoods, straddled between two periods of growth not yet understanding what being "together" was in the first place let alone staying there. I had sunglasses on and was attempting a peek at the sun but Al told me there's no need to go at it that way. Thanks Al.

Massive Attack's "Teardrop", on the other hand, is an excellent (and quite possibly the only) example of a love song that is sung in an undecipherable language and one that even Noam Chomsky would not understand but for me it speaks of the highest love and reminds me in every way when I fell in love with my wo-man for the first time. Soft Phillippino sand, lost flip flops, king tides, burning thatched roofs and angry string rays become the backdrop for me and my lover girl whenever I hear Elizabeth Fraser sing that gorgeous melody with all those mushy words acting like lyrics and reciting the ingredients for love. Thanks Beth.

The list could go on forever. George Harrison. Thank you for writing "Something" for it takes me back to eating my mother's lasagna after a huge day of sledding on those steep, snowy bluffs of northeastern Iowa, surrounded by my family and happy as Larry. Joni, thanks for offering up "Coyote" and even The Blue Nile for "Tinsletown in the Rain", both of which helped me fall in love with the road and it's unrivaled solitude and arguably helped me learn to love inanimate objects such as blacktop, fuel gauge needles, and truck stops. Now that's something. So Frank, although your songs have never made me move to Montana to start a dental floss ranch, they certainly have sparked cinematic visions in my head. For that I thank you.

The issue here is not that love songs do or don't actually make people love each other but rather that songs are indicators of how our memories are extremely - and sadly - short term by their very nature. For 3 minutes and 21 seconds, we're the most incredible lovers creating sparks with our hands, flowers with our lips and ceasefires with our moans. But after that song is over, we tend to slip back into our old selves clawing back up that mountain in search of enlightenment or hoping to hold love in our hands once again. Perhaps if we had love songs playing constantly in our heads, we would always be in a state of love or loving. But that sounds awful. Give me silence. Give me nature. Give me traffic noise. Now that's real love...that and Nick Cave's "Into My Arms". Thanks Nick.

Song for Sunday

So true...so true

“If it’s 97% true, I think that’s true enough. I’m not going to call it fiction because 3% of it isn’t true.”
 
 - David Sedaris .

Oh traveler

Oh traveler Oh traveler

My beloved traveler

Your wings are spread

while over the seas

I will hold your feathers

When you're gone from my side

then sing you sing you

sing you back to me