2 New Poems

Dawn At Corrib

The morning's mist rose low, sallow beneath

blinkered waves sheeted grey, bits of dapple

sun beam, fighting of kick and shove to

touch first the greenery blades.

The air tasted of sugar jars, blessed grains

still taking on a nightshade's character,

the sweetened wine of 11 o'clock, half-past

bedding hours of the reasoned.

The paths were winding, stone's throw to water,

companions of ancient kings, their names

pinned to city council clapboard, some kind of

dirty trudging through uneven pebble.

Echoes of dressed men's dead tongues,

carried on the river bans, shelves of

worn stone in four-four time's march

back to the open ocean.

Wanted To

The fleeting feeling was mutual,

that sense of lonesome wound nursing, paper-tack

walls of four euro wine and bloodied aloof,

little more than the always thing,

ever-present the same pacing cornered room.

The clumsy invitations to teas and coffees,

hand stitched to mouth in beggar's fashion,

were less than printed paper in worth,

more than golden chalice in appearance,

offered to lip in known refusal.

The open window, lacking in curtain light,

wasn't something to choose all for the time:

it didn't take, waiting for loving faces

like two whistlestop trains, crossed, never

heard the sound again.

2 New Poems

You Never Go Far, Really

It would be like me to seem drunkard's clumsy,

without a liquor’s drop to my name, sloshing,

spinning about the glass, in ill-suited fashions

of cut khaki and pocket cloth, I never had

a chance.

It would be like me to lose eyeglasses,

shape finders and little bits of paper with the world

scribbled on them; all falling from possessions'

memory, the things that could see our

way home.

It would be like me to take four months from

a job to be done in eight, leaving it behind

to a whirring of engine, an ocean drop of

continental cloud; some kind of friend

I am.

It would be like me to half-heart escapes,

still being a same pillar of opposed calm,

nerves nauseous as thrown stone, flashing

green light never was something grand

for me.

And it would be like you to remind.

European Cobblestone

The first thing was the bitter hobble, landing

gear on yellow-strip concrete, same as

countless still as weary, the tearing shreds

of stomach woozy with small cups and cellophane,

finally to still as eyes

came open with newborn rubbings.

Next it was the flitting thought, the back-and-forth

of ceramics unfamiliar, never to meet ourselves,

the same walking across again, would

have soaked in the rain, tempered cold

with hearty abandon, reckless to the touch,

the same as their belongings.

And it was the first of the gin and perfume,

the bitter pint and pitter-patter from tourist

shutterbulbs, the last sudden impulses of

childhood's wishful banks, crossing rivers

with recognition of thousands of small

turns, little deaths, we each were taking,

And it felt like I'd made it.

2 New Poems

By The Time I Got To Dublin

By the time I got to Dublin,

they swept the glass bottles from the avenue,

the cars sat sensibly across the round-about,

the clenches fists of '16, of '09

faded from view, their names echoes in

bronze statues, and white spray paint thereupon.

By the time I got to Brussels,

the city split to three blocks,

clock tower chimes counting past as

hometowns tend to, nothing more;

I came to see chaos, creation,

it was an afternoon.

By the time I got to Prague,

the iron of cross and curtain had been,

the words still about the air from

lips loosened by beer and foreign accents;

no longer the grandiose struggle, the problems

more mundane, parking next to cubist lampposts.

By the time I was home with you,

a thousand new voices had rung through

my ears and yours, we smiled

a bit less to each other than before;

it was the wisdom of aging,

knowing everything important had happened.

Letters In Boxes

I had a box of letters I'd written to old lovers,

well, I'd use that word, the closest one,

they'd never say they were, silly me,

with his huffing and puffing, night-time

flop sweat and greatly protruding gut, the very

picture of a cartoonists' handiwork, the last

thing to appear in the throes of pleasure.

The box weighed heavy, I fell for many,

they were adolescent, gushing at best,

fawning at worst, something that could only

be written from storybook rhymes and battered film,

never from an actual being, drying and serious;

it was a way of dehumanizing, making sense

of the passing time, hormonal effects.

I'd retrieve it now and then, trace fingers to

names (loss of weeping and smiles).

Some drew close back, names known

and known to me, gave a great

chuckle when we talk now;

I thought I was no good at hiding,

maybe that was wrong too.

2 New Poems

Flights From Newark

The roads were a circulatory lighting,

bounding through the dusk clouds,

as ocean turned to squared farm,

farm to looping concrete, prefab

constructions, the same million dollars,

spent over and over again.

We gave way, three thousand miles of briny air,

the river of shipping containers flowing

in crane's time long to the horizon,

the last strains of Staten Island's finery

flickering on to the pale ghost

of the coming Irish dawn.

Dashed again, feet crossed, squeezed,

between two rests, formalized polystyrene,

rubber-stamp size package of pretzels,

and cola to keep ourselves company;

I had a partner for conversation, name lost

in a light-headed haze now.

Meeting Old Crushes for Coffee

When all the other rooms had parties,
swelling deep bodies passing, echoes of

whiskey barrels and draught distilling,

I'd just sit in with my books and highlighters,

self-righteous in the glory of refusal;

the same thing with the flip-switches, the

silence as flashlights carried past the dorm window.

I heard it all on Monday morning,

anyways, reasons for smug smirking.

She'd love this, though, clear and sober,

desperate and loving me, wound from

film stocks and cigarette burns,

the feeling I could wait another twenty

years, as long as her patience.

Far past freshman times, after a sip or

two of whiskey, a pint or six of slushy

conversation, still the same; the luster of

adolescent daydream, now as squint-giving

reflection, no less empowered for it.

Braver men than I would try, admit something,

be a writ of witticism, painter of poetry.

Other people could have parties:

I needed two planes, and an ocean.  

I Left My Heart In Dresden (A Poem in Five Parts)

Decided this needed to be posted separately for space purposes.

I Left My Heart in Dresden

I.

I woke early in the dawn,

The state radio screaming its

Nonsense, the glinting black

Of the militia men stomping heavy

The cobblestone outside and

Knocking the window shutters

With the wood of their rifles.

I grumbled in mute voice,

Hauled my boots from

The lockbox at bed’s foot,

And laced them, drew

A shirt, a jacket,

A pant, from the closet

And, fingers numbed with

Night, buttoned carefully.

Taking the stale bread and

Dulled tea leaves from the

Cupboard, I sawed with a

Boot knife to rend a wheat

Chunk off, and sprinkled

Leaves, like salt, in

The mug’s bottom.

Tapping my shoe, unwantedly,

On the board-floor to the

Shortwave trumpet blares and

Cymbal crashes from the houses

Across the alley way; I

Went to shout, to scream and

Yell, at them to cease the noise.

Though I was never one to speak up.

From Berlin to Bavaria, I thought

The scene the same: men swigging

Their ash-burnt coffee, reading

Papers writ-long with Horst Wessel

And Rosenberg doctrine, women

Cooking the last of the family’s eggs

In scrap iron pans, making

One stretch to feed five.

The clock above struck an

Octet, and I dragged my way

Up the staircase, feeling the

Wallpaper peel beneath

Fingertips; the speakers commanding:

“German strength, German strength.”

I pulled a work cap

From atop the closet bar,

Stuffed the shirt with two

Cigarettes and made one last

Move towards the bed.

All the while, stepping lightly,

Not wishing to disturb, I

Had been wandering not to

Wake:

“Dear, I’m afraid, you’ll

Have to face today,

Where not a thing is

Different since the last,

But, as well, where we

Still know our love.”

II.

The birds scattered amongst

The sky like autumn leaves,

Running like shrapnel, like

Buckshot, from the draft

Winds of targets and great stars.

The siren screamed in red and

Black, lights warning of coming

Brimstone. Becoming deaf from the

Constant whir, the constant whine,

I ran from the line, dropping

The hammer to concrete with a

Mechanist’s clatter, rushing past

The men with holsters and

Fatigues, and the women

Clutching children to their

Skirts, to the house.

As the sky fell in around

Me, around the whole city,

The clouds seemed lit with

Kerosene, the rooftops

Set with charges and dynamite.

Rubble slammed upon itself,

Revelling greatly in its excited

Futility: no rock, no fire,

No gun, no act of man nor

God, could stop my thought,

My legs, my heart, from movement.

I spun around the final corner,

Breathless brain pounding from

Heat and noise, but sorely

Determined in exhaustion. To

Not lose myself, to not lose

Ourselves, to not be torn

Asunder by mere fires of

Men’s construction, by only

The ersatz whims of will-

Breaking shrapnel: no, I

Said, they shall not shatter

Us.

III.

There was no sound as I stared

Into the impenetrable, oil-black,

Like night, of the smoke,

Hemmed by the red brick and

Smashed grey steel (last testament

That once a home was made

Here). Choking on the fumes

Like the last gasp of a

Dying engine, I slid beneath

A hut made of two cracked

Slabs, searching for a

Breath, a pulse, an open

Eye, amongst the pallor

And chaos. A sight of

Gold, or linen, or porcelain

Being all I wanted. That I

Did see, laying like a

Lily thread amongst black

Ash, yes, there she

Was, but not the same,

Having no breath, nor pulse

Nor nothing.

IV.

I hail this clear beer of

Vienna to all those men

Who drowned us beneath the

Ceaseless drive of their

Vision, the clanging ardour

Of their trelice-like thought:

For Herr Gobbles, who ran his

Speakers all over wide

City blocks, linking houses

Upon homes together with

His hate, his fear, and

Stole away our people’s

Conscience.

For Herr Goering, whose

Promises of unfallen

Bombs upon our good,

Just, glorious Reich,

Were wiped clear in

Smouldering wreckage of

Buildings, cities, lives

From Bavaria to Berlin.

For Herr Adolf, the lovely

Gentlemen at the front of

The crowd, a neat moustache,

His hand raise over us

All: a guidance, a symbol.

Oh, he was ours, ours

Alone, for worse or better.

Our gods became four-cornered

Blades, our leaders devils

With silver tongues.

With all my heart, I drink to you.

With all my soul, I drink to you.

For my friends, I drink to you.

For my love, I curse you.

You and yours,

From mine.

V.

Time has a most wicked way,

Of robbing us of our lives,

An hour gone twice-dozen a day,

Whenever the church bell chimes.

When winter first came, snow

Battered us in hospice camps,

Our recoveries came so slow,

Our lives becoming rubber-stamped.

I had but memories and pictures

Of faded ones had and lost;

Bettering is but errant stitches,

And time but a creeping moss,

Draping lives in shadow-fog,

The night looming over day

Spreading over field and bog;

“Not true”, you say, you say.

I’d sit here forever, if ever I

Could, with these glass men,

Letting out all mournful sighs,

Of past lives so surely spent.

Time shall heal all wounds, you

Say, that I should move on, let go

But I left my heart in Dresden,

A long, long time ago.

Poem Clearance

This post includes all of the stuff I've done or re-edited and not posted over the past few months. Done so as to have my files clear before I head to Ireland.

A Letter

I'd write you,

thirty-two lines to

a page, ten-thousand

feelings to a word.

I must simply find some paper,

a pen.

I'd scribble down some

thoughts, meld them as soft

karat. Until luminous.

Until fully-formed.

I must simply take a course

on how.

I'd fold it carefully, as

a crane, as a tiger,

each crease precise, each

line and corner defined.

I'll need a book to

teach me.

I'd seal with candle wax,

press firm my symbol's

heart, staying together, never

could become apart.

I'm afraid I could merely

burn, though.

I'd send it along, mailed

with fifty-cent stamps, a

worthless kiss, this memory

unspent; the envelope splits.

I'd just need an address,

courage too.

Promise

So sacred was this, we clutched

It close towards our breasts burning

In the night;

Forming a forge worthy of

The old steel furnace, we

Burnt away what

Was unneeded, gold glint and

The townie moores. We had

One thing, perfected.

Nothing, in our knavish minds,

Could be a blockage, a stop

To this; us,

We knew the lies, the supermarket

Receipts, we here better than them,

Our hands could

Hold up, as Atlas, that worrying

Weight. Others had simply numb fingers,

We would say.

Nay, there was nothing to better

This once, it could not be so, why

Ever was the

Rest spoken? Surely, it was the

Speech of jesters, travelling caravans,

Nothing thought of

By the proper persons we could

Wish to be. Half-and-half, we

Balanced our treasure,

Its smoulder cutting these old

Stones, cobbled as blackened foot.

Yes, we held

And it was broke.

Like the Sun

Like the sun, I adore you,

But I could never

Understand, with my books and

Measuring scales, telescopes and

The night sky; I seek to,

But the cowardice to question,

Like millstones tied tight,

Leaves me merely watching,

As noon turns dark.

Like the moon, you puzzle me,

Always seeming in new shapes

With each of dusk’s passings,

Once smiling, or with a half-

Hidden smirk, but next the clouds

Drawing to a saddened state,

Or one of buried anger;

Oh, how I wish I could

Learn your fullness, your crescents.

Like the lone river, you intrigue me,

Watching the wash upon the banks,

Living with your books and soft,

Fluttered absurdities, flowing

In one’s own path, unnoticed

To streams which impede, or ajoin,

But stirring in strange patterns,

Seeming pained, on occasion:

Fishing for the reasons.

Like the grand oak, I long for your

Shade, the embrace of the present

Light you bring to ashen dawns,

And wander with one, going nowhere,

But knowing other’s adoration;

Alas, your past shunning of

The more suitable gentlemen,

Give the pause of centuries to

Mine, and you are, still, to me

Like the sun.

The Grey

I fell through the ash one early

Day, no rhyme, nor sense, to it:

Simply, it was.

It held a hearty harshness, upon

The first glance, tree barks about

The eyes, stinging.

But, free of ground, I could

Only flail above, hands desperate

To be affirmed.

There was little, though, but the

Hanging of clouds, the heat of

Long-glowing embers.

I lost reminders, pockets outturning,

The bright of the sun smothered,

All beneath this.

Nary a branch to grasp, I

Was to collapse full-face upon

The dank ground.

I swallowed there, choking as the

Last of breaths taken, though the air

Was stock still.

These were the first days, the time

Of greatest distress, when I did not see

How to exist

In this, how any point, or function,

Or form, could be born amongst

This tone, broken.

Now, though, it is more calm,

My eyes have grown used, as at

The midnight’s leisure;

There is no more a protest thrown

Up from these lungs, no more the

Fires begin themselves.

Nay, there are now but shadows,

In memoriam for old toasts,

Glasses of ferment.

What is here, all I have now known?

A few trinkets flash amongst it,

Catching top’s light,

Little-by-little, I have found them.

A look up, though, even if comforted

In this slush,

Still tugs like the rope on a

Schoolyard’s set, pulled taught

To the fray.

Then is this clouded place a

Joyous one? Even could it, mayhaps,

One day bloom?

With the ash still mixed in taste,

The one roughened diamond still

Signalled in vain,

I have lost the strength,

To know.

Well-Worn

Time has been as wooden shows,

Swelling and splintered to my feet,

The water in puddles, muddy,

And splashed about as little children,

Lacquer to these breaking things.

I scrub verily, a sponge and hand-cloth

Set aside, the goosing flesh pained

To boiling water’s touch; I am

Not proud, it is my resistance,

The cause of this.

But you, you wear the years as

Badges, proud-pinned on jackets,

Sweaters; you smile in the

Downward glance, knowing you

Are different from them.

Or as the soft-spun dresses, hewn

Of tower chimes, the flutters of

Morning finches, that have unshapely

Form to so many: they are the

Most gorgeous of gowns upon you.

Festival Girls

It was all a rush,

ground chemical ash fading to grass and gravel,

muddy pools as piles of footprints,

one atop the last, until none were.

The rainwater mixing with mass-market

beer, pumped from tents,

served with red gilding and a bit of

a smile, the most that could be

marshalled for the time.

The movement of lights, the human

form in time as a dance between

sloppy partners, just learning the steps,

worse to only absent teachers for it.

You could see the great workings of it all,

And the festival girls with their novacane

and sutures, bandages for broken hearts

and bruised egos,

Or so I’d imagine.

Oil Stains on a Sidestreet

The car wheels echo about,

clacking creaked chords with the pavement,

the blacktop and yellow lines.

Well-mixing with the breeze,

the wisened coughs of smoke and smog,

made of green dresses and paper cutting,

the sun fighting its last battle with

downcast stars.

Casting long shadows, the porch railing,

still flaking expired varnish and sawdust,

bends to weight and water, the last

of it passed away long since. On edges,

phones wait to be rung, pens to write,

mouths to talk and mend the day

from its exhaustions, its songs

Of lead and concrete.

Priorities

There’s trash to be taken out and in,

scraps of sink refuse chewed and tugged,

by the ever-present little beasts of this town,

plates and cups to be run under water

and glittered with washing liquid;

Yet I sit with a pen and paper.

There are always doors to be rapped upon,

cheerful smiles to be offered, the words

stilted and shakey; it was God’s work,

saving the world, in some former life,

the only thing to be doing;

Yet I balance feet between pine and sun.

You’d say the same things, too; going

to live the life of a two-house drifter,

where there are always meals to cook, chats to be had,

there are drinks to drink, and beautiful girls to kiss;

And yet

With all I could be doing,

I wrote this about you.

Tornado Warning

There was the wine labelled two cowbell-ringers,
three-quarters and a bottle-full, migraines
with lemons and no Advil, becoming dazed
by the minute, still,

I took the bonfire with my hands, pallid
white as folded motel sheets, tracing patterns,
hastily-drawn zigzags across pieces of air.
Water-wet, in a moonlight,

The buses with their stop-switches, polite men
pushing pedals, sped past blurred as ambulance
lights. Sighs and mutters came afterwards,
we shuddered to be held close;

I am a switched power line, a transformer,
watch me burn and spark at night.

Could Be

We were dancing, your skin as rainwater,

impossibly traced by crate paper, we saw

as stars in the depths of midnight,

and I thought . . .

The cracking of bitter fingers, aged bone,

dust setting in as 5 o'clock suppers

time spans stretching beyond the appearance,

and I asked . . .

Not that, teenage breathing and cackle,

heavy dew in the first Fall winds, August's

dead promise, no, something quiet, constant,

but I wonder . . .

Foolish Flowers

I was thinking far ahead,

back to cannery row weddings,

the glint-twinkle of Coca-Cola neon

upon housewife's whitened teeth.

In conversations, stab my tongue,

undignified man that I am,

never matched the water-rush,

the echoes of great wording.

Rather, nervous spinnings, love-struck

hastiness, cellophane on cigarettes:

obvious as daylight, but never so bright,

never so stirring from lost time.

Crying Glass

Theirs is a steeple pattern, organ hymns

etched in violet staining, bathetic.

The calling wash-wave filled the spaces

between ceiling fan drone

and the shuffle of restless feet beyond

the birch door.

Hidden voices, echoes of eternal time,

lit as matches on singing bowl surface,

fire as a blunt metal object,

heavy pleasings, the lament of peasants pushed

about by city block, gentleman`s establishments, beside

another pizza place.

Coming closer, shut eyes tight, the tipping

place came a surprise, no great battle

fought for country and king, between,

Dante and Virgil themselves;

we beheld time's end as it were, the last we knew,

it was too bitter a branch for weeping.

New Writing (2 Poems)

Joke About Car Engines

It was clutching, full moon glow,
breathing headlights, ruby-red,
park our cars along the roadside,
by the uneven fenceposts, by the rusting twine,
watch the dust-dew, starry-eyed cascade.

Hands rhythmic, sweating clear and cold,
tapping on the windshield tinting,
rubber and steel between us and a four-foot
fall to the ground, rolled around in darkness:
something I wish.

There was cowardice and cutting license cards,
trembles of breath beneath the drive-in light;
it became of itself, thought to say anything,
oh, and never could be done, though,
by the end, it was known.

Incandescent

Skin of a wax mask,

sweating plastic cups,

drawn tight, hour after hour,

deeper and deeper, pores and freckles,

exploding with lacquer-grease finish.

This is the light's perishing, kept alive

by tubes and knobs, pins and switches;

farmers in formers ages had been correct,

never meant for this time, never meant

to be so defiant.

New Writing (3 Poems)

The Thing About Fathers

Always him, with the trudging up the half-flight
of stairs, work caps and ill-fitting black shirts,
constant waiting to be punched in the jaw,
pushed to the concrete or hard plaster.


Something washed over with the IVs and dripping
pulses, the finality, a light on a little grey
bit of plastic, and that was all there was.


Confusing spins of tears, reddened eyes,
lying in funeral homes, on therapist couches:


Feeling of excuses, feeling of relief.


There was some shaking, iron filings on a child’s tablet,
to forget the air conditioner heart attacks,
the reasons we slept on grandfather’s couch
for a year and a month, missing Christmas.


Falsehoods, easy platitudes, passed around as
Thanksgiving china; what was supposed to be
said, compared to drug store greetings?


In a minute, an early life’s ten years,
mere sparks upon untested metal, I learned



The sort of thing never to be.

Thought About Sidewalks

It was the electric cable, swaying sleek and pitch,
low-humming trembles in the August sunlight,
first-heard chirps of hummingbirds, crickets for
a long time, a night without shoe-heel slapping
pavement, without the cry of wheel-axel.


It was a melding, leaves looming shade-like
over the deadened windows, lights snuffed
from the half-vacation, reflected stacking stones.
As it came together, swirls on paint palette,
the canalman’s complaint came, the subtle rejection.



It was fraying rope, in perfect metaphor,
stretched from bridge to bridge, worn as
faded garment; the attempt at warning,
unheeded, yellow and black unwinding,
it never stopped a soul passing.

A Pose

This was an absurdity, artist's rendition,

clutching limbs to chest, hasty retreats,

wishing to go back, to go back.

Broken pieces, scowling lip, serene

eyes as shuddering pools; remembered

we were so close, warm.

Pinned as night shades, wooden shutters,

struggle to move amidst hazy lies,

told to ourselves, adolescent treasure.

Breaking wave, computer click-buzz,

bolts of forgetfulness, cross-eyed loons

and the third kind of lonesome:

they kept me company, waiting on

tea saucers, crumbling cardboard,

for an ever-promised arrival.

New Writing (2 Poems)

Two Frames

Two blank slates were we:

I, some simulation of another,
suit, tie and teenage aftershave.
A series of steps, followed somethings,
to keep from complaint, to have a later portrait,
to fit the crowd’s intentions, to sway to slow music,
to do all except love.

If I was painted, crooked canvas, expired palette,
there could be no blame:

You, some image, screened and printed,
all pixie dust, ukulele strums,
the type to splash water fountains, and
dance gracelessly, unloved musical, with.
All to be ignored, cold hands, ambitions, the fact
you never were.

Years hence, I could hold you
a thousandfold, frigid digits and all;

A mere negative, still.

Both Times

The clouds traced patterns, faint, smoke-like,
empty as I, facades to hide the heat,
shapes of crustaceans and war victories.

It holds as unlabelled paint, as dollar-store varnish,
brightly, the peace is timely, as she seems
to forget it all again.

I cannot blame (bright razor, handcuff twine),
never the tide-time, never the moonlight,
now the improper thing.

When the others took their mantle, bedding
widows’ wives in their cocksure way,
I was shrugging, waiting for planes.