Carpe Velo - "Seize the Wheel"

Eternal Light - POEM of the MONTH!

2012-02-05T21:59:00.000-08:00

Eternal Light

Once in the eternal Light

Never should one re-turn,
Whether day or night
Remain in within sight,
Not even a shadow-yearn.

For the darkness hides
The fangs and thorns,
Where blindness collides
In a world that misguides,
And is ruled by the horns.

Scars can run deep
But the Light can reach,
And guide the sheep
Away from black-sleep,
Even a bottomless breech.

Just avoid the shadow-yearn
And remain within sight,
Never to sway or return
To any striking nocturne,
Once in the eternal Light!

With, And Without Reason - POEM of the MONTH!

2012-01-01T12:05:00.000-08:00

With, And Without Reason

Don’t think
I took a bullet to the brain
Just because
I donated my heart to life eternal

I have a pulse but I know I am dead
To a world that believes truth is seasonal

I think
Not to prove I know I am
But because
I know who answers to that name

I understand the writing on the wall
There is a clock hanging from the same

I am with
And without reason but not its reliance
I see my foot
But every step requires the highest of guidance

[Image courtesy of: Dan Siemens]

New Format Beginning 2012 - "Poem of the Month"

2011-12-31T18:41:00.000-08:00

New for 2012, Carpe Velo is changing to a new format - "Poem of the Month" - in order for the author to focus on a new full-time career path. Each poem will be posted on the first Sunday of the month. Thank you to all who follow this blog, and to those who happen upon it and read. Have a HAPPY NEW YEAR!

"A Farewell" by: Harriet Monroe - Poem of the Week!

2011-12-30T06:21:00.000-08:00

A Farewell

by: Harriet Monroe

Good-by: nay, do not grieve that it is over—
The perfect hour;

That the winged joy, sweet honey-loving rover,
Flits from the flower.

Grieve not,—it is the law. Love will be flying—
Yea, love and all.
Glad was the living; blessed be the dying!
Let the leaves fall.

[Also published in The Little Book of American Poets, 1787-1900]

"A Little Parable" by Anne Reeve Aldrich - Poem of the Week!

2011-12-23T04:58:00.000-08:00

A Little Parable

by: Anne Reeve Aldrich

I made the cross myself whose weight
Was later laid on me.

This thought is torture as I toil
Up life’s steep Calvary.

To think mine own hands drove the nails!
I sang a merry song,
And chose the heaviest wood I had
To build it firm and strong.

If I had guessed—if I had dreamed
Its weight was meant for me,
I should have made a lighter cross
To bear up Calvary!

[Also published in The Little Book of American Poets, 1787-1900]

"In The Dark" by Sophie Jewett - Poem of the Week!

2011-12-16T14:24:00.000-08:00

In The Dark

by: Sophie Jewett

LORD, since the strongest human hands I know
Reach through my darkness, will not let me go,
Hold me as if most dear when fallen most low;

Since, even now, when my spent courage lies
Stricken beneath disastrous, quivering skies,
I learn the tenderness of human eyes;

Surely, though night unthinkable impend,
Where human hands nor human eyes befriend,
Thou wilt avail me in the lonely end.

[Also published in The Little Book of American Poets, 1787-1900]

"Do You Fear the Wind?" by Hamlin Garland - Poem of the Week!

2011-12-09T07:46:00.000-08:00

Do You Fear the Wind?

by: Hamlin Garland

Do you fear the force of the wind,
The slash of the rain?
Go face them and fight them,
Be savage again.
Go hungry and cold like the wolf,
Go wade like the crane:
The palms of your hands will thicken,
The skin of your cheek will tan,
You'll grow ragged and weary and swarthy,
But you'll walk like a man!

[Also published in The Little Book of American Poets, 1787-1900]

"A Little Way" by Frank L. Stanton - Poem of the Week!

2011-12-02T08:47:00.000-08:00

A Little Way

by: Frank L. Stanton

A little way to walk with you, my own
Only a little way,
When one of us must weep and walk alone
Until God's day.
A little way!
It is so sweet to live
Together, that I know
Life would not have one withered rose to give
If one of us should go.
And if these lips should ever learn to smile
With thy heart far from mine,
T'would be for joy that in a little while
They would be kissed by shine.

[Also published in The Little Book of American Poets, 1787-1900]

Running on Empty - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-11-25T13:03:00.000-08:00

Running on Empty

I am running on empty
On a surface absent
From any form or reason
Or dream, deep or lucent

At times I am spinning
With my feet on the sand
Finding myself nowhere
With a heart that is bland

But when I move forward
Toward the now and here
I am running on empty
Without rationale or fear

For I am not at home
Or believe I am there
Until I feel my feet
Firmly back in the air

[Artist of original photograph: Shannon Farrell.
Special thanks to Luke Teyler for his leap of faith.
Photograph of moon courtesy of the Farmers Almanac.
Artist of completed image: Dave Douglas.]

Hands of Light [a pantoum] - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-11-18T00:36:00.000-08:00

Hands of Light (a pantoum)

The hands of light reach lower
Clasping the hands of the bough,
The leaf, the bud, the flower –
The longest and closest vow.

Clasping, the hands of the bough
Feel the light smile and dance,
The longest and closest vow –
Love, across the deepest expanse.

Feel the light, smile and dance
In response to its illumination!
Love across the deepest expanse
Even to the floor of the ocean!

In response to its illumination,

Reflect the colors of splendor,
Even to the floor of the ocean,
And, in the fear of its wonder.

Reflect the colors of splendor –
The leaf, the bud, the flower,
And in the fear of its wonder
The hands of light reach lower.

[Artist: Lars van de Goor]

Point of Light - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-11-11T05:09:00.000-08:00

Point of Light

I scream in the black of night,
There is no moon in my pocket,
My world as I know it, is obscure;
I can only reach a meager limit.

Please, point me toward the light,
Command the darkness to retreat.
Find me next to the sharp edge
And lead the escape from deceit!

Wipe the blood from my hand,
I never wanted to die like this –
You never faded from the one path
As the light dripped from your kiss.

Take the shadows from my heart

And catch my mind from this freefall,
Somewhere in the distance of time,
In the cold of space without recall.

Your spirit shines like the stars,
Its radiance storms in the night!
I cling to the edge of your heart
Even if it is just a point of light.

Matthew 9:20-22

Power Window - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-11-04T11:38:00.000-07:00

Power Window

I sat in a plastic chair
Gaped out the window
I did not see anything
And, I heard nothing
From my sightless stare
To the above and the below

I ran down the street
Passed the closed window
I did not hear anything
And, I saw nothing –
I sprinted by the past seat
Straight into tomorrow

I stood in the gutter
Gazed into the window
I finally found something
And I saw everything
When I looked back at you
Standing in the shallow

"Infinity" by Philip Henry Savage - Poem of the Week!

2011-10-28T08:36:00.000-07:00

Infinity

by: Philip Henry Savage

I dare not think that thou art by, to stand
And face omnipotence so near at hand!
When I consider thee, how must I shrink;
How must I say, I do not understand,
I dare not think!

I cannot stand before the thought of thee,
Infinite Fullness of Eternity!
So close that all the outlines of the land
Are lost,—in the inflowing of thy sea
I cannot stand.

I think of thee, and as the crystal bowl
Is broken, and the waters of the soul
Go down to death within the crystal sea,
I faint and fail when (thou, the perfect whole)
I think of thee.

Also published in "The Little Book of American Poets"

Born in North Brookfield, Massachusetts on February 11, 1868, Philip Henry Savage was the son of Minot Judson Savage, a well-known Unitarian minister, and Ella A. Dodge. He graduated from the English High School of Boston in 1885. He worked at the leather and shoe company Bachfelder and Lincoln, spending "a number of years drumming boots and shoes in the northeastern states" before he began attending Harvard in 1889 at age 21. During his time there, he edited the Harvard Monthly, as well as editing a bi-weekly literary periodical, The Mahogany Tree. After spending a year at the Harvard Divinity School, he became an English instructor in Harvard's English department, and was able to publish his first volume of poems, First Poems and Fragments, in 1895.
Refusing a position as an English instructor at MIT, he began work at the Boston Public Library. On May 31, 1899, he was stricken with appendicitis, and after a week-long illness, he died on June 4th at Massachusetts General Hospital. In 1901, his collected poems were posthumously edited and released by his friend, well-known composer and musicologist, Daniel Gregory Mason, as The Poems of Philip Henry Savage. He was also a close friend of another Harvard poet, William Vaughn Moody.

"Interlude" by Ella Wheeler Wilcox - Poem of the Week!

2011-10-21T07:41:00.000-07:00

Interlude

by: Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The days grow shorter, the nights grow longer;
The headstones thicken along the way,
And life grows sadder, but love grows stronger,
For those who walk with us day by day.

The tear comes quicker, the laugh comes slower;
The courage is lesser to do and dare;
And the tide of joy in the heart falls lower,
And seldom covers the reefs of care.

But all true things in the world seem truer;
And the better things of earth seem best,
And friends are dearer, as friends are fewer,
And love is all as our sun dips west.

Then let us clasp hands as we walk together,
And let us speak softly in love’s sweet tone;
For no man knows on the morrow whether
We two pass on—or but one alone.

Online text © 1998-2011 Poetry X. All rights reserved.
From Poems of Experience | Gay and Hancock, 1917

Also published in "The Little Book of American Poets"

"Waiting" by John Burroughs - Poem of the Week!

2011-10-14T08:09:00.001-07:00

Waiting

by: John Burroughs

Serene, I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea;
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,
For, lo! my own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays,
For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid the eternal ways,
And what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day,
The friends I seek are seeking me;
No wind can drive my bark astray,
Nor change the tide of destiny.

What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years;
My heart shall reap where it hath sown,
And garner up its fruit of tears.

The waters know their own and draw
The brook that springs in yonder height;
So flows the good with equal law
Unto the soul of pure delight.

The stars come nightly to the sky;
The tidal wave unto the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,
Can keep my own away from me.

Also published in "The Little Book of American Poets"

"If" by William Dean Howells - Poem of the Week!

2011-10-07T08:15:00.000-07:00

If

by William Dean Howells

Yes, death is at the bottom of the cup,
And every one that lives must drink it up;
And yet between the sparkle at the top
And the black lees where lurks that bitter drop,
There swims enough good liquor, Heaven knows,
To ease our hearts of all their other woes.
The bubbles rise in sunshine at the brim;
That drop below is very far and dim;
The quick fumes spread & shape us such bright dreams
That in the glad delirium it seems
As though by some deft sleight, if so we willed,
That drop untasted might be somehow spilled.

All the poems in the month of October are
found in "The Little Book of American Poets".

Engram (a pantoum) - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-09-30T00:21:00.000-07:00

Engram (a pantoum)

“A hypothetical change in neural tissue postulated in order to account for persistence of memory—called also memory trace.” – Merriam-Webster Dictionary

amid the tunnel of yesterday and tomorrow
under pressure from wait and scurry;
between sleep and wake, images borrow
and collapse under the weight of memory

under pressure from wait and scurry,
times past; built with a shifting foundation
and collapse under the weight of memory –
an awry mnemonic missing base isolation

times past built with a shifting foundation
face moments of persistent efface;
the mnemonic awry, missing base isolation
within the void – without a trace

face moments of persistent efface
as engrams are stacked to the sky
within the void, without a trace
which oddly shifts the mnemonic awry

as engrams are stacked to the sky,
with numerous pathways of inception,
which shifts even the mnemonic awry
with levels of change and recollection

with numerous pathways of inception
from room-to-room evanescence,
with levels of change and recollection
who is the builder of reminiscence?

from room-to-room evanescence
between sleep and wake, images borrow;
who then is the builder of reminiscence
amid the tunnel of yesterday and tomorrow?

Also published in Synchronized Chaos magazine, Nov. 2011

Original artwork courtesy of Nayla Dabaji

[Note: the pantoum is usually five stanzas in length, and the repeated lines are generally unchanged aside from punctuation. However, many poets have altered the purist definition (usage) of the pantoum with some artistic license. I have done so by adding two stanzas and altered a few lines in order to heighten emphasis, thereby creating the theme as I intended.]

this is the end - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-09-23T08:53:00.000-07:00

this is the end

this is the end –
black and white film
in a color world
with ashes in the kiln

exit the stars
then fade to black
no one prepared
for the final act

the laws of sanity
broken by the least
the cut of time
at present released

everything explained
but nothing learned
lost without a score
or a trophy unearned

the laws of reality
no one can pretend
without the director
– this is the end

Halfway Into Dark - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-09-16T14:28:00.000-07:00

Halfway Into Dark

Reading the same line twice
Once more in quickened-measure
A shadow divides the page
Into torn themes and eyes unsure

Dreaming in a lucid state
Once more in an unknown pull
The umbery divides the wake
Into a room empty and full

Standing in an open doorway
Once more the switch is off
The hall-light divides a glance
Into a viewpoint of scoff

Stumbling along the edge of light
Once more in stubborn disregard

Of the shadows drifting halfway
Into dark, and a memory scarred

Reading the same line twice
Once more in an unknown pull
The hall-light divides a glance
Halfway into dark, and a memory full

Never Forget

2011-09-11T09:11:00.001-07:00

Never Forget [September 11, 2001]

A darkness fell over the eagle’s nest …
From a shadow still festering in the east,
A boastful rooster seats on a spoiled egg –
A crack nearly ready to hatch a beast.

A creature unlike any other in form,
From a shadow beneath a coat of hate.
While, the agent of destruction’s hand
Orates peace, without any admirable trait.

A clear and present danger foretold,
But as a blind man from within our walls,
Opens a threat to eclipse our absent towers
An invitation presently sent from white halls.

If the light of remembrance gives up its ghost,
A mutation of spirit will emerge from the nest –
Oh! Oh, plead toward the God of Heaven!
Plead and beat the drum on thy breast!

Never forget your faithful children my King!
Protect us from any breed of beastly sleuth,
Ground us in your everlasting preparation,
Never forget to keep us in your wing of Truth!

For upon these shores of freedom’s light,
May the eagle, perched, hold resolute!
Until the new kingdom and new earth
Is built, remember each day in tribute.

September 11, 2011

Nothing to Write - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-09-09T08:13:00.000-07:00

Nothing to Write

I see starving towns and big money
I see blood and false-testimony …
And if Paul Simon was President

In a world when no one repents
To a god they say does not exist
On the forgotten list
He may have nothing to write

In moments when I can only scream
For a dieing child, attached she seems
In the village called the earth
Her flesh is traded without worth
While my eyes remain chained to the flat panel
Another channel
And nothing to write

And through the iron spyglass
Shared with a view exceedingly fast
I saw an image, but in reverse
Dictating my pending verse
On a page blank and crumpled and torn
Forlorn
With a pen and nothing to write

Yet, a faultless messenger
Humbled himself before anger
And revealed a vision from the past
One which was meant to last
But he was met with fight and flight
When he had nothing left to write

And I hear of wars and rumors of more
I hear of battle lines drawn at the front door …
But if Paul Simon is President
As if he is the one sent
And if, he indeed, repairs ev’ry shattered heart and broken window
With a peace below
He will whisper, “I have nothing new to write”

Also published in Synchronized Chaos magazine, Sept. 2011,
and read at Poetry at Ravenswood in Livermore, CA on Sept. 4th

[Artwork courtesy of James Mlaker]

Book Review: "Craft Beer Bar Mitzvah" by Jeremy Cowan

2011-09-04T17:29:00.000-07:00

There is plenty of shmaltz in Jeremy Cowan’s book, Craft Beer Bar Mitzvah. Enough so for everyone who is anyone (or not), to go a’round of beer, from the front cover (charge), to the back. The atmosphere in his shtick is fluid throughout. From his seedling of an idea, to hopping from one coast to another, and brewing his dream so we can taste what Cowan delivers as a picture of the bitterness of business to the Jewbelation of success, all with an ongoing buzz of humor.

Not only is his book entertaining, but as Cowan labeled it himself, “… who doesn’t love the story of a small business, a sole proprietor trying to make it happen? And free booze!” And this book is no side-show to be tossed aside or re-gifted to the other end of the bar. There are bold, real-life, hard-to-swallow business lessons which grant his book the entrance into any university library. One big ingredient of his formula is, “… until you’re already a success, nobody else is going to make you a success.” It is that type of shtick which enables Cowan to pour out his transparency about his personal life as well – the part which provides a view into the passion for his beer which comes to a head on the printed page.

As Cowan states, “Remember the three pillars of shmaltz … quality, commitment, shtick.” And, he has them all in this well-balanced, full-flavored read, which will prompt you to ask for a second-coming! Shmaltz Brewing Company is “THE CHOSEN BEER”, and “Craft Beer Bar Mitzvah” is THE CHOSEN BOOK!

Original article published in Synchronized Chaos Magazine, Sept. 2011. Thank you to my editor Cristina Deptula.

Cry Wolf - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-09-02T00:56:00.000-07:00

Cry Wolf

From crying wolf
To crying tears,
Or killing wolves
To kill your fears.

Wolves cry in the night,
But do they also dream
Of hunting on the moon,
When tears flow upstream?

And tears, indeed they fall,
Crashing on rocks below,
Leaving you at the top
To recall ev’ry echo.

The howling collides
With screams of the kill,
A chance to destroy –
But, denied ev’ry thrill.

Live without the wolf,
A life without tears,
But where are the cries
By killing your fears?

Image courtesy of Sarah Robinson

"Thoreau's Flute" by Louisa May Alcott - Poem of the Week!

2011-08-26T12:26:00.000-07:00

Thoreau's Flute

by: Louisa May Alcott

We sighing said, "Our Pan is dead;
His pipe hangs mute beside the river
Around it wistful sunbeams quiver,
But Music's airy voice is fled.
Spring mourns as for untimely frost;
The bluebird chants a requiem;
The willow-blossom waits for him;
The Genius of the wood is lost."

Then from the flute, untouched by hands,
There came a low, harmonious breath:
"For such as he there is no death;
His life the eternal life commands;
Above man's aims his nature rose.
The wisdom of a just content
Made one small spot a continent
And turned to poetry life's prose.

"Haunting the hills, the stream, the wild,
Swallow and aster, lake and pine,
To him grew human or divine,
Fit mates for this large-hearted child.
Such homage Nature ne'er forgets,
And yearly on the coverlid
'Neath which her darling lieth hid
Will write his name in violets.

"To him no vain regrets belong
Whose soul, that finer instrument,
Gave to the world no poor lament,
But wood-notes ever sweet and strong.
O lonely friend! he still will be
A potent presence, though unseen,
Steadfast, sagacious, and serene;
Seek not for him -- he is with thee."

Note: All selections this month can be found in the above book, "The Little Book of American Poets, 1787 - 1900".

"Inspiration" by Henry David Thoreau - Poem of the Week!

2011-08-19T09:24:00.000-07:00

Inspiration

by: Henry David Thoreau

Whate'er we leave to God, God does,
And blesses us;
The work we choose should be our own,
God leaves alone.

If with light head erect I sing,
Though all the Muses lend their force,
From my poor love of anything,
The verse is weak and shallow as its source.

But if with bended neck I grope
Listening behind me for my wit,
With faith superior to hope,
More anxious to keep back than forward it;

Making my soul accomplice there
Unto the flame my heart hath lit,
Then will the verse forever wear--
Time cannot bend the line which God hath writ.

Always the general show of things
Floats in review before my mind,
And such true love and reverence brings,
That sometimes I forget that I am blind.

But now there comes unsought, unseen,
Some clear divine electuary,
And I, who had but sensual been,
Grow sensible, and as God is, am wary.

I hearing get, who had but ears,
And sight, who had but eyes before,
I moments live, who lived but years,
And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore.

I hear beyond the range of sound,
I see beyond the range of sight,
New earths and skies and seas around,
And in my day the sun doth pale his light.

A clear and ancient harmony
Pierces my soul through all its din,
As through its utmost melody--
Farther behind than they, farther within.

More swift its bolt than lightning is,
Its voice than thunder is more loud,
It doth expand my privacies
To all, and leave me single in the crowd.

It speaks with such authority,
With so serene and lofty tone,
That idle Time runs gadding by,
And leaves me with Eternity alone.

Now chiefly is my natal hour,
And only now my prime of life;
Of manhood's strength it is the flower,
'Tis peace's end and war's beginning strife.

It comes in summer's broadest noon,
By a grey wall or some chance place,
Unseasoning Time, insulting June,
And vexing day with its presuming face.

Such fragrance round my couch it makes,
More rich than are Arabian drugs,
That my soul scents its life and wakes
The body up beneath its perfumed rugs.

Such is the Muse, the heavenly maid,
The star that guides our mortal course,
Which shows where life's true kernel's laid,
Its wheat's fine flour, and its undying force.

She with one breath attunes the spheres,
And also my poor human heart,
With one impulse propels the years
Around, and gives my throbbing pulse its start.

I will not doubt for evermore,
Nor falter from a steadfast faith,
For thought the system be turned o'er,
God takes not back the word which once He saith.

I will not doubt the love untold
Which not my worth nor want has bought,
Which wooed me young, and woos me old,
And to this evening hath me brought.

My memory I'll educate
To know the one historic truth,
Remembering to the latest date
The only true and sole immortal youth.
Be but thy inspiration given,
No matter through what danger sought,
I'll fathom hell or climb to heaven,
And yet esteem that cheap which love has bought.

Fame cannot tempt the bard
Who's famous with his God,
Nor laurel him reward
Who has his Maker's nod.

"Suspense" by Emily Dickinson - Poem of the Week!

2011-08-12T09:05:00.000-07:00

Suspense

by: Emily Dickinson

Elysium is as far as to
The very nearest room,
If in that room a friend await
Felicity or doom.

What fortitude the soul contains,
That it can so endure
The accent of a coming foot,
The opening of a door!

"The Test" by: Ralph Waldo Emerson - Poem of the Week!

2011-08-05T09:32:00.000-07:00

The Test

by: Ralph Waldo Emerson

I hung my verses in the wind,
Time and tide their faults may find.
All were winnowed through and through,
Five lines lasted sound and true;
Five were smelted in a pot
Than the South more fierce and hot;
These the siroc could not melt,
Fire their fiercer flaming felt,
And the meaning was more white
Than July's meridian light.
Sunshine cannot bleach the snow,
Nor time unmake what poets know.
Have you eyes to find the five
Which five hundred did survive?

All the poems in the
month of August are
found in "The Little
Book of American Poets".

Fire Song, Part III of "Attraction" - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-07-29T07:56:00.000-07:00

Fire Song, Part III of Attraction

… your arms flare out
across the expanse
of my cold and lonely space
which cannot separate me
from the fiery warmth
of your faithful embrace

your fingers fluidly dance
and flicker a wave of joy
which lifts my eyes
and ignites my imagination
expressed in the aurora –
the ring of my forever-prize!

Photo (above, left) courtesy of NASA

Photo (below, right) courtesy of PhotoGuides
Artist: Orvar Alti Porgeirsson

No Time Wasted - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-07-22T15:56:00.000-07:00

No Time Wasted

Out of the wings,
No longer waiting;
A snowy peak crested,
My soul swiftly sings
With no time wasted.

Bougainvillea - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-07-15T09:21:00.000-07:00

Bougainvillea

Rooted beneath the surface
Among worms and beetles,
You claw and fight to drink
The life from earth, for petals.

Petals of violet
Not a hint of violence,
Strained toward the sun
For anyone seeking solace.

Reached beyond the lattice
Over rooftops and windows,
You create a canopy collage
Of fragrance in restful shadows.

Shadows of reflection
Without secret or shame,
The light penetrates through
As if to share its name.

Planted under the city
Among crime and strife,
You study and absorb
The light from above, for life.

~ John 15:5

Also published in the 2011Ina Coolbrith Circle
Anthology

Toy Maker - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-07-08T08:26:00.000-07:00

Toy Maker

Toy Maker! Oh, Toy Maker!
Why did you create me –

Create me the way you did?
For I can reason with all I see!

At first look, it’s obvious:
I am missing my strings,
And I cannot reach the sky;
But, my mind has wings!

I have a heart made of wood
And dreams which float
From here to there, and ev’ry
Which way I turn to gloat.

I can boast of all I do,
Because I am a taker!
I may walk wherever I want,
All, without the Toy Maker.

A seemingly innocent walk;
Yet, I am aware of the source
Of the wind shifting from here
To there, all with gentle force.

It’s apparent I have a back,
At times it’s facing you;
And I have a dynamic choice,
As if this, indeed, gives me value.

Toy Maker! Oh, my Toy Maker!
Why do I have this knowledge?
… the greatest gift I should own
Is, why I am carved in your image!

[Original Artist: Leonardo di Vinci, 1492.

New Shore - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-07-01T07:28:00.000-07:00

New Shore

Like oily rags, I flounder
in a lake of broken mirrors,
And gasp, and drown
in the reflection of my own tears …

Until one stormy day, I reach
from the depths of past horror
For the pierced hand of grace
who walks me to a new shore!

"Trip Wires" by: Connie Post - Poem of the Week!

2011-06-24T07:38:00.000-07:00

Trip Wires

by: Connie Post, Livermore Poet Laureate Emerita

Perhaps I should stop

running in my dreams

maybe I wouldn’t trip so often
over broken synapses
standing like barbed wire fences
in fields of gray matter

perhaps I should walk more carefully
tip toe across the cerebral cortex
and be sure to close the door
behind me

~

wheat is blowing
in subconscious strands
where I have stayed
again

as my frontal lobes
fill with rain of again sleep
I will all more often
wondering
who built all these fences
how far must I walk

hoe will I climb
the languid roads of memory
and still remember
how to wake

[Original Artwork: Trish Fenton]

"The Climb" by: Connie Post - Poem of the Week

2011-06-17T08:34:00.000-07:00

The Climb

by: Connie Post, Livermore Poet Laureate Emerita

I don’t know how to climb mountains
don’t own and strong ropes
or clips

don’t even know how
the spaces between rocks
or the stories of each sheared stone

but I climb
in my sleep
free of boots

I feel my way through ledges
with bare feet

reach up to the back ends
of my eyelids
as if this will end something

eventually
I let the slack loose
when I feel the air
getting thin in the room

I climb over unremembered dreams
look down over my shoulder
and see the morning
miles down

too far for understanding

I know my lids are shut
and I am too far to go back

all too soon
I feel a loose piece of rock
give way beneath me

and realize
I don’t know the mountains
any better than I did
the night before

realizing
in these faint edges
of obsidian light
I too
can fall

Originally published in Trip Wires.

[Original Artwork: Trish Fenton]

"Fire Season" by: Connie Post - Poem of the Week!

2011-06-10T00:04:00.000-07:00

Fire Season

by: Connie Post, Livermore Poet Laureate Emerita

Fire is promiscuous
the way it tempts dry grass
lays itself open to a field

one bawdy wind
and the flame is a
dropped dress

passing down the waist of summer
each lie a spark
a way to fan
the infidelity of smoke

undressing a landscape
feeding itself
until the sky is full of
its own sins

we will breathe
and cough
sputter
but the orange
throws us to the known bed of autumn

we will choke
on vows
until the soil below us
erodes and falls away

the arsonist –
now contained
acrid with his own remorse
will drop to his knees
in a field he once loved
and beg for rain

Originally published in her latest book, Trip Wires.

[Original Artwork: Trish Fenton]

The Lion's Rock - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-05-27T06:50:00.000-07:00

The Lion’s Rock

Beneath the lion’s rock

A grave-digger digs, and
Between earth and flesh
The heart is a wasteland.

Through the ancient trees,
A whisper finds an ear, yet
Inside the caves of reason
The soul shuns the prophet.

From the lion’s rock,
Resonates thunder, but
A resounding peace
Bleeds from every cut.

Above stream and shadow,
The sun seeks to warm, for
At the feet of the Morning Star,
Is the foundation of evermore.

Out of the lion’s rock,
Is built the pride, and
Boasts not of its own,
But of the lion’s Heartland.

[Photo courtesy of John Sanidopoulos]

Sin - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-05-20T17:26:00.000-07:00

~~Sin~~

When I dream of you,
I dream I’m alone.
When I scream for you,
I dream I’m on my own.

When I dream with you,
I scream to be alone.
When I scream at you,
I dream to be known.

When I scream without you,
I realize I’m on loan.
When I dream without you,
I scream – I’m not alone!

Shadow Dream - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-05-13T17:13:00.000-07:00

Shadow Dream

Born with a shadow,
Dead to the light;
I dreamt of a window,
To escape the fright.

Shadow all around me,
Evade the dream-world;
Guide me to reality –
The curtain unfurled!

No shadow on the ground,
I walk, in a harmless ray
With an exalted resound,
“Shadow-dream, away!”

Cold Shoulder - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-05-06T09:44:00.000-07:00

The following poem
was also published
earlier this week in
Synchronized Chaos Magazine.

Cold Shoulder

My mind’s eye burns up the road,
Until it hit a blind cold shoulder;
My focus spins out of control
Onto a thin sheet of icy candor.

Storms in my brain lose their power,
The flames in my heart drown out,
As the gravity of forged caution signs
Drops a detour of a deadly route.

No laws will dodge the washout,
No amount of cunning is enough,
The only hope to save this thought
Rides in the bones of the risen Sheriff.

I accelerate over streets too rough,
The tarmac, an extension of soul –
I do not dread a curve of sarcasm!
Skin is not of concern, but my role.

(Note: I find it fascinating when an artist has
the same title of a song or poem as one of
mine. Consider the differing lyrics of Adele's
version of Cold Shoulder. The Thursday night
Main Street Poetry group in Pleasanton, CA
promotes this concept with what is called a
prompt - several poets write separate poems
with the same title. The different approaches
and themes which result are quite enthralling.)

Peart Month Poems Posted on iTunes!

2011-04-30T17:45:00.000-07:00

All of the poems/songs posted
during Peart Month are now
available on iTunes! Click Ping!
Enjoy some fried-chicken or
sausages as you time-travel
with our friends from Toronto.

"Caravan" by: Neil Peart - Poem of the Week! BONUS TRACK

2011-04-30T07:27:00.000-07:00

From the EP Caravan (Also, to be released in 2012
on Rush's next full album Clockwork Angel.)

Caravan

by: Neil Peart

In a world lit only by fire
Long train of flares under piercing stars
I stand watching the steam-liners roll by
The caravan thunders onward
To the distant dream of the city
The caravan carries me onward

On my way at last
On my way at last
I can’t stop thinking big
I can’t stop thinking big

On a road lit only by fire
Going where I want, instead of where I should
I peer out at the passing shadows
Carried through the night into the city
Where a young man has a chance of making good
A chance to break from the past
The caravan thunders onward
Stars winking through the canvas hood
On my way at last
In a world where I feel so small
I can’t stop thinking big

[Original Artist: Hugh Syme]

"Dreamline" by Neil Peart - Poem of the Week!

2011-04-29T09:59:00.000-07:00

From the album
Roll The Bones

Dreamline

by: Neil Peart

He's got a road map of Jupiter
A radar fix on the stars
All along the highway
She's got a liquid-crystal compass
A picture book of the rivers
Under the Sahara

They travel in the time of the prophets
On a desert highway straight to the heart of the sun
Like lovers and heroes, and the restless part of everyone
We're only at home when we're on the run
On the run

He's got a star map of Hollywood
A list of cheap motels
All along the freeway
She's got a sister out in Vegas
The promise of a decent job
Far away from her hometown

They travel on the road to redemption
A highway out of yesterday -- that tomorrow will bring
Like lovers and heroes, birds in the last days of spring
We're only at home when we're on the wing
On the wing

When we are young
Wandering the face of the Earth
Wondering what our dreams might be worth
Learning that we're only immortal
For a limited time

(*) Time is a gypsy caravan
Steals away in the night
To leave you stranded in Dreamland
Distance is a long-range filter
Memory a flickering light
Left behind in the heartland

We travel in the dark of the new moon
A starry highway traced on the map of the sky
Like lovers and heroes, lonely as the eagle's cry
We're only at home when we're on the fly
On the fly

When we are young
Wandering the face of the Earth
Wondering what our dreams might be worth
Learning that we're only immortal
For a limited time

We travel on the road to adventure
On a desert highway straight to the heart of the sun
Like lovers and hereos, and the restless part of everyone
We're only at home when we're on the run
On the run...

[Original Artist: Hugh Syme]

(*) My favorite stanza.

"Time Stand Still" by Neil Peart - Poem of the Week!

2011-04-22T08:03:00.000-07:00

From the album
Hold Your Fire

Time Stand Still

by: Neil Peart

I turn my back to the wind
To catch my breath before I start off again
Driven on without a moment to spend
To pass an evening with a drink and a friend

I let my skin get too thin, I'd like to pause
No matter what I pretend
Like some pilgrim who learns to transcend
Learns to live as if each step was the end

(Time stand still)
I'm not looking back
But I want to look around me now
(Time stand still)
See more of the people and the places that surround me now
Time stand still

Freeze this moment a little bit longer
Make each sensation a little bit stronger
Experience slips away
Experience slips away
Time stand still

I turn my face to the sun
Close my eyes
Let my defenses down
All those wounds that I can't get unwound

I let my past go too fast, no time to pause
If I could slow it all down
Like some captain, whose ship runs aground
I can wait until the tide comes around

(Time stand still)
I'm not looking back
But I want to look around me now
(Time stand still)
See more of the people and the places that surround me now

Freeze this moment a little bit longer
Make each sensation a little bit stronger
Make each impression a little bit stronger
Freeze this motion a little bit longer

(The innocence slips away)
(The innocence slips away)
Time stand still
Time stand still

I'm not looking back
But I want to look around me now
See more of the people and the places that surround me now
Time stand still

Summer's going fast, nights growing colder
Children growing up, old friends growing older
Freeze this moment a little bit longer
Make each sensation a little bit stronger

Experience slips away
Experience slips away
The innocence slips away

[Original Artist: Hugh Syme]

"Between the Wheels" by Neil Peart - Poem of the Week!

2011-04-15T14:50:00.000-07:00

From the album
Grace Under Pressure

Between The Wheels

by: Neil Peart

To live between a rock and a hard place
In between time
Cruising in prime time
Soaking up the cathode rays

To live between the wars in our time
Living in real time
Holding the good time
Holding on to yesterdays

You know how that rabbit feels
Going under your speeding wheels
Bright images flashing by
Like windshields towards a fly
Frozen in the fatal climb
But the wheels of time
Just pass you by
Wheels can take you around
Wheels can cut you down
We can go from boom to bust
From dreams to a bowl of dust
We can fall from rockets' red glare
Down to "Brother can you spare..."
Another war
Another wasteland
And another lost generation

It slips between your hands like water
This living in real time
A dizzying lifetime
Reeling by on celluloid

Struck between the eyes
By the big-time world
Walking uneasy streets
Hiding beneath the sheets
Got to try and fill the void

[Original Artist: Hugh Syme]

"The Analog Kid" by: Neil Peart - Poem of the Week!

2011-04-08T09:25:00.000-07:00

From the album

Signals

The Analog Kid

by: Neil Peart

A hot and windy August afternoon
has the trees in constant motion
With a flash of silver leaves
as they're rocking in the breeze

The boy lies in the grass with one blade
stuck between his teeth
A vague sensation quickens
in his young and restless heart
And a bright and nameless vision
has him longing to depart

You move me
You move me
With your buildings and your eyes
Autumn woods and winter skies
You move me
You move me
Open sea and city lights
Busy streets and dizzy heights
You call me
You call me

The fawn-eyed girl with sun-browned legs
dances on the edge of his dream
And her voice rings in his ears
like the music of the spheres

The boy lies in the grass, unmoving
staring at the sky
His mother starts to call him
as a hawk goes soaring by
The boy pulls down his baseball cap
and covers up his eyes

Too many hands on my time
Too many feelings
Too many things on my mind
When I leave I don't know
what I'm hoping to find
And when I leave I don't know
what I'm leaving behind

When I leave I don't know
what I'm hoping to find
And when I leave I don't know
what I'm leaving behind

[Original Artist: Hugh Syme]

"Xanadu" by: Neil Peart - Poem of the Week!

2011-04-01T10:07:00.000-07:00

From the album
A Farewell to Kings

Xanadu

by: Neil Peart

To seek the sacred river Alph
To walk the caves of ice
To break my fast on honey dew
And drink the milk of paradise

I have heard the whispered tales of immortality
The deepest mystery
From an ancient book, I took a clue
I scaled the frozen mountain tops of eastern lands unknown
Time and man alone
Searching for the lost Xanadu

To stand within the pleasure dome
Decreed by Kubla Khan
To taste anew the fruits of life
The last immortal man

To find the sacred river Alph
To walk the caves of ice
Oh, I will dine on honey dew
And drink the milk of paradise

A thousand years have come and gone but time has passed me by
Stars stopped in the sky
Frozen in an ever lasting view
Waiting for the world to end, weary of the night
Praying for the light
Prison of the lost Xanadu

Held within the pleasure dome
Decreed by Kubla Khan
To taste my bitter triumph
As a mad immortal man

Never more shall I return
Escape these caves of ice
For I have dined on honey dew
And drunk the milk of paradise
Oh, paradise

[Original Artist: Hugh Syme]

April to Feature Neil Peart

2011-03-30T09:01:00.000-07:00

The poetry from the drummer (of the multi-platinum and multi-gold Canadian trio Rush), Neil Peart, will be featured in next month's "Poem of the Week". The theme is "Time".

In the meantime, check out the following quotes regarding the often misunderstood Starman.

"All it means is the abstract man against the masses. The red star symbolizes any collectivist mentality." - Neil Peart, 1982

"The man is the hero of the story. That he is nude is just a classic tradition ... the pureness of his person and creativity without the trappings of other elements such as clothing. The red star is the evil red star of the Federation, which was one of Neil's symbols. We basically based that cover around the red star and that hero." - Hugh Syme, 1983

"The Red Star represents the Solar Federation on 2112, and the man standing against it is supposed to represent the individual standing against this authoritarian government. And it's come to become our logo, for want of a better word. It bascially stands for the individual against the masses." - Geddy Lee (Lead Vocals and Bass), May 21, 1984

[Original Artist: Hugh Syme, the artist for the artwork of album covers and tourbooks for Rush. (Some images in this post -- and in April, 2011 -- have some digital modification by Eric Hansen, webmaster for Power Windows: A Tribute to Rush -- an excellent source for Rush wallpaper). And lastly, some of the aforementioned images are cropped by the author of this blog to fit a 7"x5" format.]

When Can We Start Over (a pantoum) - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-03-25T06:55:00.000-07:00

When Can We
Start Over
[a pantoum]

When can we start over?
Again, or just one time –
One moment, than another,
Without rehearsal or rhyme.

Again, or just one time?
Can we rephrase what we say
Without rehearsal or rhyme?
Perhaps, on our birthday!

Can we rephrase what we say?
Is there a veiled trapdoor?
Perhaps, on our birthday –
Found rooftop once more.

Found rooftop once more,
Can we see the window?
Is there a veiled trapdoor
To the foundation below?

Can we see the window,
One moment, than another?
To the foundation below
When we can start over!

[Artist: Fabio Sasso]

Letters - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-03-18T09:54:00.000-07:00

Letters

Letters fall like heavy rain
And pour onto my arid brain,

Letters open up the sky
And flood my mail, I cry –

Even if clouds are absent
There are still letters present.

Artist: Dave Douglas

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law.”
– Galations 5:22-23

Never Forget [2011] - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-03-11T08:43:00.000-08:00

Never Forget [2011]

A darkness fell over the eagle’s nest …
From a shadow still festering in the east,
A boastful rooster seats on a spoiled egg –
A crack nearly ready to hatch a beast.

A creature unlike any other in form,
From a shadow beneath a coat of hate.
While, the agent of destruction’s hand
Orates peace, without any admirable trait.

A clear and present danger foretold,
But as a blind man from within our walls,
Opens a threat to eclipse our absent towers –
An invitation presently sent from white halls.

If the light of remembrance gives up its ghost,
A mutation of spirit will emerge from the nest –
Oh! Oh, plead toward the God of Heaven!
Plead and beat the drum on thy breast!

Never forget your faithful children my King!
Protect us from any breed of beastly sleuth,
Ground us in your everlasting preparation,
Never forget to keep us in your wing of Truth!

For upon these shores of freedom’s light,
May the eagle, perched, hold resolute!
Until the new kingdom and new earth
Is built, remember each day in tribute.

Six months from today marks the 10th anniversary of that tragic day – when cowards murdered innocent lives. Pray we never forget. Pray the one true God protects all who live in and pursue freedom throughout the world, and may freedom come to those who presently live without it. Pray the leaders of our great nation, and of this world will make wise decisions so as not to repeat history. Pray for those same leaders to never forget and to honor the lives lost, both in speech and in deed. Never take freedom for granted. May peace go with you.

This poem will be posted again on September 11, 2011.

Photo (above): Courtesy of the Department of Defense. Artist: Denise Gould

"When the righteous thrive, the people rejoice;
when the wicked rule, the people groan." Proverbs 29:12

Three - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-03-04T08:27:00.001-08:00

Three

Three attempts and nothing done,
Sometimes, no charm at the third test;
Three times nothing is still a zero,
Even when multiplied by my best.

At times, failure is inevitable,
Especially when effort is only a third;
And yet, when the percent is maximized
The result is still substandard!

Therefore, on this, the stanza of three,
I stand on trial-and-error once more!
To declare an attempt without disgrace,
The opportunity I believe called “four!”

Artist: Dave Douglas

"Consolation" by: Ambrose Bierce - Poem of the Week!

2011-02-25T08:57:00.000-08:00

Consolation

by: Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914)

Little's the good to sit and grieve
Because the serpent tempted Eve.
Better to wipe your eyes and take
A club and go out and kill a snake.

But if you prefer, as I suspect,
To philosophize, why, then, reflect:
If the cunning rascal upon the limb
Hadn't tempted her she'd have tempted him.

"Consolation" is reprinted from The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce Vol. IV: Shapes of Clay. Ambrose Bierce. New York: Neale Publishing Company, 1910.

Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914?) was born in Meigs County, Ohio, as the tenth of thirteen children of Marcus and Laura Bierce. Each of the children was given a name beginning with the letter "A". Bierce's father had a large private library, and he spent much time with the books - his name Marcus Aurelius was given after the famous Roman emperor. Bierce grew up on a farm in northern Indiana. Later, in his parody of 'The Old Oaken Bucket', Bierce wrote about his early years: "With what anguish of mind I remember my childhood, / Recalled in the light of a knowledge since gained; / The malarious farm, the wet, fungus grown wildwood, / The chills then contracted that since have remained." Bierce studied year in a high school. At the age of fifteen he became a printer's apprentice on The Northern Indianan, an antislavery paper. After a term at a military school, he worked in a combination store and café.
[Click here for more!]

"Byron" by: Joaquin Miller - Poem of the Week!

2011-02-18T12:36:00.000-08:00

Byron

by: Joaquin Miller (1841-1913)

In men whom men condemn as ill
I find so much of goodness still,
In men whom men pronounce divine
I find so much of sin and blot,
I do not dare to draw a line
Between the two, where God has not.

Joaquin Miller Born in Wabash District, Indiana, November 10, 1841; died at "The Heights," above San Francisco, California, 1913. The picturesque career of Joaquin Miller surpasses any romance that came from his hand. When a lad he tramped from his home in Oregon to the Sacramento Valley where gold fields were being opened and did whatever he could turn his hand to about the camps. He lived familiarly with the Indians and passed through many adventures in returning to his home in Oregon. Here he studied law, which he practiced for some time in Canyon City, and became a judge of Grant County. In 1870 he went to London with the manuscript of "Songs of the Sierras." Here he met Browning, Arnold, and other poets of the period and created a sensation in conventional London by his romantic personality. After his return to America he spent some time in journalistic work in Washington, D.C., but left it for California where he established himself in a beautiful home on "The Heights" above the Golden Gate. Save for occasional excursions, such as his trip to the Klondike, his remaining years were spent at this home. Joaquin Miller had great power to invoke the wild and majestic aspects of nature, and while he was often the victim of his facility, at his best he was a poet of rare gifts and unexcelled in his field as the interpreter of Wester life and landscape.

"Byron" and the biography are reprinted
from The Little Book of American Poets:
1787-1900. Ed. Jessie B. Rittenhouse.
Cambridge: Riverside Press, 1915.

Love Is

2011-02-14T21:43:00.000-08:00

Love Is

Love is passion,
Passion is pain,
Pain is suffering,
Suffering is love.

Happy Valentine's Day!

"Lines On a Loving Cup" by: Charles Warren Stoddard

2011-02-11T00:11:00.000-08:00

Lines on a Loving Cup

by: Charles Warren Stoddard

My heart to thy heart,
My lips to thine,
In the dew of the cornfield
The blood of the vine.
The last sigh at leaving,
The word as we part
Is, my lips to thy lips,
We two, heart to heart.

Courtesy of John Lane Company, London
John Lane, The Bodley Head MCMXVII

Artist: Dave Douglas

"The Pony Express" by: Bret Harte - Poem of the Week!

2011-02-04T12:17:00.000-08:00

The month of February features four poets/authors who were friends of Ina
Coolbrith, and inspired her work. First off, Bret Harte -- and then, Charles Warren Stoddard, Joaquin Miller and Ambrose Bierce.

The Pony Express

by: Bret Harte (1836-1902)

In times of adventure, of battle and song,
When the heralds of victory galloped along,
They spurred their faint steeds, lest the tidings too late
Might change a day's fortune, a throne, or a state.
Though theirs was all honor and glory -- no less
Is his, the bold Knight of the Pony Express.
No corselet, no vizor, nor helmet he wears,
No war-stirring trumpet or banner he bears,
But pressing the sinewy flanks of his steed,
Behold the fond missives that bid him "God-speed."
Some ride for ambition, for glory, or less,
"Five dollars an ounce" asks the Pony Express.

Trip lightly, trip lightly, just out of the town,
Then canter and canter, o'er upland and down,
Then trot, pony, trot, over upland and hill,
Then gallop, boy, gallop, and galloping still,
Till the ring of each horse-hoof, as forward ye press,
Is lost in the track of the Pony Express.

By marshes and meadow, by river and lake,
By upland and lowland, by forest and brake,
By dell and by cañon, by bog and by fen,
By dingle and hollow, by cliff and by glen,
By prairie and desert, and vast wilderness,
At morn, noon, and evening, God speed the Express.

(The Pony Express was, at one time,
the sole dependence of the Pacific
Coast for the latest news from the
Atlantic.) Poster Credit: Courtesy
of Pony Express National Memorial,
St. Joseph, MO

Bret Harte, Born in Albany, New York, August 25, 1836; died in Camberley, England, May 6, 1902. The life of Bret Harte spanned the picturesque period of the building-up of the great West, particularly of California in the years immediately succeeding the rush to the gold fields. Harte was still a lad when he went to California and though he had himself received but a common-school education, he began life in California as a teacher, leaving this occupation for mining, printing, carrying express, or whatever work he could obtain, until he formed an editorial connection with the "Golden Era" of San Francisco. This gave him the opportunity to develop and exercise his original talent and his stories, sketches, and poems soon began to attract attention. He edited in turn "The Californian," a weekly paper in which his "Condensed Novels" were published, and "The Overland Monthly," whose second number was distinguished by "The Luck of Roaring Camp." During the four years in which he was connected with the "Overland Monthly" much of his most characteristic work, including the humorous poem, "Plain Talk from Truthful James," appeared in its pages. From this period the course of his life changed completely. He removed to the Atlantic Coast and in 1878 was appointed United States Consul to Crefeld, Germany. Two years later he was transferred to the consulate at Glasgow, Scotland, where he remained five years and upon his retirement took up a permanent residence in England. Most of the work upon which his fame rests was done prior to his entry into the diplomatic service. The pioneer life of the West lives in his stories and poems with their sharply delineated types, their racy humor, their sentiment and pathos.

(This biographical note is reprinted from
The Little Book of American Poets: 1787-1900.
Ed. Jessie B. Rittenhouse. Cambridge:
Riverside Press, 1915.)

Out of the Shadows - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-01-30T19:47:00.000-08:00

Out of the Shadows

Caught between shadow and light;
Or, stubborn indecisions –
Left for dead with spits of spite,
Or coughing up accusations.

Cornered by two local gangs
Down an alley walked by choice;
Hunted until the gun bangs,
Without an eye, but a voice.

Trapped in the niche of twilight;
Drawn by skillful handiwork
Or a random crayon night?
Too late for any clockwork.

Wedged between one dusty book
(The absolute, endless lamp),
And scores with a random look
(A bacchanalia camp).

Drifted in a fog of dreams,
Blinded by hesitation,
Coasted through various themes,
And shaded from true action.

From the weight I have carried
The dust splits open a page,
Out of the nights which wearied,
The lamp creates a new stage.

Artist: Dave Douglas

The Other Side of Doubt - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-01-21T08:29:00.000-08:00

A selection from my book
"Retro," which uses a
cinquain - a 5-line poem.

The Other Side Of Doubt

I slept on the other side of doubt
Last night and the night before;
Oh, how I relish a sleep devout,
Discovering what dreams turn out –
From surreal paintings to heroic lore.

But not all nights are such an oasis –
Cajoling scoundrels of the day,
Anxiety monsters invading my palace,
And razor tongues haunt me sleepless
As childhood stomping grounds disobey.

The clock ticks by in counter rhythm
And echoes against the window
With pervasive thoughts so phantom;
I struggle to discover the right serum
As this battle rages on my pillow.

Yet, I will not be deprived tonight –
I locate green pastures throughout,
Ask for calming waters of respite,
Filling my soul even into daylight
To sleep on the other side of doubt.

Psalm 23: 1-3;
Philippians 4: 6

Artist: Dave Douglas

Canceled Trip - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-01-14T08:16:00.000-08:00

Canceled Trip

I was warmly greeted
With a hug from the sun,
Yet upon the bright snow
Was a lone reflection.

Unwelcomed discontent
Or translated regret –
One more broken promise
Or forgiven upset.

Connected not by sight,
I was warmly greeted
With a kiss from my star,
A locale more vivid.

Artist: Dave Douglas

The image of "my star," refers to the same
in Robert Browning's poem, My Star.
_______________________________________________

My Star

by: Robert Browning

All, that I know
Of a certain star
Is, it can throw
(Like the angled spar)
Now a dart of red,
Now a dart of blue;
Till my friends have said
They would fain see, too,
My star that dartles the red and the blue!
Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled:
They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it.
What matter to me if their star is a world?
Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it.

Sword - POEM of the WEEK!

2011-01-07T00:35:00.001-08:00

Sword

The silversmith finished his work,
Another sword was never made,
While kings and thieves wore a smirk,
The blade cut without a crusade.

Hearts bled out into the black street,
Red, white and yellow roses bloomed,
Faces and knees hit the concrete,
And avoided what was foredoomed.

In the hands of a meek pauper,
Or, ruler as humble servant,
Through the strength of the sword’s Master,
The bright point is ever fervent.

For the word of God is living and active. Sharper
than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even
to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it
judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.”
– Hebrews 4:12

Artist: Dave Douglas

"Under the Christmas Snow" by: Ina Coolbrith - Poem of the Week!

2010-12-31T00:16:00.000-08:00

Under The Christmas Snow

by: Ina Coolbrith, librarian and laureate of California

Most lives lie more in the shadow, I think, than in the sun,
And the shadow from some is lifted only when life is done;
And so, though I wear mourning, I am glad at heart to know,
She rests in her still white slumber, under the Christmas snow.

She was to have married Philip. He sailed with his ship in June.
How long they walked by the sea that night, under the waning moon!
“A year and a day of parting, and a lifetime, sweet, with you.”
Ah me, but we dream life bravely, if only our dreams came true!

She spoke of him very little: ‘twas never her way to talk;
But the restless nights, the restless days, the long, long tireless walk,
Forever beside the ocean. I fancied, almost, there grew
A picture of ocean within her eyes. O tend’rest eyes I knew!

Forever the ocean! Until her heart seemed even to time its beat
With the pulse and the throb of the waters that drifted to her feet;
She smiled when the sea was smiling, and her face in the tempest roar
Grew white as the fury of breakers, that beat on the rocky shore.

Again and again in dead of night, I wakened to find-ah me! -
The still, white form at the window that looked on the lonely sea.
Forever and ever the ocean! And I thought, with yearning pain,
“If only the year were over, and Philip were back again! ”

June passed into December. We were merry at Christmas-tide.
Berry and oak and holly, and folk from the country-side;
Music and feast and frolic, laughter and life and light-
I never missed poor Maggie, till far into the night.

Why should I think of the saying, somewhere that I had read:
“Pray for the one beloved, if he be living or dead,
In the hush of the Christmas midnight he will appear to thee.”
O Maggie, sister Maggie, down by the moaning sea! -

Still as a ghost in the moonlight; white as the drifted snow;
Cold as the pitiless waters, surging to and fro.
Why are your arms extended-what do your eyes behold?
O Maggie, sister Maggie, never your lips have told!

I do not like to speak it. You surely will understand.
She was always gentle and harmless; -nay, when the days are bland’
Quite happy, I think; but in winter, when winds and waves were high,
She would shudder at times, and utter a pitiful, moaning cry.

Artist: Dave Douglas

"Christmas Eve: 1872" by: Ina Coolbrith - Poem of the Week!

2010-12-24T07:30:00.001-08:00

Christmas Eve: 1872

by: Ina Coolbrith

Peace in the snowy breast,
O cloud from storm at rest!
Peace in the winds that sleep
Upon the deep.

Peace in the starry height:
Peace infinite,
Through all the worlds that move
Within His love.

O! all sad hearts, that be
On land or on the sea,
God’s peace with you rest light
This Christmas night!

And with the souls that stand
In that dear land
Where pain and all tears cease,
Most perfect peace!

Artist: Dave Douglas [Hope Valley, California]

"The Day of Our Lord" by: Ina Coolbrith - Poem of the Week!

2010-12-17T10:19:00.000-08:00

The Day Of Our Lord

by: Ina Coolbrith

The chime of many bells upon the air
Calling to halls of prayer,
And, from the street,
A child’s laugh, shrill and sweet,
Break in upon my silence, and the thought
The day has brought.

Christ’s Day! The sacred morn
Whereon, long centuries past, the Lord was born.
With the deep-toning bells,
The organs’ sinks and swells,
The churches’ pageantry,
The song, the feasting and festivity-
How many think of Thee?
Of Thee, and this Thy day,
And all the solemn story which it tells?

Do I? I look within
On mine own sin;
I do not need to gaze without, to find
The mote that makes another’s vision blind,
Or seek along strange ways
For burdens that make weary all the days.
I know Whose willing breast
Would bear my load;
I know Whose clasp, most blest,
Would lead the feet that stumble on the road;
I know His sure abode, -
And hear, unceasingly,
The call, “Come unto me,
And I will give you rest! ”

We know . . . and answer not!
The fiercest fights are fought,
Not between nations, nor ‘twixt race and race,
But in the human soul’s still, secret space.
The pride that yields not unto foe or friend;
The stubborn will that breaks not, nor will bend;
The vengeful thought where falsehood’s cruel wrong
And serpent-fanged ingratitude have stung;
The base ambition that would self exalt,
Upon another’s effort; envy, strife,
The cowardice that dares not own the fault;
The vampire, hate that drains the veins of life, -
Of these the forces which the soul engage
To hold it from its holy heritage:
Of these the foes, whose multitudes appall,
That it must meet, to fell them or to fall.

How hard it seems! How simple it all is!
And oh, the priceless worth!
It reckons not of worldly power or pelf,
Nor of earth-praise the meed.
The all in all in this His simple creed:
“Love thou thy God; thy neighbor as thyself;
Forgive, as thou dost hope to be forgiven! ”
And lo! we have sweet Heaven
About us on earth.

It is Thy day, dear Lord,
Help me remember it.
Help me to live thy word,
So living, honor it.
Help me to thrust away
My cruel foes, to-day,
Forever and for aye.
It is Thy day, dear Lord,
It is Thy Day!

Artist: Dave Douglas

"The Lot of Christ" by: Ina Coolbrith - Poem of the Week!

2010-12-10T10:46:00.000-08:00

The Lot of Christ

by: Ina Coolbrith

His was the lowliest lot of all
That fell to mortal birth:
A Babe within a manager laid,
Nor gold nor treasure worth;
With feet to tread the path of pain,
But not the ways of mirth;
A cross to bear, the thorns to wear-
The King of all the earth!

[Original photo from
unknown photographer.
Photo digitally altered
by Dave Douglas]

"After The Winter Rain" by: Ina Coolbrith - Poem of the Week!

2010-12-03T11:52:00.000-08:00

After The Winter Rain

by: Ina Coolbrith

After the winter rain,
Sing robin! -sing, swallow!
Grasses are in the lane,
Buds and flowers will follow.

Woods shall ring, blith and gay,
With bird-trill and twitter,
Though the sky weep to-day,
And the winds are bitter.

Though deep call unto deep
As calls the thunder,
And white the billows leap
The tempest under;

Softly the waves shall come
Up the long, bright beaches,
With dainty flowers of foam
And tenderest speeches.

After the wintery pain,
And the long, long sorrow,
Sing heart! -for thee again
Joy comes with the morrow.

Artist: Dave Douglas

Hourglass - POEM of the WEEK!

2010-11-26T00:00:00.000-08:00

Hourglass

If only each grain
took a day to fall;
the rush that fills time
wouldn’t feel so empty.

If only the drain
of finite gravity
wasn’t clogged
in every situation.

If only the pain
of being struck
was just a bit fewer
than being filled.

If only champagne
funneled downward
between the space
of every midnight.

If only someone
would discontinue
turning it over –
until that is achieved

there is too little sand
for such a large glass.

Artist: Dave Douglas

Lost in Translation - POEM of the WEEK!

2010-11-19T22:51:00.000-08:00

Lost in Translation

In a jungle of languages
voices bounce off concrete,
ricochet off steel and glass

to form glazed faces
which strain for a reflection
of someone familiar.

From one tower to a multitude,
cries scrape and scratch the sky
and rain down the cultural drain

to drown in a subterranean sea
of a linguistic labyrinth
which are lost in translation.

On the pathway of impatience
feet trample salutations –
it’s any wonder we wander

between gaps of generations
and fall into sink-holes
of a collapsed encounter.

In a jingle of sound-bytes
phrases are caught and skipped
across a shallow murky pool

to sink in a nausea of noise
and again we find ourselves
lost in translation.

Within the echoes of history
we shout for understanding
and seek the original rendition.

Artist: Dave Douglas

Writers Block - POEM of the WEEK!

2010-11-12T12:09:00.001-08:00

Writers Block

I turned the corner
and there it was!
a row of houses
each filled with imagination

I scribbled down the street
held by a free-hand –
a life of permanence
unable to erase memories

I skipped up the steps
only to discover a locked door –
a repeated occurrence
until the last attempted point

I exclaimed at the threshold
of a lost original thought
to be formed somewhere inside
the living spaces of tomorrow

yes – there I was! on Writers Block –
a neighborhood of experiences
marked by errors and flowing ideas
if only you had the courage to knock

Artist: Dave Douglas

Not Just Possible - POEM of the WEEK!

2010-11-05T18:18:00.000-07:00

Not Just Possible

The stride of an ant
The stretch of a man’s arm
And the depth and breadth
Of the Grand Canyon

The gauge of our will
The auto-pilot of logic
And the stop-light of mind
Preceding illumination

The singularity of a black-hole
The vastness of the universe
And the budding potential
On a small blue marble

The magnitude of our heart
The source within our soul
And the potential for love
Is the choice of our will

The tenderness of a new-born
The vulnerability of emotion
And the fragility and strength
Of the shell of our residence

When rulers become leaders
When the weak become strong
It’s one – and another one –
One for each another

And – it’s not just possible.

Artist: Dave Douglas

"In the Home of the Famous Dead" by: Jo McDougall - Poem of the Week!

2010-10-29T12:40:00.000-07:00

In the Home of the Famous Dead

by: Jo McDougall

The perfect visit. We pay and we go in,
the way we first enter a hospital room
except that we don't have to talk to anyone
and the men if they wear hats keep them on.
We know this is not the house they knew,
not the way they knew it, anyway,
when they were eating and laughing and having colds.
The best furniture has been removed, and the rugs.
What's left, the chintz and brass, is [pretentious] stuff.
Still, there's a whiff of bacon in the kitchen.
We shuffle along beside the velvet ropes,
subdued. A small boy tries to cross under,
not yet afraid of dustless, perfect rooms.

[This concludes the feature of Jo McDougall for
the month of October. All poems are found in her
book, entitled "Towns Facing Railroads" as featured
above. Also, to the left, check out her book, "Dirt."]

"Rooms" by: Jo McDougall - Poem of the Week!

2010-10-22T11:10:00.000-07:00

Rooms

by: Jo McDougall

Whenever I see someone loading a car
with a [radio], baskets, a rolled rug,
I think of what is left in the rooms
where people I have never met
argue or eat or pull on their socks.
Blindfolded, I could walk you through those rooms.
I could find, if needed to, a needle I used once,
fallen between the boards.

Artist: Dave Douglas (Photograph of
wall mural in downtown Pleasanton)

"Fields" by: Jo McDougall - Poem of the Week!

2010-10-15T05:35:00.000-07:00

Fields

by: Jo McDougall

Driving the interstate from Little Rock to Conway,
I see rice growing in the fields.
It is green as creme de menthe.
The levees are dark chocolate.
I want to stuff the fields into my mouth.

Artist: Dave Douglas

"Buying a House" by: Jo McDougall - Poem of the Week!

2010-10-08T07:01:00.000-07:00

Buying a House

by: Jo McDougall

The people who live here have left
to let me look.
The real estate lady struggles with the key.
I see the half-bath, the den, the dining nook,
black shoes with cracks across the toes,
seed catalogs and toothpaste.
I should not be in this house,
There is something here I'm supposed to understand.

Artist: Dave Douglas

"Small Town at Dusk" by: Jo McDougall - Poem of the Week!

2010-10-01T15:41:00.000-07:00

Small Town at Dusk

by: Jo McDougall

Cars on the bypass
move between places with restaurants
we have forgotten the names of.
Fireflies appear and disappear.
Night takes the sidewalks first
and then the marigolds and the sprinklers,
the children's skates.
Nothing argues with the ambling dogs
except the tree frogs and the occasional slamming
of a screen door.

Artist: Dave Douglas (Inspired by a cover photo
by Sandra Frierson for Jo McDougall's collection
of poems entitled, Towns Facing Railroads, in which
this selection is found. Scene in photo is the Railroad
crossing at St. Mary Street in downtown Pleasanton, CA.)

This Love Letter [a pantoum] - POEM of the WEEK!

2010-09-24T10:44:00.000-07:00

The following poem was found pasted on the inside of the front cover of a Bible which belonged to a missionary in Malaysia several decades after he died in the late 1990s. There is no record as to the cause of his death. Based on the way in which his Bible was found, it was determined he was an honored man. The four passages below were hand-written on the opposite page of the poem.

This Love Letter [a pantoum]

This love letter written into our very being
Is the mystery unsolved just with reason.
Then how can belief exist without seeing?
Even the mind can perform outside treason.

Is the mystery, unsolved just with reason,
This love letter written across the sky?
Even the mind can perform outside treason,
This too was created with a heart to cry.

This love letter written across the sky:
“He has set eternity in the hearts of men,”
This too was created with a heart to cry;
Yet, we cannot fathom beginning to end.

He has set eternity in the hearts of men!
Though it is dark since the garden fall,
Yet we cannot fathom beginning to end;
Therefore, His well of blood spilt for us all.

Though, it is dark since the garden fall …
Then how can belief exist without seeing?
Therefore, His well of blood spilt. For us all,
This love letter, written into our very being.

“He has made everything beautiful in its time.
He has also set eternity in the hearts of men;
yet they cannot fathom what God has done
from beginning to end.” – Ecclesiastes 3:11

“For since the creation of the world God's
invisible qualities, His eternal power and divine
nature have been clearly seen, being understood
from what has been made, so that men are
without excuse. For although they knew God,
they neither glorified Him as God nor gave thanks
to Him, but their thinking became futile and their
foolish hearts were darkened.” – Romans 1:20-21

“In him we have redemption through his blood,
the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the
riches of God's grace.” – Ephesians 1:7

“Love the Lord your God with all your heart and
with all your soul and with all your mind and
with all your strength.” – Mark 12:30

NOTE: The introductory paragraph is a fictional preface, and is meant to be a part of the poem.

Artist: Dave Douglas

Reversal [a pantoum] - POEM of the WEEK!

2010-09-17T14:57:00.000-07:00

Reversal [a pantoum]

Although fantasies die faster than age
Hunger for a ripe apple, always ripe
It lingers far beyond the burning page
Feeding on winds of the shifting type

Hunger for a ripe apple, always ripe
Is rotting the ever-searching hand
Feeding on winds of the shifting type
And tearing the roots of every land

Is rotting the ever-searching hand
A feat worth the effort of reversal?
And, tearing the roots of every land
A prospect further than rehearsal?

A feat worth the effort of reversal
Can mend the roots of every land
A prospect further than rehearsal
Can appease the ever-searching hand

Feeding on the wind of the constant type
It lingers far beyond the burning page
Hunger for a ripe apple, always ripe
Although fantasies die faster than age

Artist: Dave Douglas

Toy Soldiers [a pantoum] - POEM of the WEEK!

2010-09-10T18:44:00.001-07:00

Toy Soldiers [a pantoum]

If we stop playing with toy soldiers
How are we supposed to grow up?
In a room filled with strangers
Most are filled with syrup

How are we supposed to grow up?
Many of us grew up too fast
Most are filled with syrup
While walking on stage miscast

Many of us grew up too fast
No one to share our imagination
While walking on stage miscast
We miss the queue for action

No one to share our imagination
Our thoughts turn toward chaos
We miss the queue for action
And wonder why we are at a loss

Our thoughts turn toward chaos
In a room filled with strangers
And wonder why we are at a loss
If we stop playing with toy soldiers

Artist: Dave Douglas

Tangent [a pantoum] - POEM of the WEEK!

2010-09-03T14:53:00.001-07:00

Tangent [a pantoum]

However brief
No matter the length
They will, in disbelief
Meet, lacking strength

No matter the length
A line that blends,
Meet lacking strength
The circle of friends

A line that blends –
It exists just outside
The circle of friends
Who cannot decide

It exists just outside,
A diverging purpose
Who can decide?
With, or without trespass

A diverging purpose:
They will in disbelief,
With or without trespass
However brief

[Also published in Synchronized Chaos, May 2010]

Artist: Dave Douglas

"We Should Be Well Prepared" by: Mary Oliver - Poem of the Week!

2010-08-27T07:46:00.001-07:00

We Should Be Well Prepared

by: Mary Oliver

The way the plovers cry goodbye,
The way the dead fox keeps on looking
down the hill with open eye,
The way the leaves fall, and there's the long wait,
The way someone says: we must never meet again.
The way mold spots the cake,
the way sourness overtakes the cream,
The way the river rushes by, never to return.
The way the days go by, never to return.
The way somebody comes back, but only in a dream.

If you enjoyed Mary Oliver's poetry,
try more from her book entitled, "Swan."

[Artist: Andrea Danti]

"Both Worlds" by: Mary Oliver - Poem of the Week!

2010-08-20T07:25:00.000-07:00

Both Worlds

by: Mary Oliver

Forever busy, it seems,
with words,
finally
I put the pen down

and crumple
most of the sheets
and leave one or two,
sometimes a few,

for the next morning.
Day after day --
year after year --
it has gone on this way,

I rise from the chair,
I put on my jacket
and leave the house
for that other world --

the first one,
the holy one --
where the trees say
nothing the toad says

nothing the dirt
says nothing and yet
what has always happened
keeps happening:

the trees flourish,
the toad leaps,
and out of the silent dirt
the blood-red roses rise.

Artist: Dave Douglas

"The Orchard" by: Mary Oliver - Poem of the Week!

2010-08-13T00:24:00.000-07:00

The Orchard

by: Mary Oliver

I have dreamed
of accomplishment.
I have fed

ambition.
I have traded
nights of sleep

for a length of work.
Lo, and I have discovered
how soft bloom

turns to green fruit
which turns to sweet fruit.
Lo, and I have discovered

all winds blow cold
at last,
and the leaves

so pretty, so many,
vanish
in the great, black

packet of time,
in the great, black
packet of ambition,

and the ripeness
of the apple
is its downfall.

Artist: Dave Douglas

"There Is a Place Beyond Ambition" by: Mary Oliver - Poem of the Week!

2010-08-06T08:16:00.000-07:00

There Is a Place Beyond Ambition

by: Mary Oliver

When the flute players
couldn’t think of what to say next

they laid down their pipes,
then they lay down themselves
beside the river

and just listened.
Some of them, after a while,
jumped up
and disappeared back inside the busy town.
But the rest—
so quiet, not even thoughtful—
are still there,

still listening.

Artist: Dave Douglas

Riding Over Graffiti - POEM of the WEEK!

2010-07-30T00:00:00.000-07:00

Riding Over Graffiti

[a hsinku]

Riding over graffiti up the climb
I take a risk and start to fly,
The cheers are deafening –
I stop, and write a reply.

[Photo: Unknown. Modification by: Dave Douglas]

The World Is (A Hsinku) - POEM of the WEEK!

2010-07-23T06:03:00.000-07:00

The World Is (a hsinku)

The world is a glass-eye –
Lives shatter into tiny pieces
Crashing into one another –
One eye closed ... among choices.

Artist: Dave Douglas

Carved In The Pages [a hsinku] - POEM of the WEEK!

2010-07-16T00:30:00.001-07:00

Carved in the Pages

[a hsinku]

Some poems are in the snow
Packed until the spring
I forget the next line –
Carved in the pages I bring

Artist: Dave Douglas

Tripping Over Ideas [a hsinku] - POEM of the WEEK!

2010-07-09T00:01:00.000-07:00

Tripping Over Ideas

[a hsinku]

Sulking among ideas in the dark
I excuse myself from the room
Tripping over a nearby lamp –
The light turns on, and ideas bloom

Artist: Dave Douglas

Traveling in Time [a hsinku] - POEM of the WEEK!

2010-07-02T07:19:00.000-07:00

Traveling In Time

[a hsinku]

Traveling in time –
Continuity to the last;
Avoiding future errors,
Thoughts jump to the past.

[Poem also published in Synchronized Chaos Magazine, May 2010.]

(The hsinku is a four-line poem, the 2nd and 4th lines rhyme, ending with an ironic epiphany in the last.)

Artist: Dave Douglas

"O Captain! My Captain!" by: Walt Whitman - Poem of the Week!

2010-06-25T12:28:00.000-07:00

O Captain! My Captain!

by: Walt Whitman

[Artist: George Grie]

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up- for you the flag is flung - for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths - for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

"To Think of Time" by: Walt Whitman - Poem of the Week!

2010-06-18T08:15:00.000-07:00

To Think of Time, Part I

by: Walt Whitman

To think of time--of all that retrospection,
To think of to-day, and the ages continued henceforward.
Have you guess'd you yourself would not continue?
Have you dreaded these earth-beetles?
Have you fear'd the future would be nothing to you?
Is to-day nothing? is the beginningless past nothing?
If the future is nothing they are just as surely nothing.
To think that the sun rose in the east--that men and women were
flexible, real, alive--that every thing was alive,
To think that you and I did not see, feel, think, nor bear our part,
To think that we are now here and bear our part.

[Click here to read Part II to XI]

Artist: Dave Douglas

"A Noiseless, Patient Spider" by: Walt Whitman - Poem of the Week!

2010-06-11T10:51:00.000-07:00

A Noiseless, Patient Spider

by: Walt Whitman

[Original photo courtesy of National Geographic. Modification by Dave Douglas]

A noiseless, patient spider,
I marked, where, on a little promontory, it stood isolated;
Marked how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;
Ever unreeling them -- ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you, O my Soul, where you stand,
Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, --
seeking the spheres, to connect them;
Till the bridge you will need, be formed --
till the ductile anchor hold;
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.

Artist: Dave Douglas

"The Last Invocation", by: Walt Whitman - Poem of the Week!

2010-06-04T11:57:00.000-07:00

The Last Invocation

by: Walt Whitman

[Artist: George Grie]

At the last, tenderly,
From the walls of the powerful, fortressed house,
From the clasp of the knitted locks --
from the keep of the well-closed doors.
Let me be wafted

Let me glide noiselessly forth;
With the key of softness unlock the locks --
with a whisper
Set ope the doors, O Soul!

Tenderly! be not impatient!
(Strong is your hold, O mortal flesh!
Strong is your hold, O love.)

Imaginarium - POEM of the WEEK! 05/28

2010-05-28T08:58:00.000-07:00

Imaginarium

My school had a lengthy class
But they were all as such.
One teacher took us places;
She did not need to say much.
Along the white line to nowhere
I stood quietly as was trained,
But black ink shot out of my pen
And my classmates complained.

In the quiet of my bedroom
I covered pages with imagination
Until I was warm with thoughts
And traveled every nation –

To mountains new to my eyes,
To ocean depths I had never been,
To temples and public houses
And faces I had never seen.

“I felt the senseless rage drain
From every pour in my body
Until the plunder of my soul
Could no longer rescue me!” …

My adrenaline soared off a cliff,
I murdered for a woman’s hand,
My ears rang from the applause,
And none of it actually happened.

“The thoughts of rest slowed,
Slowed long enough for the wind
To move from the golden hills
Until the walls of my heart thinned.” …

And, I had boxes and boxes of stories
Stacked for any willing editor.
But the flow of the process stopped,
Like a dam destroying a river.

Springs and summers passed,
Until every season felt like winter.
While I had balanced out each day,
The library was my single adventure.
Until one day, a sunrise surprised me!
It peeked over the mailbox with delight,
An acceptance shined on a story of old –
Imaginarium! And, I continue to write.

“According to [Jack] London’s biographer Alex Kershaw,
the library was the boy’s ‘preferred classroom,’…” – Aleta George

[Also read, in slightly different
form, at the Ina Coolbrith Circle
monthly meeting on May 23, 2010.]

Artist: Dave Douglas (If the picture within the book appears familiar, click here!)

This concludes the theme of "Journeys".

The Impossible Poem - POEM of the WEEK! 05/21

2010-05-21T12:10:00.000-07:00

The Impossible Poem

[Also published in Synchronized Chaos Magazine May 2010]

Like a pirate on a mission of mercy
There are roses blooming every cold winter
Scarcely outside all of our perception –
Tranquility through the eye with a splinter

Like a twilight shadow reversing its course
All the nations are walking extra miles
Like a lion protecting a flock of sheep
There are militia sharing their stockpiles

Like water supporting the weight of a man
There is light beyond the shores of tomorrow
Another day I awake breathing earth’s air
Unless I am hiding frightened down below

Like a stone temple into pliable clay
All of the flawed candles melt the hearts of ice
Like a long-drawn-out line for the electric chair
There is innocence to pay everyone’s price

Like a groom on a horse coming for his bride
There is a day one will break every column –
If I give a pen to a once gnarled hand
What will thrive is the impossible poem

[Artist of glass sculpture: Frabel.
Photo modified.]

Working Title - POEM of the WEEK! 05/14

2010-05-14T08:50:00.000-07:00

Working Title

He’s as soft as the mud he works in
An obedient boot filled with liberty
He’s not afraid of his own grave
Saddened other shoes are empty

He’s been walking ever silent
On a bone-chilling December night
With a coat on one arm he sees a lost girl
On the other side of the crossing light

Wind sends a dusting of confusion
Across his field of vision and sense
Not the approaching freight-train
But his strength of persistence

The iron-horse howls for adrenaline
His father screams between his ears
He shrugs the voice then ignores spite
“Wait! Wait until the train clears!”

The pounding on the tracks keep pace
With his heart stuck in his throat
In a flurry the train is gone – so is she
Carrying a warm smile with another’s coat

He is clean from the drifting snow
Working thoughts of action spin on
As the wheels of his heart are turning
For there is a task he will be called upon

[Original Photo: courtesy of
Reuters. Modified by author.]

Road Block - POEM of the WEEK! Monthly Theme: Journeys - 05/07

2010-05-07T14:37:00.000-07:00

Road Block

Thousands of miles
Under many bridges
He hopes for more
Over the next few ridges

Paint on tarmac
He reads the signs
Many paths to suit
To one, he resigns

A Road Block stands
Between him and beyond
No paint – no sign
No viewpoints dawned

An orange Detour
Quiet frustration –
Coming to a Dead End
Brick and mortar infiltration

The walls seem to grow
In volume of graffiti
Alternative paint
In some dark alley

Beyond the skyline
An escape from reasons
To an infinite path
Provided beyond seasons

[Original Photo: A.C. George
Modified by author]

"The Trees" by: Neil Peart and "Freeway" by: Dave Douglas - POEMs of the WEEK! 04/30

2010-04-30T06:53:00.000-07:00

The Trees

by: Neil Peart

There is unrest in the Forest
There is trouble with the trees
For the Maples want more sunlight
And the Oaks ignore their pleas

The trouble with the Maples
(And they're quite convinced they're right)
They say the Oaks are just too lofty
And they grab up all the light
But the Oaks can't help their feelings
If they like the way they're made
And they wonder why the Maples
Can't be happy in their shade?

There is trouble in the forest
And the creatures all have fled
As the Maples scream `Oppression!`
And the Oaks, just shake their heads

So the Maples formed a Union
And demanded equal rights
'The Oaks are just too greedy
We will make them give us light'
Now there's no more Oak oppression
For they passed a noble law
And the trees are all kept equal
By hatchet,
Axe,
And saw ...

The Trees is from the album Hemispheres. A Forest, Maples and Oaks. To discover the theme and message of this piece, the best starting point is to remind ourselves that the Rush trio is Canadian, and the maple leaf is their national icon. The Forest is a metaphor for their beloved homeland. The Maples represent the citizens and the Oaks the government. At first, there is “unrest”. Throughout the descriptive narrative, we are led through a series of “pleas”. By the end, “are all kept equal” – a result I will leave for you to decipher.

Peart is also the
author of "Ghost Rider."

The same theme holds true with the following poem, Freeway. This is my first politically inspired poem – I have steered away from them (up until recently), due to their controversial nature. However, Freeway was practically written by my own pen.

In the poem, all is made equal among the people of the slow lane and the fast lane. However, it’s in our human nature for those in power, to still drive in the fast lane, and to be in a class greater than its citizens. This results in a collapse in the system. Lastly, as with the Roman Empire, too much public assistance will only result in a system to heavy to hold its own weight. Freeway is a present-day commentary on the direction America is progressing toward.

Freeway

by: Dave Douglas

Relative to the lane on the left
The slow lane was inadequate;
But soon, it was just as smooth,
Just as fast, without any audit.

In time … all lanes seemed fast,
And attracted more to merge.
In time, the fast-lane accelerated;
Sadly, again, the freeway collapsed.

“The budget should be balanced, the Treasury should be refilled, public debt should be reduced, the arrogance of officialdom should be tempered and controlled, and the assistance to foreign lands should be curtailed lest Rome become bankrupt. People must again learn to work, instead of living on public assistance." ~ Cicero - 55 BC

"Limelight" by: Neil Peart and "Invisible Ink" by: Dave Douglas - POEMs of the WEEK! 04/23

2010-04-25T18:24:00.000-07:00

Artist: John Trefethen

Limelight

by: Neil Peart

Living on a lighted stage
Approaches the unreal
For those who think and feel
In touch with some reality
Beyond the gilded cage

Cast in this unlikely role,
Ill-equipped to act,
With insufficient tact,
One must put up barriers
To keep oneself intact
Living in the Limelight,
The universal dream
For those who wish to seem

Those who wish to be
Must put aside the alienation,
Get on with the fascination,
The real relation,
The underlying theme

Living in a fisheye lens,
Caught in the camera eye
I have no heart to lie,
I can't pretend a stranger
Is a long-awaited friend

All the world's indeed a stage,
And we are merely players,
Performers and portrayers,
Each another's audience
Outside the gilded cage

Limelight is from the album Moving Pictures. A performer's life is dramatically catapulted into the limelight, which adds the struggle of remaining true to one's self and to the audience. The parallel is metaphorically transferred to each of our lives as we live out, "perform", each day.

A slightly similar theme holds true in Invisible Ink -- into the core of an author, and artist. There is something there that festers within and without, and the desire to remain in Truth must be made known on the page.

Invisible Ink

by: Dave Douglas

It salivates within my soul,
And festers from my feet,
It reaches my mind’s keyhole
Through fingers of slight control,
Opening to a page incomplete.

From my blood-filled cartridge
To the bottom of a pen point,
I narrowly miss the vestige
Of my thought’s passage,
Hoping two will be conjoint.

I fill the page with verse,
But blurs smudge the lines;
If only life were in reverse
I could understand this curse,
And follow this sign:

When your heart is quiet,
Blend ink with what you mean;
From a well within your spirit,
The Truth will light up the pit,
As you state what you have seen.

"Subdivisions" by: Neil Peart and "Return to Pear Trail" by: Dave Douglas - POEMs of the WEEK! 04/16

2010-04-16T13:09:00.000-07:00

Subdivisions

by: Neil Peart

Sprawling on the fringes of the city
In geometric order
An insulated border
In between the bright lights
And the far unlit unknown

Growing up it all seems so one-sided
Opinions all provided
The future pre-decided
Detached and subdivided
In the mass production zone
Nowhere is the dreamer or the misfit so alone

Subdivisions
In the high school halls
In the shopping malls
Conform or be cast out
Subdivisions
In the basement bars
In the backs of cars
Be cool or be cast out
Any escape might help to smooth the unattractive truth
But the suburbs
have no charms to soothe the restless dreams of youth

Drawn like moths we drift into the city
The timeless old attraction
Cruising for the action
Lit up like a firefly
Just to feel the living night

Some will sell their dreams for small desires
Or lose the race to rats
Get caught in ticking traps
And start to dream of somewhere
To relax their restless flight
Somewhere out of a memory of lighted streets on quiet nights...

Subdivisions is from the album Signals. The theme of escaping the city, but ironically removing oneself from the “metric border” where one escaped ironically permeates throughout this piece. Something new. Something different than the way it was, or the way it is. After listening to a recent interview with Geddy Lee (bass guitar, keyboards and vocals) and Alex Lifeson (guitar), I discovered a new perspective regarding Subdivisions. All three artists' parents immigrated from a European city and the Canadian suburbs were new to them – an escape. Now, the suburbs are seen as a trap – “Or lose the race to rats / Get caught in ticking traps …” Therefore, there is an escape to the city where the atmosphere takes “flight.”

In Return to Pear Trail, a title with an obvious “Peart” overtone, the same theme holds true. However, in this piece the country, the rural area is the escape. The point of both is to live in such a way so as not to let routine trap you in an existence without meaning.

Return to Pear Trail

by: Dave Douglas

Marched up the steel stairs
onto the platform at the Station
shoved into the grafitti window
I staired at the grid of streets and

the wrecking yards of modern homes
a mirror of our interior, until --
I overheard a white-haired man groan
then talk of the town's past ...

"... the railway was once a trail
that passed through the orchards
'Pear Trail' it was once known
when feet took us among trees

where we felt the roots
reach into our hearts
and found our dreams
flower among the leaves

toward the never-ending sky
and blossom into fruit
for all to eat plenty and keep
the rhythms of our stride …”

"The Enemy Within" by: Neil Peart, and "Grace Under Pressure" by: Dave Douglas - POEMs of the WEEK! 04/09

2010-04-09T06:45:00.000-07:00

The Enemy Within, Part one of Fear

by: Neil Peart

Things crawl in the darkness
That imagination spins
Needles at your nerve ends
Crawl like spiders on your skin

Pounding in your temples
And a surge of adrenaline
Every muscle tense ---
To fence
The enemy within...

I'm not giving in
To security under pressure
I'm not missing out
On the promise of adventure
I'm not giving up
On implausible dreams ---
Experience to extremes ---
Experience to extremes

Suspicious-looking stranger
Flashes you a dangerous grin
Shadows across your window ---
Was it only trees in the wind?

Every breath a static charge ---
A tongue that tastes like tin
Steely-eyed outside ---
To hide
The enemy within...

To you -- is it movement or is it action?
It is contact or just reaction?
And you -- revolution or just resistance?
Is it living, or just existence?
Yeah, you -- it takes a little more persistence
To get up and go the distance...

“To be, or not to be, that is the question: …” The energy with which Peart revisits this theme is on a grand scale equal to the master poet from Stratford-on-Avon. “Experience to extremes”, the center-point of the theme encapsulates the first three stanzas as the first-person narrative literally fights a psychological enemy in order to pursue “persistence / To get up and go the distance…” of “living.”

Peart redefines action, the last word in Shakespeare’s poem (from Hamlet). To the latter, it meant the opposite of sleep – a metaphor for a dead spirit, someone existing without purpose. The former implies the word “action” as a pattern, but at the same time he does not diminish the valued meaning of the word; he only uses it as a differing metaphor. To “lose the name of action”, means the same as to miss out on “adventure” and “implausible dreams”. This is in deed “the enemy within.”

The Enemy Within has another theme which is interwoven with the above analysis. It is Part II in a series entitled, Fear. This part covers the inner fears that many times dictate our actions, if they are allowed to do so.

The Enemy Within is from the album Grace Under Pressure. I always thought of writing a poem with that title, but was unable to present it in a fashion worthy of the phrase until just recently. One of the many aspects of the writings of Peart is his style with regard to stanza lengths and rhyming patterns. I thought it appropriate to write a poem entitled Grace Under Pressure with the same number of lines per stanza and rhyming pattern as with The Enemy Within. But, that is not all that inspired me! I sought to have a sense of urgency, and provide the source of my strength to “endure” as defined by the metaphor of “grace.”

Grace Under Pressure

by: Dave Douglas

I roll on a paved, smooth highway
On cruise-control, six lanes wide
Neon lights flood persistence of vision
Linger along the peripheral roadside

The exits are under construction
And the lanes begin to divide
The pressures detain –
Same to insane
Until grace comes inside

I am not along for any ride
Or servant to a steel cage
I am not certain
Of conflicting maps and no gauge
I am not in the backseat
But I should not drive
To a place I cannot arrive
Knowing I am still alive …

The path is one lane and dirt
Along trees and up a hillside
Something foreign is on my face
A grin where I once sighed

Flat tires and road blocks
Off-road when I died –
Since the map I claim
Nothing is the same
When grace comes inside

I see – the point of reference
To walk a path of difference
I believe – therefore I endure
Though sometimes onto a detour
I act – for the matters of forever
With grace under pressure …

"The Larger Bowl (a pantoum)" by: Neil Peart, and "Main Ingredients (a pantoum)" by: Dave Douglas - POEMs of the WEEK! 04/02

2010-04-02T00:18:00.001-07:00

The Larger Bowl (a pantoum)

by: Neil Peart

if we're so much the same, like I always hear
why such different fortunes and fates?
some of us live in a cloud of fear
some live behind iron gates

why such different fortunes and fates?
some are blessed and some are cursed
some live behind iron gates
while others see only the worst

some are blessed and some are cursed
the golden one or scarred from birth
while others only see the worst
such a lot of pain on the earth

the golden one or scarred from birth
somethings can never be changed
such a lot of pain on this earth
It's somehow so badly arranged

some things can never be changed
some reasons will never come clear
it's somehow so badly arranged
if we're so much the same like I always hear

The Larger Bowl (a pantoum) from the album Snakes & Arrows was my first introduction to the pantoum. Immediately, I was drawn to the melodic aspect of this style of poem, along with its unique construction. A pantoum is composed of a series of quatrains with an “abab” rhyme pattern; the second and fourth lines of each stanza are repeated as the first and third lines of the next. This pattern continues for any number of stanzas, except for the final stanza, which differs in the repeating pattern. The first and third lines of the last stanza are the second and fourth of the penultimate stanza; the first line of the poem is the last line of the final stanza, and the third line of the first stanza is the second of the final. This results in a change in meaning of the lines when they are repeated. Since its conception many poets have broken one or more of the rules – for example, instead of an “abab” rhyme, an “abba” or no rhyme at all; or slightly changing one or more words in the third-to-the-last line.

Neil Peart (last name properly pronounced, "pear" with a "t"), is the magnificent drummer for the Canadian rock trio Rush. The main theme of Peart’s pantoum is the general and individual view of the various circumstances of the world – good, bad and ugly. The line “while others see only the worst” emphasizes the question, “Is the cup half-full or half-empty?” In spite of good fortune or not, fear or not, the message is one of choosing. An individual can choose how he or she responds to his or her environment, whether positive or negative. Perhaps, a perfect world would be one without choice, but then, that would make us not human. Ironically, choice is what rearranged this world. The ideal of choosing is also seen in other works by Peart such as Freewill and Roll the Bones.

My first attempt at a pantoum is the following selection, Main Ingredients. Originally, it was just an 11-line poem that I never thought worked to it’s fullest capacity. So, I decided to work with the poem and adapt it to a pantoum which expanded it from a two to a three-dimensional work of art, providing the multi-layered theme for which is was meant. Like all art forms, what defines it, is some form of structure comprised of various elements such paint, marble or words. Poetry is not only arranged by the author, but the poet considers his or her audience, as if the listener is apart of the creative process. This results in a piece that is appreciated by the audience, yet without losing the artist’s integrity. An additional theme stems from the metaphor of the work as a whole into it's rooted meaning. That is, "It is better to give than receive" (Acts 20:35), and "Love your neighbor as yourself." (Matthew 22:39).

Main Ingredient's (a pantoum)

by: Dave Douglas

Are the main ingredients of literature
Growing naturally like yeast in bread?
What holds all the inspiration together
with morsels of an uncommon thread?

Growing naturally like yeast in bread,
they need to be pounded out in the street
with morsels of an uncommon thread
before the wit of the heart is concrete.

They need to be pounded out in the street!
They must travel through a series of trials
before the wit of the heart is concrete,
avoiding tangents and sifting out thistles.

They must travel through a series of trials –
but can they be found where the heart quakes?
Avoiding tangents and sifting out thistles,
without compromising, the writer aches.

But can they be found? Where the heart quakes
And the inspiration held by the reader,
(without compromising the writer-aches)
are the main ingredients of literature.