Immortality

Why would I share it:

Show it to those

Who might throw it off,

Or take it away,

Make it theirs for some pay?

But such is art:

A frightening price,

A risky game to play.

Yet here I stay.

These lines and rhymes

I’ve thought about a hundred times.

I’ll trust you not to copy and paste,

Take my long hours in your haste,

Violate what I embraced,

Leave me with that bitter taste.

For into verse,

From birth to hearse,

We pour our lives.

And on this raft,

Built from my craft,

My soul survives.

Troy

We saw humanity itself,

Cut into flesh and bone,

Of young and old:

 

That love and love’s self-righteous fire

Ignite the icy flame

Of hatred cold;

 

That cowardice and bravery

Alike can end in tears,

Or beauty hold;

 

That jealous rage and parents’ love

Are sibling seeds to sow

The end of days.

 

Competing vanity of gods,

Like clouds in still water:

Our mirrored ways.

 

The tide is changed by whim, or turned

By heartfelt quest for truth,

But wet it stays.

 

In Homer, just as now, we live for show,

And miss the mad adventure as we go.

The richness and the poverty of all

Is in the savage beauty of her fall.

Underground Poetry

To burst through the blank:

It’s harder now.

Quick full days that laugh

At slower life

And suck the spark,

In thrall to life’s quick call.

 

To find the thought space:

Long moment where

Noise fades and my eyes,

To finger point,

Find their click in

Dream haze of writing ways.

 

On hot London tube,

With resting heads,

And all the world in

Smells of spice, dry

Smoke, leather and

Old flat seats. My mind, at

 

Last, can nestle in.

It’s sweeter now:

For long empty wait.

I write the old

Inkwell of tears

And heart spring joy of art.

Poem: Quiet, in bed

In grey tablet light

Hands twitch, clawlike,

Waiting to free write,

Itching to ink white,

Held in the gap.

 

Held in the taut gap:

Wait shake, where words

Cry out from shut trap,

No keyboard soft tap.

Can it come out?

 

Can it come help out,

Free me, take me

To new space, weight free

Floating to safety?

Words that fit right.

 

Words that have real bite,

Taste, smell, hear, touch,

Gaining fresh insight:

Gut real and skin tight.

Ink holding dreams.

 

Ink holding wild dreams.

Stanzas rocked by

Milk arms of my themes,

Safe in my rhyme schemes.

 

Firelight and moonbeams

In my pen.

Poem: January Blues

My pen is stuck on a January day

When the splurge and flat of clouds

Hovers like

The edge of thought. Twiggy trees, sad and brown

Stand defeated. Words which once

Flew are caught.

 

A new year and we will, should, must feel the

Bounce and flip of stomach hope.

But if you

Can’t, then swim through last year’s deadlines of the mind:

Lost to urgency, tar-stuck

In artist gloom.

 

In all the rustle scrunch of Christmas wrap

We dropped our threads and now search

For split ends.

We watch The Briefcase Ones who stand tall in

Their stripes and see our slow start

Through their business lens.

 

But since this only highlights business cracks

Against the sky shard metal

Of the funds,

It fails to show the human need for art.

Paint’s perfect imperfection

Money shuns.

 

And so, uncertain, we must take our time

And know that meat is richer

And more tender for slow cooking.

We turn our minds but gently

To the page and trust it will

Hold riches for the looking.