You Who I Will Never Hold


I may love your forever
you, who I will never hold
a relationship based on intimacy
of feelings, of thoughts
always yearning
always disappointed
never satisfied
never full
the desire to die
or to be fulfilled
wishing for the hunger to cease
or be satisfied
the flame to be extinguished
before it destroys
how do I live with this desire
this hunger
this flame
we met at the wrong time in this life
too late
but even so
I may love you forever
you, who I will never hold

Poem: be aware


Short excerpt from the new book-length erasure poem, BAD THINGS HAPPEN.


31m2vqk1gvlthe evil
in this world

troubled
human history

call for help

LISTEN

in confidence ask
begin to understand
discern wisdom

LISTEN

open your eyes

BAD THINGS HAPPEN

be aware

BAD THINGS HAPPEN

they have been
deluded
they bought into
deceit

words
deluded them

LISTEN

you were captive
to traditions

you were buried
you were dead
you were hostile

you judged
defrauded
your mind

BAD THINGS HAPPEN

your freedom
distressed people

LISTEN

you learn
significant truths

BAD THINGS HAPPEN


Poem: the immortal sea


the immortal sea
spread like snow
white caps of salt
and seaweed
walking the carpet
of a white beach
dreaming of flying
imagine the white
endlessness
the clean swatch
of infinity
waves of salt
returning the white
water to the white
sands, the ocean’s
immortality


Just messing around with format

Sometimes I play around with different ways to present the same words on the page.  This is a redo just out of curiosity to see how it works in block format rather than more traditional lines.   If you’re interested in seeing the original, you can find it here.  I realized I haven’t really shared much here lately, but I have been working on some things, but not ready to show the newest projects yet.  So I think I’ll just starting showing some of my “process” of writing the assorted things I’m messing around with these days.


inspired

neither god nor muse on a train in a nasty mood coming from the outside from the inside the source is unimportant the poet is the poet is the real thing Yeats is Spicer’s ghost father the poem drives the poet parasite dictating to us (the Martian) Yeats’ wife possessed by spooks “I’m here to give you metaphors”