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Poem: Something Must be Done

June 6, 2015
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– Something must be done.

– Something certainly must be done;

someone should do something.

– Someome ought to,

something ought to be done.

– Someone will do something,

then something will have been done.

– Good, something had to be done.

Untitled Poem #1

May 17, 2015

In the midst of this storm of words, this tempest conjured to confuse and cast asunder,

One can only hope that these convulsions are the death throes of a sick animal.

Not the proverbial swan song of dignity and grace, but a rabid beast, with deadly disease.

As the time draws near, the sound grows louder; hope is a poor understudy to action.

Emily/Susan

December 4, 2014
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Emily –

Why can’t you love for me,

when you write it so beautifully?

And you love your Susan so well.

Dear, Darling Sue,

so good and sacred,

what more need we, to make our heavens come whole?

Only one fault I find,

in the single tear you cried,

for the distance, as measured by the moon.

I could have cried for joy one evening,

though the moon we sought to share was hiding,

smiling at the thought, she ever wished to share the sight with me.

Dear, Darling Sue,

so good and sacred,

what more need we, to make our heavens come whole?

#Poem: “May I feel,”

November 24, 2014
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“May I feel” said he,

“the softness of your breasts against my cheek;

just because they’re soft

and intimate

and I need to feel

something soft and intimate..”

 

 

“May I feel” said he,

“the softness of your breasts against my cheek;

just because they’re soft

and intimate

and I need to feel

something soft

and intimate, to heal.”

 

 

 

 

First line inspired by “may i feel said he” by e e cummings, for which reason I leave you with a excerpt from another of his works:

..exists no mightier miracle than this: to feel

– e e cummings

Poem: On meeting a man in the road

November 18, 2014
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When we were young, my friend and I, met a man in the road.

He was making snow angels, although there was no snow,

just the tinny, scratching sound of concrete and Dutch Gold.

 

He said the boys would take him away,

in a big, yellow van.

He said he hadn’t long,

then he laughed and then he cried.

 

He said the boys would come and run him down,

in a big, yellow van.

 

My peers and I gathered round, intrigued by this man’s breaking down,

we watched and talked of this and other things.

His body shook when he cried and set the cans around him trembling.

All that he had owned, was invested in this, his anesthetic,

 

for when the boys would come and run him down,

in a big, yellow van.

 

He talked of Star Wars for a time and then,

suddenly his body was righted,

his leg extended, children backed away frightened,

a girl of six or seven was lifted bodily,

his foot connected with her stomach.

 

He fell back to the ground, amid and on the cans,

and resumed his story of the big, yellow van.

 

Small but many were the hands that helped the girl to her feet.

She gave forth tears of pain and yet she did not cry,

to her little frame, the blow came as no surprise.

 

On seeing this, the silent knowledge rippled through the crowd,

each pair of eyes long since trained to recognise

those who were and were not “fine”,

according to the standards of the place.

 

The crowd turned its youthful gaze

back to the place where the man had fallen

and once more lay,

and I now realise, showed no sign of shame.

 

Though none approached,

some hand less juvenile than our own

had departed from its window and taken up its phone.

 

In due course, someone came and took the man away,

in a white and not a yellow van.

For now, at least, he was saved.

 

This could not be said of those he left behind (though not my friend and I),

beaten, bedraggled and dirty.

Many soon had children of their own,

and others died their sad and violent deaths before the age of thirty.

 

When we were young, my friend and I, met a man in the road

and afterwards, we bought a coke.

We talked of something else by the time we reached home.

Elevation

September 18, 2014

To come just high enough in the world to know what is thought about those lower down

is to sit with Frankenstein’s monster and read the master’s notes

and to know that you are one and you are all alone.

Regard the Songbird

August 3, 2014
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In the eaves at the prow of the house,

there is a little songbird living.

Living and singing,

 

A soaring song

that lifts my chest and expands my lungs to a fullness,

a fullness of feeling.

 

A sorrowful song

that hollows my chest to a cavern conscious of its own emptiness

and where the air is heavy in stillness.

 

What madness it seems for the world to go on chattering.

Stop! Regard the songbird.

Be silent and heed the song.

 

For throughout all, I swell with an impossible pride;

impossibly large, impossibly real and impossible too,

because the songbird is not of me, it is not from me.

 

But when you sing, I will strain

to catch a falling note, to keep it for my own

and that much will be mine, little Songbird.

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