I hope you know that poetry is bunk
Why read when machines can parse a phrase?
Why sing when we can code emotions cold?
We once wrote that the planets had a song,
but we can judge the frequency of stars.
There is little that we don’t comprehend.
We have nothing left to wash away with verse,
Except for maybe love but give us time,
We will soon have a formula for that.
I hope you know that poetry is bunk
Truth has a sound
I like to think I have heard it,
ringing in a clear voice like a church bell Sunday morning.
I think I’ve smelled it, coming home to roast beef late on a winter afternoon.
I have felt its warmth in coffee cups mediating the heat of coffee,
warming my heart through my hands, as it is always warmed.
I know truth was in these things with all the certainty of a surge of joy,
which always attends a good job well done,
But my knowledge is always incomplete,
just like a coffee cup, which cools too quickly.
I have much to learn of truth.
I cannot retain it.
the Saxophone waits
with the still drooping palm trees
the wind cleans us all
Some nights the music flows
the trombone swings on its chariot,
skimming the stars then trailing through the sea.
Some days the bird nest is in a rocket engine
and the music practically writes itself
as the spheres of sky and earth
mingle in the mind and air.
Some afternoons the fans slice the air into a slow sludge,
but there is still a music in the faded color scheme
and the slow dance of the fan.
Some nights the music falls;
it disappears in a fumbling silence,
or so it seems till I remember how to hum.
Have you seen streets where people have lived for years on years,
with balconies where iron has grown in vines
till now a century on it’s overgrown?
Where will a people learn to grow
if they cannot look to nature or a city?
Where will we learn if we cannot visit our grandmother?
Whether she is an oak tree or a café,
Her roots have grown deep
and many poetic youths have leaned against her roots
tasting the goodness of this world.
In cities too we learn the end of life.
How its end can be slow, or fast as a red light missed.
How the city grows on, uncaring.
But we all must learn this one day,
How a city responds to death is how it grows,
Whether the iron grows into spikes or flowers.
the sky is a many layered thing
we see it flat
clouds cut the sky in levels
the moon looks down at a world
deeper than it knows
it looks up
flattening its beauty to a screen.
When birds fly from A to B
They don’t follow geometry.
The shortest path may be a line
And in the rush of time we follow that
But they fly in swirls and flap five times
When I think they’d glide in straight.
Perhaps there is no lesson here.
Their brains are smaller than my fist,
But if with little mental might
They plot a wandering path of curves
Then in our rush to be most right
There’s something obvious we may have missed.
Short strips of time pressed together,
once wet and full as a cloud filled with weather
which fell upon the earth and every drop a crystal ball,
Yet now the plants lie in strips pressed dry from all
Expectancy, leaving just the essence tied to the present.
A future free, waiting to be inked, dry now but one day sent
with ink soaked into a strip of time –
a sample of this second caught in rhyme.
The silver screen is popcorn sweet
It stains the fingers and face with salt
We laugh as heroes charm their way
To cities rich with hidden gold
And as we like kernels lined in rows
Crunched together with our fellow friends
Wait for the heat of bravery and love
To warm our hearts and pop our lives
Transformed into something good and sweet.
When the breath flies far away
And the hope of youth has passed away
Even then when nonsense fills my brain
I hope that the words will flow.
For I cannot hope for no more pain
that all my loved ones will get away
that life will be as it is today
for this life must one day go.
But when it leaves for another plane
Where the old will never walk with canes
There will the music always reign
And lyrics will spring from the snow.
This all will pass in a mist like rain
and verses cannot not stay the same,
these rhymes already crack and strain
but behind the veil the words will flow.