(a poem about the future) our love is like a flower for awhile there is only dirt until one day a shower and only after so much water does a sprout emerge at first, the days are hard and the sprout may falter frost may chill and nearly topple the young plant to the verge of disaster yes our love is like a flower deep within this fragile exterior lives the power to over-come when things are dire then one day it is summer we wake up one morning and our love has a blossom for a time it is the most beautiful thing possible until pollination comes --- seeds scattered --- next year new flowers will be born and that is all that matters ...m.e.s. .april.24.2014...
(a poem about the past) all of the secret spaces of my childhood have all been found ===paved over=========================== we couldn't find the creek with the tiny waterfall where we used to get high and drink beer they had built an asphalt path right up to it and a bench where you could sit down wouldn't it be nice if they could instead build paths to those memories where i could walk right up to them and sit down but instead things change and i cannot relive the past nor can i rewrite the future ...m.e.s. .april.20.2014...
toiling away on a cash register to make money to make a miracle where my pennies saved might be valuable enough for my life to be more enjoyable not that money will make life more tenable we have all learned the parable: wealth is the root of all evil but it might afford me the time for meter or the resources to complete my lieder if only i could be a believer the way you believe in God after meeting the reaper but instead my soul gets weaker the hole i'm digging: deeper my worth ever cheaper i don't trust me either unless the goal is to falter; i let down my favorite people i curse man then cry in his steeple but will try and help, no matter how feeble to fix any tear all you need is thread and a needle the hope is in sight; don't give up for so little we all knew it would be hard to fight this battle we all know it's not easy when you don't blend in with the cattle we also all know what matters: we've seen it in all kinds of patterns each day, another wrung in the ladder each step up closer to heaven each step down closer to disaster/ my head on a platter let's eat and get fatter ...m.e.s. .feb.16.2014...
still it is winter-
a brisk twenty-three degrees-
but birds are singing
snow, snow go away-
come again some other day-
I must work and play
the sea and the sun
and the wind which shapes this world
cannot change your soul
God cannot tell you
who you are or what to do
flowers breathe and bloom
we are strong as rocks
no matter the size, each stone
is part of a whole
I'd like to present to you some new work which I've been working on. Expect to see large prints of these pictures and other images dealing with the cohabitation of man and earth in the coming weeks, as well as show announcements for the Spring and Summer. The three photographs I've highlighted here were all taken in Milwaukee this February at the Mitchell Park Conservatory Bio-Domes. The domes are always an other-worldly experience - stark geometry contrasted by exotic natural beauty. This was made plain for us immediately upon entering. In flaming scarlet, a male Cardinal danced desperately with a female, the two separated by the glass and steel of the domes, doomed, yet determined, the sound of wings batting fruitlessly against the barrier sounding a subtle echo through the hum of the ventilation system.
I was going through a notebook that I''ve nearly finished up and came across this poem from just about a year ago exactly. It is exactly what I look for in a poem: it's concise, yet comfortably charismatic. It's important for even a short poem to have some kind of dynamic range. So, here, in all it's glory, is "electric."
is there anything more beautiful
than a woman reading?
the drapes softly undulating
with the room's respiration.
she turns a page ---
lips pursed in thoughtful anticipation ---
undresses her arms
bringing the open book to eye level
the air still,
looking for meaning in
or 140 character statements of intent.
if meaning could be distilled like spirits
into something more valuable
than the combination of electricity and matter
would it (matter)?
do our symbols have some value
beyond their inherent vessel?
that if we arrange them in some secret manner
they will become incantations
of some ancient order --- so great and powerful
history itself forgot to remember ---
except lover, sister, father, mother,
they're all just words, like any other:
meaning made to fit our patterns
which we ourselves control and inhabit
with our tears and our laughter
life begets itself - and don't you forget it -
even when we take our own broken lives as fragments
and try to rearrange them, looking for magic,
magnets of time place everything in order;
the miracle of existence asserts its physics
and we are witness,
we see, yet deny it
blind before battle.
father tries to fix his spirit
while mother mixes the batter
sister reads and dreams with merit
learning to understand why and how life matters
the words she reads excites her soul
are in the bible and coyote calls of the wild
and mild air of the Mediterranean horizon
"open sesame" says Ali Baba in writing
Hallelujah, Hare Krishna, I love you, the sheep and the lion,
what does it mean our guttural implying?
consonants to vowels, phrases for rhyming
the chiming of our words like bird song in the evening,
beautiful as itself, elemental and needed,
if communication is existence, your love is the meaning.
I stumbled upon this at the Poetry Foundation's website. They publish Chicago's very own Poetry Magazine and are truly one of the most important groups bringing poetry into the new millennium.
While this poem was penned over 250 years ago, it still holds true today. Debt is as pertinent in this age as it was in Benjamin Franklin's. He's the author of this poem "XII Mon. February  hath xxviii days."Our forefather Benjamin Franklin about debt and living more frugally. A nice motivational poem for those of us so resolutionally inclined:
Man’s rich with little, were his Judgment true,Nature is frugal, and her Wants are few;Those few Wants answer’d, bring sincere Delights,But Fools create themselves new Appetites.Fancy and Pride seek Things at vast Expence,Which relish not to Reason nor to SenseLike Cats in Airpumps, to subsist we striveOn Joys too thin to keep the Soul alive.
the song of wind chimes
color the background,
conversations detail the fore
while December winds
whisper their chills, settling down on the floor
then the stillness returns
only for a moment, before
phonecalls and laughter
resume their chorus
i add my lines:
what is this weight that troubles me?
why is life such a bore?
trees claw at the breeze
that is opening and slamming
the front door