Poems, from the past, to start -- If the Robots were Nart, then this is Art

I went to a poetry reading tonight, and something about it inspired me to share some of the poems I wrote in another time, and another place. A few of them made it as far as a class of about fifteen other students in college, but most of them have never seen the light of day. Some, I hold dear, and think of often. Others, I'd completely forgotten I'd written. Most of these, oddly enough, seem to be about art, inspiration, time, change, and a sense of self. They seem more timeless than any poems I have cached away about a particular person or time period. I think today, I love them best. I hope you'll enjoy at least one or two as well.

Damn Clock

Clock jammed at 2 ‘til 5

Clicking second hand

Stuck in time

I typed a poem, an essay, a romance

At 2 ‘til 5

inspiration struck time

An hour, a day, a year goes by

Still stuck in place

At 2 ‘til 5

I found my salvation, my hope, my mind

At 2 ‘til 5

My life flew by

Not a minute elapses

Stripped of all rhyme

Marked by the moment at 2 ‘til 5

So it is

and so it is..

the story goes

that in the end

you’ll learn the truth

about how

and why

the story is

the way it is

and why

and how

you learn the truth

and to what end

the story goes

so

it is.

7-20-05

The Center of Art

If art was my palette

It’d be hard to recognize

With the constant buzzing

Of five dozen flies

Where is the center

Of all that is right

And what can be created

From empty and still

If there was an answer

Hidden on canvas

Would it jump out

To announce its full presence?

Who shot the footage

Right out of the film

Cut up in pieces

Not even patch work could mend

So much racket

Builds up in the mind

And nothing is clearer

Than missing jigsaw rinds

Corner pieces

Built from cardboard

Give soft blues and greys

A chance to look new

But there is no answer in color

Or bees

And when all is spliced together

The middle is just a measurement

Not art

Or

relief

Untitled

Deflated.

breathing out recklessly,

sucking for more air,

grasping what little’s left

but the pin-prick,

the calamitous black hole

lets in breath

only to deflate

More

And then

More

Elated.

for a moment

by a sudden sense of hobby

a simple grasp of meaning

in the tunnel of never end

but it is too dark

to see for long

the air is black and thin

and elated

is faded

more

and then

more.

Jaded.

Clippings of what was,

smiles of once upon

a time when all was known

contaminated with questions,

grasping for

a straw of chance

that something is still there,

while bent corners

And colors exposed to air

make hope

jaded

more

and then

more.

7-20-05

Halfway Home

A heart divided

No wall hanging to mark home

Places marked by histories

Generations old

Faces with names

And streets that you know

All roads lead somewhere

But not all can lead home

One road is future

And one road is past

Combined for the same effort

Leaves dislocation and expensive gas

Sometime in April 2004

Disguising Change

Spackle.
Cover up the hole. Call it good.
Eat pizza. Move boxes.
Leave.

Everything goes like that,
everyone moves like that,
in the end.

Paint.
Buy it, brush it, let it dry.
Eat Pizza. Move furniture.
Begin.

You can’t hardly see,
the damage,
the place where something was once.

Reminders.
Photos and Letters.
Eat Pizza. Find a dumpster.
Discard.

Thus we change,
by avoidance and disguise,
from who we were,
to who we will be.

Everything goes like that,
everyone moves like that,
in the end.