Face #3

Mar 10, 2006

Face #3

I’ve done it again!

I was busy.

I had no time.

I could have been doing countless other things.

I should have been working.

I said I wasn’t going to.

Throw it all out.

I’ve done it.

It’s different.

Yet the same.

Thoughts?

_{( those reading my rss, you’ll have to come by for a visit ).}

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Poetry

If you want to follow my poetry, follow me on pownce.

Poets die younger
then our long winded
counter parts.

It's a fact
when spoken between
friends over pie.

Is that really a shame
or a testament to
inherent desires?

make it tight.
make it nice.
as sweet as this pie

we eat
while laughing,
"I'm going to die."
Sunday, 21 September 2008, 6:11 pm #
Standing, Smoking, and the swinging porch.
Old creeks and pops to fix like dry skin;
the smell of Mint says it's working.

Serene, Strange, the city to my back.
Before me framed in tress a Potter picture,
what must be massive mites to the plow.

Walking slowly, up and down the crops — weeding.
Taking their fill and putting the rest in baskets,
Take-Home meals for later with the children.
Wednesday, 10 September 2008, 9:41 am #
Today I'll portray a God
Ganesh with arms & tusk wide
Grasping tight
In trunk a soul
In hand the sky holding
Over another with the world
Leaving two
Two alone to do things daily
Cleaning, dressing, eating
Two alone with no guarded task
No mission
Today I'll portray a Man
Thursday, 4 September 2008, 6:58 pm #
A landscape of white desert
Nothing but howling of the wind
being torn by sleeping claws of trees
Each wooden stump a tombstone
engraved “2005 A devoted Mother”

But in this time of rest and death
the sun conspires with
the moon, the sky and stars
And with wiccan like chants
and native tribal dance

they splatter the ground with
a concoction of love
so powerful to wake the infinite slumber
And slowly from faded calling
she claws through the soil

With sweat and ache
her joints pop and muscles shake
Finally she peaks just one finger
above the ground
Above her white grave

And on the
fingers tip
a bud
of pink.
Tuesday, 2 September 2008, 6:26 pm #
Once in a while,
just in a while,
Not every day
I mean, this isn't a regular
It's never really happened to me.
Um, I don't know
Maybe I just need a night off?
I've just got so many things
In my mind. Distractions.
You know

Creative impotence.
Friday, 29 August 2008, 10:44 pm #
"Kateri Tegakouita"

Kateri wraps in tight
Holds with might
She’s just fine don’t
mind the sight.

Kateri’s got her quill
it’s her thrill
She’s just fine, it’s her
hematic pill.
Saturday, 23 August 2008, 11:08 pm #
People like city poets
their references to places they’ve been
I can do that:

Crack dance at Pigeon Park
Walk down toitie Robson
Up to trip Commercial

Pleasing that a street named after
money makers and ad men
should revolt against

Walk to Uncle Fatih’s for a slice
of Pizza. Then on the Skytrain
Home.

Not that hard.
To bad my eggs are scrambled.
This is not my home.
Thursday, 21 August 2008, 6:54 am #
No words to write
and yet the tip of my pen still scratches
fibered remains of great groves of trees
The fiery brother stains with liquid charcoal
embered remains of lost ideas
hollow, empty, directionless
encompassing the pen, the hand
the arm, and mind
the creator of papered burning death.
Sunday, 17 August 2008, 8:30 pm #
This is my temper tantrum
my hissy fit
my don’t wanna
not gonna do it
jump up and down
bouncing in an invisible jolly jumper
red face
fire siren
moment.

Wait

Numb to the noise
the ritual of it
constant
no escaping
walled in brick by brick
frost bit
from finger tip
and toes
midnight sweats from day lit burns
twitch from fix
blind from sun spit.

Embrace

This is not the assigned
and damn it,
sublime
an escape
a break from rule
the duel
of you against you
you shouldn’t yet you do
this ain’t flight
my melancholy plight
with fist inside
you shake
yet make
these words on this page!

It’s quiet

My temper tantrum
hissy fit
don’t wanna
not gonna do it
jump up and down
inside

while I
wait
to embrace
my quiet
Friday, 15 August 2008, 6:48 am #
an old desk
thrown against the wall
and shattered like the child
that once sat in it with glory

in an old house
stained with fear and hate
that singes the senses
with secrets stored
in stairways and carpets

down in it’s belly
a den of education
with others now piled up
and forgotten in a corner
like the children in their glory
shattered against the wall
Wednesday, 13 August 2008, 7:17 am #