Hymn to the Injured Leaf

love.
like this,
only stronger.
it’s this forest intertwined over that one.
It’s just me, thoughtless-
contemplating the frosty grasshopper
and the chilly snail.
I”m not sure what it’s really like
but I guess so much and imagine so much
that I think I know
in this midnight hail.
you open your mouth to say
that all you need’s the sun.
we agree-
the snow billows
and leaves whip around
and I sing:

” oh I know that love
is only a strong tree
on the island of submission
on a redwood island spree
or else it’s just cheap rockets
on the back porch of the den
are the grizzly bears our enemies
or are they just our friends?
why don’t you see
the hidden tree
inside of me,
smiling
smiling
one two three?

It’s just me, thoughtless,
contemplating the frosty grasshopper
and the chilly snail.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

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“Agnus Angst”

As the new years begin
Im a lost little stranger
running vainly from danger
that’s crowding me in.

so its all the same me
only just slightly older
and just slightly bolder
and slightly fourteen.

what is it that they like?
that they always look
for?
what’s this thing they talk of?
of the girl that’s next door?
can’t see? you shut them up!
I’m not her, she’s a bore!

(come on, the day is just so clear, Octavius
just look around Octavius
don’t dumb and smile Octavius
be mature:
Im fourteen with spunk,
but at least I can be demure)

I can’t pick out my friends
and instead of just you
you might give me the flu
give me something to do!
(yes, multitask!
you don’t have to ask!
be an octopus!
get the doctor, wuss! )
okay, but you’re the one whose crazy, dude.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

the Newness of Experience

there were these gargoyles on the side of the avenue

butting thier heads at the start of each conversation

I’m part of this new nation, see

we like each other for being one another

and not somebody in the crowd

Daniels here, he has a 401k retirement and doesn’t give a damn about the present

he’s only 14.

Lilah is 25 but she smokes on the weekends

and Laurie likes to write.

The summer went fast enough

and the grass on the farms just keeps on growing

and the time keeps on slowing

and the car keeps on going

and the love all keeps showing

why, I think I was at the curb yesterday

Wishing you wouldn’t come around.

but when you did,

I just had to ask you and the rest of the town

“What am I supposed to say about you?

(or about most of us)

what do I say

about the way a head is held proudly,

supposed to be happy.

Why am i always filled with the boasts

the unusual cowards

the ones that are a mix of fascination

and repulsion?

can you tell me

what emotion am i expected to feel?

What the hell do you expect me to feel?!”

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

My Dad’s Lawyer’s Friend’s Daughter’s Name is Muriel

My Dad’s Lawyer’s Friend’s Daughter’s Name is Muriel

She was real fancy, even down to the way she would spread Nutella onto her toast. You know, the way they do it in the commercials. I tried it ,but I think she does it better. Anyhow, she showed up last night at our house because dad’s lawyer friend was over, -I think He’s something of a millionaire-and this girl’s his daughter. I had to ask her if she went to boarding school or something fancy like that, but she just said she went to private school. And then, after dessert, my brother Frank had the nerve to say “aw, why are y’always askin’ her questions like that? Hey, look! Trudy’s got her eye on Muriel!” . And then dad had to shut him up. I don’t know what’s gotten into him teasing me like that, saying I fancy her. Doesn’t he see all the posters I got up in my room of Carry Grant?

Anyway, one time Muriel was in the living room, and the sun was going all over the couch, and she kind of looked like this delicate little angel sitting there just quiet, just thinking, and then I asked her-but I don’t know why, maybe because she was just so pretty- “Muriel, do you have a Boyfriend?”. Then she came back to life suddenly from her thinking pose, and gave me this twisted sort of grin and said “girl’s don’t get a real beux until they graduate from high school” -as If I was supposed to know. Last year I was real sweet on my Fifth grade History teacher, Mister Daniels, but then When I told my friend Beatrice about it, she went on and on about how I was going to get arrested for that, and she got me scared stiff. Well, except for I’m not scared of carry Grant, ’cause he’s just a movie star. Last week I saw him in North by northwest, but I snuck into the theater on account of the rating system or something. But I didn’t get the ending. So then I asked Muriel If she wanted a Boyfriend anyway, and her face got sad all of a sudden. She looked real wistful for a few seconds, just looking out of the window, and then she said “I guess, but my father won’t let me have one”.

I don’t know what I felt then. I guess I felt glad that my father isn’t a millionaire.

the Swan Piano Contemplates Her Existance

taking on the form of a piano swan, we leave in the earlyness.
why have we returned?
we do not have a choice, I think
the swan inside us is floating,
the piano is just being plucked.
the movement is stifled and unstifled
it is a pain to return, to arrive.
In spite of ourselves we were just budding
and closing in on ourselves again
like newly oiled playing cards.
what is a swan?
joy.
what is a piano?
rage.
or maybe, they are both
or maybe more.
We can think of adjectives ( both of us)
and maybe bears will think of verbs ( they like to lumber and bumble too)
and birds, onomonopea:
taking on the form of a piano swan, we leave in the earliness.
returning is like feeling my mother’s absence.
coarse, paining, unhinged.
lightening striking and no thunder
fire and no fighting and no blunder.
the other swan would be my lover,
but I blame his faults on magic, or his naughty brother.
( well, I blame our faults always on magic)
feeling the swoosh of the seaside
and my soft feathers brushing against my hand
unconsciously playing chopin
my lover is playing a jazzy serenade
from a play no one has played:
taking on the form of a piano swan, we leave in the earliness:
I don’t complain.
Sometimes i hear the ticking of my strings in the middle of the night while we sleep.
but I think it’s just me
singing an unconscious lullaby
to an unhinged, unstifled creature
known as me.

I can’t remember the words…well, now it’s just a jumble

you can talk to me as if I was your mother blasting around the room with a big hose saying
you can get out of here but I’m still your mother and you still have to listen to me no matter what. When you look at the stars and realize that no one going to hurt you and your problem isn’t there and the leaves are not gray, they’re green
and green houses are painted orange actually
and you want to go on the edge of the mountain
Yummy look at those gummy worms I want to eat each everyone of them now I’m going to pick them up and act like I am five
you want to be 86 why do you want to be five? I want to be five because I have Always wanted to be five and now look at me I’m five and I can eat more than you do because you don’t have teeth you have gums.

light finder, come to the water,
make me your man
and play the tin can
and drum the pan pan
and sing the unsang
and ring all that’s rang
and I’l be the yin to your yang:
just don’t do all that godforsaken mumble
or the odd unprecedented jumble
don’t expect all the light
we expect you to humble

Music religion

The religion of the banjo player:
The gourd
Is my Lord

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

In Side/Out of Side

I’m reading harry potter right now (NO SPOILERS!!!). Enough said. Not my usual style, yeah…guess you could say…

In Side/ Out of Side

You try being the hero

you try being the saint

you try feeling the burning

that further shows your taint.

the times have reached an endpoint

and conversation’s slow

and wind blows through the summertimes

that I will never know.

So take this piece of body

and feed it to the sun

and don’t forget to put me back

so I won’t be undone,

for the hero keeps on living

But I never see the saint

the burning keeps on showing up

And I still can feel the taint.

It’s just that-

I’m further trapped

on  the inside of you,

inside of you,

inside of me.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry