Monthly Archives: August 2015

Importance (a Musing)

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corinthian columns vs
ionian vs
dorian and
you said the historians
poured over the stories like they were
pieces of
botticelli fragments,

but they stopped in their tracks
when you said that
maybe your stopping to get
coffee that morning
or the lovers who
stopped to whisper by the streetcorner
was just as important

as plato at his desk in the
early evenings, looking out of his
open window, just thinking,
or the blood stained battlefields of
napoleon,
glinting in the
fading orange sunlight

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

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A Letter I Wrote to Sam Last Fall

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doe eye
wanted to find her way back to her camp on the hillside
she said yes, I’ll take your dollar
she said yes, I’ll make a holler

doe eye
made her way back to the hillside
she was worn out from being upset
with the neighbors, but she was blessed
she tiptoed on my wooden floorboards
and as they creaked,
she sauntered over to me

doe eye
was sleeping on the hillside
she was living by a ramshackle ten feet wide
but she rarely ever stepped inside
even if she needed to hide

doe eye-

make a prayer for the sweet no-county girl
make sure she’s heard
for she’s sweeter than me,

she has to be somewhere for others to see,
but that’s beside the point:

I wanna see her huddled up to you, sam
I wanna see her feeling like the pearl inside a clam
I wanna see her leave the cities inside her head
I want her to know it’s better to be alive than dead

(please, please sam
please please, please
sam please I’m tellin’ ya please sam
I’m pleadin’ please please sam)

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

Gleaming September

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Having an AP English class changes your vocabulary a lot so this is yet again another style. It sounds all fancy-like.

gleaming September
in her crisp linen dress
was the mesmerizing angel
I longed to posses

she tugged at my sweater with a smile
and she stayed for a while
while my guile was untied
in the church spire of her mind

we met singing hymns
in the hall of the Carolingian kings
for sweet September’s breath
has breathed me in:

she is presumed to be royalty
or a guest of high authority
followed by October’s wrath
a looming beast that withheld his blast

and I shiver to remember her grace
her unassuming face
her lingering presence at my doorstep
felt only by the residuals of my poor verses

dear gleaming September,
remember me.
and find it in your heart to decipher my screen
that hides the unfettered stream of our two means
which fit so perfectly at their uneven seams
and the fleeing sense of my reality that you turned into dreams.

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

Clueless Vs. Real Highscool Living

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Welll, I saw Clueless for the first time. Thought I’d write up something Ironic because, frankly, I’m a bit upset the main character was never seen doing any actual schoolwork on camera.

“you sit around, waiting for the phone to pick up

and you know you were going to pick it up yesterday-”

the movies are all cha cha

while you sit around, dreaming on your bed,

a kaleidoscope picture from some hazy memory

from the movies that are so blase`

“when are we going to find out what Cheryl has to say?

she’s out at a movie!

doesn’t everybody go?”

I’m still surprised

because the fact is I’ve been sitting here with my

diary and my quasi- problems,

my days going past me and I’m hanging close to the walls

so close

just taking in deep breaths like I can’t

stand it anymore,

lie down on the bed and you

pretend that it’s all cha cha

it’s all cha cha–

“we’re at the movies, cheryl brings a coke and we’re all

snuggled up and we’re fashion plates, living under ferns and fronds”

meanwhile me and my diary in the real world are having nights out on our own

and I’m playing mind games with myself

and I’m getting stuck by the walls,

and in the shower stalls

and everything seems stuck for closeness

even without anything or anyone

being

remotely there

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

June Fever Song

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yet another new style; a more descriptive one, and I like it. I’m going to try to emulate this more. Written in my day planner on the bus as I saw a woman eating blackberries.

I want blackberries
when they sit and sleep beside me in the sunlight,
tearful and present,
standing in their own protected corner of the universe.

I eat them.
It doesn’t feel like a crime to.
It feels like tasting sweet oblivion,
like walking around in a silent wood with the sweet earth beneath you, in the nightfall
it feels like sharing a secret.

we will meet at the garden gate,
and you will eat blackberries in the sparkling sunlight
and we will spell out the secrets to each other,
and it will be good.

Backsides extending on the lawn,
covers drawn,
blue and a purple-staining juice,
flowing mouth, the river,

we face,
face-to-face with our dear selves,
as sweet as rotting blackberries;
who’d want it any other way?

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

Scene in a City With You in It

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Childhood Expectation Versus the Real Life;

when you were still young,
you’d see a pastel forest in her,
that weak-in-the-knees beauty
or share a little smile,
a little tangible gift.

when you entered the scene
though a bit distraught,
you were caught
in a dead dream of never-tomorrow
and the smooth dark wool blanket dreams
you’d prepared for so long only to have them

smothered out by some smaller
little pet part of your heart,
bubbling slowly along with her-
you thought you could wait it out
you thought you could wait it out

you were living under a fear-cloud
singed by romantic off-yellow lights and the city around you dark
you were huddled in an
oversized dark wool coat, yours or someone else’s
because you had never tried,
even though you had.

winter-bitten, you saw the man
who should have been waiting up for you
who lacked the good mystique
who lacked everything,
who tasted of bitter mellon and
two vermilion cheeks,
and you knew it, just as you did when you
held her hand
those many years before,
that love was a long way’d around,
love was a long, long, long way’d round
and long still yet:

too late to show up, too late to care
you say, as you cradle your own arms
drink in your own breath,
sigh in your own poetry
sing your own nighttime lullaby.

(the chilly air seems cozy,
you say
it’s time at last, to rest,)
and you are a small dot on the park bench
in the snowy city, alone.

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

Musings and Doubts About Myself

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who are we
to say she
was not wonderful
in this day god made her so sweet?

who are we
to say she
could not be,
sitting side by side with me
in the afternoon breeze?

(when I see the future
I don’t see her in wonderful colors
but I do see a nestling spot
a resting spot
a holy little shrine, to find my peace
where to pray, where to breathe.)

I love this new part of myself
a delicate, shy unfurling,
from the curling stem to the pink petal;

and though I dont like
putting myself into a tight worded box,
it makes sense, and
its what you do when
everything else around you
is slipping.
So I put my feelings away to where they should be,
and ask myself
what is the true religious meaning of
expressive relief?

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry