Tag Archives: Old

Black Blue White New

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the  people on the ground,

heads bent,

un-phased

and unable to look at the ever reaching sky

 

“is it worth it?”

they ask,

 

“what,

i was just  little boy yesterday carrying my book bag,

the sun hanging deep and low over my brow

and my forehead stank of breath ad of  saltwater

tears, and–”

 

The shapes become all engrossing, so

i  find some

recluse

in an old painted book store

of who-knows where

 

suddenly

as i read a line from a silent ode he brushes against me and i don’t

know what is happening and suddenly he

is with me and suddenly he

is around me surrounding me and

the shouts of the street people seems to die in the

sound of his voice;

 

“ENTER MY MIND”

he says

(that’s a command)

“let’s

enter it

together

and  see

the glorious undertaking of you and me”

 

his eyes like seascapes

or sky-scapes

of piercing blue fantasies

as if

he was always

there

 

but with a rush of the train and the steam he’s gone

in the blink of an eye and a lash he’s gone

in the mood of a novel or book he is gone

and the slight inclination of head he is gone

 

and i lost that sky….

 

Now looking up to the expansive light

so much like his dazzling

unshakably passionate eye

i find myself on the street

like all the countless others,

among the thousands of women and children–i am just like them

and the whisper of giving up—i am one of them

and the shouts of the street

i am them.

 

love

seemed to pass me only as i was ready

in the fashion of

true bittersweet punishment;

i sat on a fountain and spilled coins from my pockets

and every wish was a wish for him.

 

 

now i am  holding him once more

and he surrounds and envelops the air

 

but this time i am dreaming it,

and this time the pavement seems all too hard

and the  spurs in the ground digging at my heels making them bleed

 

will you please

tell me

if i can even breathe

in this,

without at least some

well-deserved

exhilaration?

I think

in that case

i might just need

for you to feel

discovery

(but oh

it’s a pity i found the loveliest boy

In town

when he was just about

to wreck his vengeance

on me)

 

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

 

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Untitled-poem written at age 11

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Last night I was reading Pablo Neruda’s translated work “Extravagaria” translated by Alaister Reid (which you should really make a note to buy, if you are at all interested in poetry), and then I suddenly got in the mood to read some of my older, more random poetry. I have spent a good part of the night and early morning sifting through old binders crammed with small poem fragments, half of which really make me realize how far my poetry has come in almost three years! Then I found this one, which is frankly one of my long lost favorites. I never get tired of this poem, and I thought you might enjoy reading it. So without further adue, here is me, writing poetry, age 11.

Untitled

Trees with stemless
leaves
grow in summertime.

finding the rainbows in the sky
the love, the war
and the blood of mankind

I am the orphan
lost in time
taking in the sights

of eternity

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Stream of Consciousness #9

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I don’t think my hands have ever typed so fast! the rhymes literally poured out at a rate I was not sure to keep up at. i was possessed. utterly possessed. And I have just finished reading Joan Baez’s first autobiography, I don’t know if that helps…

 

Stream of Consciousness #9

who was who was pooh was greatly appreciatledy do

like whispers in summer

you were my love

like bouncing balloons on a string

you were my everything

like balls on bells on a summer day

you were my grass to my hay

my laugh to my chuckle,

my seat to my buckle

my trough to my stream

my laugh to my scream

my tie to myshirt

to my button

to my skirt

seam

you are were is my everything

like free lancing on the street

selling things so you can have food to eat

like strings on ropes and cords and strings

like my heart that constantly sings

whatever you do

you know you is my everything

like money in your pocket

like a chain of golden locket

like springs on balloons

and like the harvest moon

and like the trepidation s

or our silent meditations

and like the wind blowing at your feet and like having the stars to meet

like the wind blowing through the dust

like your mind saying, no , you must, you must

like this itch in my head that says you might prefer me instead

like this shallow of sorrow

that says there is no tomorrow

what’s the point of living,

I find myself saying

when everyone is already dead?

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

The Sonnet Project: Sonnet # 10

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The Sonnet Project: Sonnet # 10

my mother is as bent as olive trees

when on her back she sleeps before the moon

her eyes as muddy as her wobble knees

Send god it well, for leaves she us now soon.

The night is windowless as death’s embrace

Against an endless skyward eye that calls

The maidens, who, like sailors after chase,

this lover who destroys all saddened falls,

can heal the hole that wounds my aching heart

for mother’s lost, my life of freedom’s lost.

From her, oh joy, i cannot be apart

to once again find love, what is the cost?

oh lover, take thy herb and sugar cure

and feed to me of what I can endure.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

The Gobi Desert Cycle-EYES

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EYES

I long to lunge inside them

pierced with-what? how to say? an unnoticed sort of intensity

as if the reader had known nothing of their raw value

I long to lunge inside them

his lashes are fanned sticks opening up a glass world,

a curtain holding up a stage, looking in.

I want to hide inside them

Every day, the roundness of them pulls me closer, then tosses me back

In the end, he finds me sighing when I least expect it, and then i shiver audibly.

I want to hide inside them

even then, I still feel a sort of emptiness. he does not want me. probably he is thinking,

“I know, barely, I know you are out there somewhere ,I think”

(darling, if we walk by red storms, then maybe you will see me, and we can face them together).


Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

 

A Scene From Texas-poem written at age 12

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This is an older poem that I wrote when I was about 12. Was proud of it then, still proud of it now.

A scene From Texas

The windy tailgate

pulling up slowly towards the

misty sun

 

the pickups attatched to

wooden strings

fingering the landscape

like lost toys.

 

their wheels sidding around

in a circle,

their tracks appearing in a

circle

like my open mouth,

sucking in dust.

 

the orange moon

clouded up from the rain

the pebbles like collected

raindrops on sunnier asphalt.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

 

The Sonnet Project: Sonnet #9

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Sonnet #9

When I was six and ten some years ago

My brother lept into his muddy tomb

My mother died upon the rocks below

And father followed after to his mortal doom.

I was the orphan without personage

The daughter veiled from bows and frilly lace

The girl who climbed along the mountain’s ridge

And owned a small and sooty little face.

You see the watchman’s daughter, dark and cloaked

Concealed before she makes her last reprieve

To trade our lives and never be revoked

Would be a gift quite wondrous to receive:

The girl wakes up beside the mountains high

And I, beside her love, a’sleeping  lie.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry