Writer's Block 1

One of the worst things about being so ill, is that there are poems I wish to write (sometimes I even take notes on one, or start research or an outline). But I never get around to the writing.

I just don't have the energy, or there are too many other (urgent) things taking precedence.

Thank goodness I AM getting some blogging done once in awhile, or I would feel absolutely bereft.

I am, and always have been, my art...

Daisies

Smooth and pristine white petals circling
a yellow center in perfect symmetry,
all held together by a delicate green stem.
And carefully cultivated by big nurseries
for lovers to give lovers in bunches.
Yet, I prefer wild growing snapdragons.

Hawk

Hawk soars
above checkerboard fields,
beside granite slabs of mountains,
through deep wooded canyons.

Hawk beats
the air with wings of strength,
wings that can make the thunder roll
out across the land.

Hawk saves
the lightening in its dark eyes
to hurl at enemies in streaks and bolts
during battles of will.

Hawk hunts
with eyes that miss no movement,
with sharp talons that pierce cruelly,
and with a forever hunger.

Hawk kills
and tears apart till quivering flesh,
spreading the bloody entrails
across the high mountain ledges.

Hawk's soul
is a fast moving black shadow;
once it barely brushed against me.
I shivered.

Separation Anxiety

Oh, I knew of your going
weeks before you stepped on the plane;
a mutual friend informed me.


But I didn't pick up the phone,


call to get all the details. I thought
that I would not miss you,
that I would surely be able to hold


you firmly in my mind during


the months of your travels.
Yet now I keenly feel the ties that link
us, thinly stretched across


continents and oceans and time.


And I am suddenly reduced
to walking past your door and phoning
to hear your voice on a machine.

(This is the CENTRAL poem and theme of the ebook: Odium Bar & Cafe, available at www.powells.com and other online retailers.)

1
A warm, almost tropical in it’s feel, summer
Saturday night, settles in over
the still busy, but starting to quiet city;
traffic diminishes, as shops and stores close.

The main artistic event of the local poetic
season, anticipated by many, is about
to take place at the Odium Bar & Café,

downtown, where Seventh and C collides
in a concrete jumble of tall buildings and wide
streets, and trendy new establishments. A heralded
event where poets, aficionados, and musicians

will gather to make and present their works of art;
to share common visions, and long worked
on productions of voices and sounds. To strut their stuff.

Though still dusk, a number of people are already
present inside the brightly lit Odium Bar & Café;
the owner supervising preparations
for the profitable evening ahead, staff members

bustling back and forth, poets and others
who had arrived early, and musicians setting up
instruments and sound equipment. Some of these

early patrons mill about the large
room, checking out the modern art,
hanging prominently on the pristine white walls.
Some visit with each other; many

being acquaintances, amid the heavy wood
tables and chairs, all newly refurbished and heavily
lacquered in bright, shiny, primary colors.

Circulating amidst the staff and patrons,
wafting on the unseen currents of artificially
cooled air, float the odors of sweet cinnamon

and strong espresso. The enticing aromas fill
the room and the nostrils, with hints of delights for the palate;
as the sounds of acoustic guitars being tuned,
promise to nourish the varied collection of souls.

The Ant

A small red ant hesitantly stretches translucent
rainbow hued wings. Seeming unsure
and without direction, she wanders my forearm,
perhaps seeking comfort or guidance before assuming
the heavy responsibilities of queenly destiny,
before spreading transitory wings
to the summer wind for that one ordained mating flight.
I understand fully, try to provide
her with the needed female support, empathy,
and I'm subtly reminded again how undeniably hormones
lock us into predetermined roles; hormones
and tender ovaries swollen with fast ripening eggs.
Suddenly, the ant spreads her wings
and effortlessly soars off into the waiting sky.

Mothers

Each year, late in spring,
mother Sparrows nudge
fledglings from their nests.
Just as mother Vultures do.

High Tide

During the early morning mists
heavy waves thunder to the empty beach,
their frothy wetness spewing forth
long strands of kelp.
Kelp recently uprooted from the ocean
floor by some far off storm.
Kelp that lies flaccid and drying atop
the hot glistening daytime sand.
Kelp that is gradually baked
as the hot summer sun climbs in the sky.
Kelp that is kicked about
by children busy at their work of play.
Kelp that is ignored by the hoards
of sun worshipping adults
that arrive with their paraphernalia;
drinks, chairs, books,
which will eventually disappear
back into the hulks of cars
patiently waiting in crowded public lots
as the fiery red orb begins
to sink into the azure Pacific Ocean.
Leaving behind for the night
a bare and empty beach. Except for the
dead strands of kelp.

False Gods

Do these people really believe
that they will never die?
These grimacing
runners and joggers
that fill the parks and sidewalks
every Sunday morning
instead of the hard wood pews
of local churches.
You know the ones I mean;
with their vacant eyes
and designer shoes and sweats.
The misguided ones
trying so hard
to take such good care of
their outsides.
What will these folks do when,
sooner or later,
they finally meet their maker
and are asked
for an accounting of their life;
about lessons learned,
or good works done?
About honesty and ethics?
About love?
Will they try to present muscles
smooth and hard,
or numerous plastic credit cards
and cold cash?
Surely, the Gods must
be rolling on the floor, laughing.