READING, LISTENING SAMPLES
The following two entries are taken from PERTURBANCE: FLASH JOURNAL, THE SEVENLINGS:
(I Read That Someone Was Afraid of Butterflies)
I read that someone was afraid of butterflies;
maybe the fluttering could splinter a ribcage;
you could be turned inside out; butterflies
might look like drones if the sun was too much
in your eyes; the fear could be a fear of opening out;
of holding breath; it could be a fear of becoming small.
The bombs that butterflies drop often go unreported.
(Despite All Effort Sometimes Things Get In)
Despite all effort sometimes things get in,
icicles on the ceiling, a blast of wind, and
a shiver when the door flings open.
I get snow on the carpet, a wet scuff mark from
a shocked shoe sole that will melt eventually;
you tell me about it, and I'm dutifully contrite.
Sometimes the boundaries blur between in and out.
The following poems are samples of syllabic, counting poems
THE FORTY-NINTH PARALLEL
Seven blackbirds on the fence--
Perched formal-like, unmoving.
Who knows how long they'd been there
When I looked out my window.
Why were they here? What news had
They brought on this spare dank day?
Dark messengers from the rim--
They had brought briefings, perhaps,
Concerning the war effort,
An extinction to report,
A new fault line opening,
A new rumble in the core,
Trouble at the great divide,
Earth shifting on its axis.
I looked out again--still there,
Those seven black suits waiting,
Perfectly strung like a row
of funeral beads so near
The overextended heart
Of dear mother in mourning.
The first week represented.
Had they noted my anxious state,
My tumbling thoughts intruding
As I peered out my window?
Expectations were not clear
Through their executive wall.
What do the inculcated
Know about the urgent now?
While they were all convening,
I rifled through my database--
Blackbird symbologia,
Religious significance,
An allegorical chain,
Seven from a famous pie
Just fence sitting right out there.
I don't know how long they stayed
Dressed Sunday go to meeting,
These CEO's convened there
In their open air boardroom--
Were they good or bad omens?
These seven dark emissaries
Could be just seven blackbirds.
They planted an afterthought,
A nagging feeling really,
Some question about why ghost
Images remain even
After the evidentiary
Antecedents of angst
Had flown back into fable.
STILL-LIFE WITH BLACKBIRDS
Right over there
in that open field
a gathering of blackbirds
representing one large mass
are staging a sit-in
on the branches
of an old dead tree
The picture is that
of over-ripe fruit
fruit bearing witness to all
our sorrows turned out
our eternal reckoning
clings to the rooted silence
in the last light of day
They clutch the spent branches
with clacking talons
tapping out apathy's cadence
draining the last
of the tree's brave legacy
me peering into this space
as through an elemental window
I should confess
the birds don't know
that they are cast
as symbolic referents
blackbirds don't really suffice
but it's what we do
to validate our quickening
Now they're lifting,
that black flock with one mind
dangling re-cognition
like a lightning string
black against gray
dark cloud on darkening swell
they're off to claim the night.
Note: The above poems are a small sampling of the different directions I go with my writing. The subject in this case is the blackbird; yes,
it has received a lot of poetic attention throughout the wide span of time, but the works in this case are observational poems that resulted
from an overabundance of a certain variety of blackbird in the area of the country where I was living at the time they were hatched, (the poems).
These birds were everywhere; at a certain time of the year they are a nuisance. They were also great catalysts for many poetic outbursts.
The numbers associated with seeing them at different times were also great opportunity for a more formalized approach. Enjoy.
(I Read That Someone Was Afraid of Butterflies)
I read that someone was afraid of butterflies;
maybe the fluttering could splinter a ribcage;
you could be turned inside out; butterflies
might look like drones if the sun was too much
in your eyes; the fear could be a fear of opening out;
of holding breath; it could be a fear of becoming small.
The bombs that butterflies drop often go unreported.
(Despite All Effort Sometimes Things Get In)
Despite all effort sometimes things get in,
icicles on the ceiling, a blast of wind, and
a shiver when the door flings open.
I get snow on the carpet, a wet scuff mark from
a shocked shoe sole that will melt eventually;
you tell me about it, and I'm dutifully contrite.
Sometimes the boundaries blur between in and out.
The following poems are samples of syllabic, counting poems
THE FORTY-NINTH PARALLEL
Seven blackbirds on the fence--
Perched formal-like, unmoving.
Who knows how long they'd been there
When I looked out my window.
Why were they here? What news had
They brought on this spare dank day?
Dark messengers from the rim--
They had brought briefings, perhaps,
Concerning the war effort,
An extinction to report,
A new fault line opening,
A new rumble in the core,
Trouble at the great divide,
Earth shifting on its axis.
I looked out again--still there,
Those seven black suits waiting,
Perfectly strung like a row
of funeral beads so near
The overextended heart
Of dear mother in mourning.
The first week represented.
Had they noted my anxious state,
My tumbling thoughts intruding
As I peered out my window?
Expectations were not clear
Through their executive wall.
What do the inculcated
Know about the urgent now?
While they were all convening,
I rifled through my database--
Blackbird symbologia,
Religious significance,
An allegorical chain,
Seven from a famous pie
Just fence sitting right out there.
I don't know how long they stayed
Dressed Sunday go to meeting,
These CEO's convened there
In their open air boardroom--
Were they good or bad omens?
These seven dark emissaries
Could be just seven blackbirds.
They planted an afterthought,
A nagging feeling really,
Some question about why ghost
Images remain even
After the evidentiary
Antecedents of angst
Had flown back into fable.
STILL-LIFE WITH BLACKBIRDS
Right over there
in that open field
a gathering of blackbirds
representing one large mass
are staging a sit-in
on the branches
of an old dead tree
The picture is that
of over-ripe fruit
fruit bearing witness to all
our sorrows turned out
our eternal reckoning
clings to the rooted silence
in the last light of day
They clutch the spent branches
with clacking talons
tapping out apathy's cadence
draining the last
of the tree's brave legacy
me peering into this space
as through an elemental window
I should confess
the birds don't know
that they are cast
as symbolic referents
blackbirds don't really suffice
but it's what we do
to validate our quickening
Now they're lifting,
that black flock with one mind
dangling re-cognition
like a lightning string
black against gray
dark cloud on darkening swell
they're off to claim the night.
Note: The above poems are a small sampling of the different directions I go with my writing. The subject in this case is the blackbird; yes,
it has received a lot of poetic attention throughout the wide span of time, but the works in this case are observational poems that resulted
from an overabundance of a certain variety of blackbird in the area of the country where I was living at the time they were hatched, (the poems).
These birds were everywhere; at a certain time of the year they are a nuisance. They were also great catalysts for many poetic outbursts.
The numbers associated with seeing them at different times were also great opportunity for a more formalized approach. Enjoy.