Tag Archives: words of birds

Tanka: 24

I can hear the breeze,

sounding like a faint whisper.

tells me its secrets.

the sun and the moon battle,

but love more than You or I.

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Haiku: 28

practice in power:

of myth, subtle tones, diction.

attempt to be more.

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o’holy (a work in progress, of which there are many (continued/continuing))

———-

11/07/12

———-

Days to come, of which are many

I have seen your lies, of which are many.

I have smelt your desserts,

temping on the sill,

and have seen your thighs,

tempting and soft.

and Americas heart was wept with the loss of your s0ns, of which are many.

and everyone I know, their heart weeps with the ever growing emptiness of their bag,

once full and now balled up and placed aside, and of which there are many.

I climbed the hills of small towns and found the left overs of past lives,

walked the streets of the cities and stepped over the left overs of past lives,

swam the waters of the East and had the dreams of the West,

of which there were many.

———-

———-

and if I’ve seen hate, it was of many

and although it may not have outweighed love,

it was easier.

I’ve walked the road less traveled,

hand in hand with those who

look for roads less traveled.

and travel roads less traveled.

and I decided it was not the road less traveled.

and in fact there is no road less traveled.

there are only roads which we travel.

Kerouac wasn’t wanting to be a bum, of which there were many,

hand in hand, being bums with us all,

not being.

Exposing short truths and long lies,

expecting to find Eden,

all gated and pretty.

With Eve,

all gated and pretty.

Expecting our good might outweigh our wrong,

of which there is so many.

Truthfully.

Soulfully.

Sullenly.

Screaming.

We’ll never understand why He forgave us,

but only that his forgiveness came at no small price,

but as:

“Buy now,

limited time only.”

Yet we were all forgiven,

and equally forgotten.

as everyone moves on and tries to remember what they have forgotten.

 

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Tanka: 23

Cadet stopped and turned /

the mission was a failure \

I’m not going home \

“don’t call me again,” she said, /

“don’t say that we spoke” / move on \

 

 

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Tanka: 22

simple sun. show me

love. show me strength in numbers.

show me your secret.

“we all need a change of view,”

he said, “we all need some change.”

 

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Tanka: 21

Sometimes you force truth.

Sometimes it comes easily.

It never matters.

Let the music warm your heart.

Let her sound slow down your soul.

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Haiku: 27

I spoke it in myth.

Thought in ambiguity.

Realized in truth.

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The Decision to Travel Wasn’t Quick or Thought Out; But There He Was

give me hope; happiness, heaven;

give me Alexander Supertramp

alone and accepting – always accept.

give me freedom, fun,  a fire in my heart;

give me Sam Gribley with Frightful

content and complete – always completing.

give me the sun, the tide, the views you’ve spoke of.

take me to where you’ve gone when you couldn’t take it anymore.

 

so soft spoken.

 

take me to the waters of Rio de Janeiro to see their moon and compare it to ours.

take me to the mountain top – Upper Wolfjaw, Whiteface, Rocky Peak Ridge.

take me to the oceans – blue, green, mirrored images of the the sky.

take me home.

 

 

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“sit alone on that river bank till I forget that I can talk”

I fallen in love with every book I’ve read.

I’ve fallen in love with every girl I’ve seen.

I’ll never know if I’m a good writer, I don’t think anyone ever does. I just want to write prose and have people think I wrote down words with purpose – intent. Interest in one’s self is a characteristic a writer needs to have to find importance in their writings; I’m far from interested – or interesting for that matter. I think a good prose comes from a clear mind, not excluding a drunk or drugged mind, but a clear mind in the sense of just knowing at least the next ten words you want to write before you write them. This allows you to think twenty words ahead and begin to plan for the next thirty. I’m at fifty now.

A good writer writes poems for years and switches to prose to try and prove something to himself. Or vice-versa, impossible to say. Chances are he’ll turn back to poetry (or prose), become a critic, an advertiser, a wino, a bum – whatever. He’ll write. Hopeful something might happen tomorrow.

That was fifty.

This is America, with liberty and justice for all.

I’d be happy writing if I just actually could write when I want and not just when my head is too full of words to allow for proper thought anymore and I just have to write to keep from having to carry around a bag of nouns and verbs behind me everywhere I go. Imagine if an accountant could only add numbers when he had thought of so many numbers he literally spewed abstract decimals to his friends while convulsing on his dinning room floor.

The first two lines are the best part of this piece.

I need too practice more.

I’m a long way from the road I want to be on but I’m closer than I ever have been before.

Bird Murder.

 

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My Existing Life

Direction lost
Choices removed
Thoughts irrelevant
Friends distanced
Loneliness close
Depression approaches
My existing life
Meaningless and empty

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