Walls all
around me creaking
under sheer pretence
Walls don’t understand me
Walls remember the things
i’d rather forget
Walls challenge me to an awful
face off
staring me down
Walls don’t forgive
Walls take the pain we slap on
and mould it to suit their will
Walls don’t need us to remind them
that
Walls are built by us
torn down by us
or time but
Walls once built are confined
to the back of our minds
The Punk
and the Scottish Teaser
I. The
Punk
Lean, clean
And drunk at fifteen,
The punk believes
He’s wise to the cries
Of itching young thighs
Grinning through jeans.
He mean to relieve
His spunky green needs
With ripe virgin seeds
And tries,
But doesn’t succeed
Until he’s eighteen.
II. The
Teaser
Every guy I
knew wanted
A taste of the teaser.
The boyhood pleaser,
The charming little blonde dynamo
So sexy
I was the lucky one
(they said)
For a year or two.
If only they knew
The tears she fed me
From her tousled bed,
How suddenly she fled
Because the poetry
(at first just for her)
Said too much,
Had too soft a touch.
And I was too randy
She said.
I Am a
Savage and Do Not Understand
The great
chief in Washington
Asks much of us.
He sends word
That he wishes to buy our land
And reserve us a space to ourselves.
I do not know why!
Perhaps the red man is a savage
And does not understand.
How can you buy or sell the sky,
The warmth of the land,
Sweetened by meadow flowers?
The idea is strange to us.
There is no place
In white man’s towers
To hear
The unfurling of leaves in spring,
The rustle of insect wings,
But perhaps I am a savage
And do not understand.
Everything of this land
Is sacred to my people,
Every shining pine needle
Every shivering stream,
The heat of the pony,
The scream of the Eagle.
If only I could understand
Why one portion of land
Is the same to the white man
As the next,
Why he is a stranger
Who comes in the night
And steals from the land
Whatever he needs,
Why he leaves
A thousand buffaloes rotting
And treats his mother, the earth
His brothers, the sky,
As things to buy, plunder
And sell like sheep or bright beads.
I am a savage and need to understand,
And as all things are our brother,
Just as our God is your God,
We will consider your offer
On one condition
You must
Treat the beasts of this land
As brother,
You must
Accept, respect and protect this land
As no other,
You must teach your children
That all things are connected.
Beyond
Words
there is a
forest of emotions
so thick it shades all sunlight
I peer into the darkness and
I look for you I know you are
there pretty song bird at play
I hear the music everywhere
sheba
she came
across the desert
my tempest
for three years
she traveled across the earth
on camel back
on foot
shifting sand and
shadows
her face veiled
her want of wisdom
her love
of what puzzles
and i am riddled still but how
could we deny temptation
or passion
what would become
of her kingdom
or mine
sheba and
bathsheba
drinking
coffee
smoking cigarettes
and giggling
girl talk
in the palace
in the desert
in the morning
bathsheba
the cunning
one
clever
mother dear maker
terrier pit-
bull by my side
believes i deserve to be king
robert
before this
before the workshops
before the readings
before chicago
before the groupies
or fans
before the critics
before love
before vows
before litigation
before my son
i cut my teeth
on fire and ice
on the road not taken
on mending wall
in the sixties
in eisenhower elementary
in the heartland
before africa
before shakespeare
before shaking all those poets hands
before erica
before carolyn
before gwendolyn
before all the others
we learned about him
we watched all the films
about his life
his poetry
his story
we learned about respect
and i learned
that i would have liked
to shake his hand
just once
just that
bonfire
that day i
torched all the poetry
i was a sick but determined man
i was looking for liberation like
the great bra burners of the 60’s
in pajama bottoms at high noon
i dragged out the olive trash can
gathered up 29 years of poems
every one i could lay hands on
doused them with liquid starter
struck a match and tossed it in
Matisse’s
dog
Old red belly
is napping
sunning himself
sunny side up
a splash on the patio
white and blue
and gray
he is
snoring I think he
lounges in the nude
in the sunshine
his legs splayed
like leaning fence posts
his eyes like saucers
jet black yet
complicatedly
yellow
never
grow old
he is such a
good boy
so good so good
with the difficult things
i can’t face anymore
like shaving of
changing my diapers
cleaning me up
with such humility
he feeds me
and dresses me
my strong son
who picks me up
when i fall as if
i were a feather and
carries me like a rag doll
up the stairs to my bed
he is so loving
and so gentle
he always has been
his mother tells me
i look deep into his eyes
how did i miss this?
As Sure
as Onions
The poetry
will kill me.
I can see it already...
Locked in a room choked with books,
Up in the mountains, a cabin of pine
Parked on the lip of a lake
Painted with evergreen summers.
And me...
Eating nothing but opinions
And memories that smoke on paper
Like engines lacking oil.
Drinking nothing but vowels
As stale as year-old cola.
Breathing nothing so fine as rhythm,
Gasping for its velvet touch
As it brushes by as light as air.
