Poem: The Roar of the Greasepaint

The Roar of the Greasepaint

I love seeing people missing a true actor,

Not these Broadway Hollywood phonies

In fancy dress

And spatula makeup.

No, the true actor dances in small town streets

Along crowded boulevards,

In our own family rooms

Looking back at us from the mirror.

Take a bow, friends,

The one who wins the Tony

Is the saddest-

A round of applause!

Take a bow,

The curtain closes

And no one ever saw our face.

Poem: Church

</Church>

Long blog posts will be prayer in school,

And Facebook posts our holy communion;

Come worship at the altar of the screen

And you will receive bandwidth

And eternal battery life.

Amen.

Poem: The Tourist

The Tourist

I saw her sitting in the Empire Square,

Head down, legs crossed,

My book in her manicured hand.

She seems infinitely mysterious

And infinitely there,

A Vermeer smile crossing her lips.

Do I approach her?

Do I say-

I am the creator of the world you are in right now

I am its God

I control the seasons, the rise and fall,

The intricate necessities of life.

Do I say-

And what are you?

Who are you these children I’ve born

To these cities I’ve built,

Are you a tourist?

A resident?

Do you love them as I love them,

Do you know what they mean,

Do you expect more from me?

I say none of these things

And watch her until she gets up and walks away,

Still smiling.

So now I just know that she’s a world

And endlessly fascinated by my work.

Poem: Once

Once

Once I was kind and wise and true-

At least, so in my mind.

But I was far much younger then

And youth is often blind.

Far in the scattered sights I saw,

So deep within my mind

That I could ne’er notice when

My heart was left behind.

So now when old I sit and wait

Upon my awful throne

And I am forced to linger here

Till I am set to stone.

I look back on my once youth days

To when my light had shone

But I am dark and bitter here

My heart is left alone.

Poem: The Mayday Parade

The Mayday Parade

We carve our obsessions

On the backs of living room walls

Then send out our smiles

In the mayday parade.

Carefree and wild,

            The children run and play

On the green

At the scene

            Of the mayday parade.

Don’t you dare tremble,

            Don’t shed a tear

We wave with clenched fists

Grit our teeth in rictus

As dusk settles down on

            The mayday parade.

Poems: Bookstore and Reset

Bookstore

I step into

The                  Of the

Boundaries      Bookstore

And I am in pain

Because of all the stories

I cannot have

            here

Reset

With my computer’s dying breath

It says it’s shutting down;

I feel the same.

Poem: Teddy Bear

Teddy Bear

You ask me, when we were little-

“What makes you feel better

When you feel bad?”

I said my teddy bear,

Ragged and torn as it was.

I asked about yours in return

And you said, “It’s you.”

Now I have to decide

Whether I am more or less ragged

Than my teddy bear.

Poem: Songs About Home

Songs about Home

The fireplace is warm

And the cold has lost its charm

As we sit in the grand-slam

Living room chair.

We are full and we are fine

Sipping our half-glass wine

In the easy light

Of the late night

And we reject the telegram

Of outside freezing air.

This chair is old, and cushions deep

Cradle us in their lair

The fire dances and shadows creep

Close to us, if they dare.

And while it is good to wander and roam,

This is why there are so many

Songs about home.

Poem: Memories

Memories

Broken windowpanes on a sun-bright afternoon,

I shouldn’t have come back.

Back to the shattered memories,

Back to the hope childhood;

Overturned chairs on a hardwood floor.

I used to wait here,

When the windowpane was whole

When the chair was upright

When the memories weren’t memories,

They were life.

I used to wait here,

And now it is waiting for me.

Poem: Hubris

Hubris

Carry my body on a throne through the streets,

Through the filthy asphalt streets.

I can save this rotten, stalecandy city with my words,

My mellifluous words.

Give me a paper!

Give me a pen!

Your city will be safe once again with my words,

Till the words will come no more.

Carry my body on your shoulder through the streets,

Through the broken lifebleeding streets.

My words were not enough on their own,

Two-fifths talent to three-fifths weakness.

Use your sword!

Use your arm!

My pen is broken and my paper is torn

And the words will come no more.

Poem: Last Minute

Last Minute

Last minute,

I make my way into the crowded room and watch for you

Because you are so great

And I am late

You are already talking to The Other One

And your eyes are twinkling

I am so late,

Last minute,

That I sit down and try to remember

The reason I came

Ten minutes seem so long ago

Like the Birth is to the far future;

Last minute,

I leave when I can

I shouldn't have come.

Poetry: The Sundial

The Sundial

Here in the garden is a sundial,

Stone and cold,

It hasn't moved for fifty years.

I see the old men inside.

They stand on chairs

And raise their glasses high

And yell out,

“Here’s to the good old days!

They won’t come back again.”

Here in the garden is a sundial,

The shadow moves around the sun

But always returns to the same place.

I see their children,

Almost grown,

Outside. And they exclaim,

“The problems my father caused

Are in the past.

We can change and rebuild,

Build a better world than

There was before.”

But here in the garden is a sundial

And when the night comes

It loses its purpose

And falls asleep

To wait another day.

I see the turn of history

On my eyelid backs,

All gears and hearts.

The beginning,

The middle,

The eventual end.

Millions of old men standing on chairs

Millions of children, almost grown, exclaiming,

“We are different from all of time.”

But many gears, hearts, voices later,

Here in the garden is a sundial.

The direction of its shadow has changed,

But it has not and will not

For it is only a sundial

And cannot turn on its own.

Poem: Fall

A Shakespearean Sonnet: Fall

The leaves in my backyard are turning brown

And all the birds are starting to fly south

Less leaves are on the trees than on the ground

There is a certain dryness in my mouth.

The air is cooling down or cooling off

The wind has just begun to get a chill

And more and more I start to get a cough

I think I’m on the verge of falling ill.

I always get this way when winter comes,

A melancholy hue to my new tone

What happiness I hold must turn to crumbs

And there’s a great old sadness I have known.

But spring will come, just like it always does

And happiness, like flowers, always grows.

Poem: Care

Care

I do not deserve your kind of care

The thought stays deep within my mind

I fear I can’t respond in kind

To rosy cheeks and downy hair

Yours is a special kind of love

Which when the one you love you meet

Treat them as if they were a treat

That you and they go hand in glove.

I cannot make an even trade

For I can’t follow your love in fashion

I cannot imagine a stormy glade

Or stars that bedeck the night in passion

I fear I can’t return your stare

I do not deserve your kind of care.

Poetry: Short Poems

Winter

Colder winds blow there

Swaying trees on a hillside

A small flower grows

Voicemail

“I’m sorry, hang up,”

That high voice on the machine

Can make me angry

The Dog

As the

            Dog

  Sits

On the grass

            I wonder

Why

        I worry

    So

Much

Pretzels

Pretzels are good

Pretzels are yummy

As I’m writing this poem

I feel really hungry

Poetry: Help! I'm Trapped in a Poem and I Can't Get Out!

Help! I’m Trapped in a Poem and I Can’t Get Out!

Who am I? Where am I?

Why am I- oh

Was that a line break?

I think it was

And here’s another

Wow, that’s interesting

            And here’s an indent!

                        Abstract

                                    Fancy

I like it!

Too bad there’s no rhyme scheme

            Or meter

            Or cohesion

            I mean,

                        It’s hardly Shakespeare

But it’s okay, I guess

            Maybe

Oh, hello! Who are you?

Why do you have an eraser?

Ouch! That tic

(This poem has been discontinued.)