tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53377902688250367112024-03-12T18:45:06.778-07:00hfurness: Poetry and Commentshfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-46977126101431207602008-11-07T05:02:00.001-08:002008-11-07T05:02:35.896-08:00An Ancient Tale #135 (part 5)Old Horth leaned heavily on his talking staff<br />Walking with the weight of years and worry<br />His 47 anos have not been kind to him, but he stays in good spirit<br />And now with the coming of the winter circle welcoming God’s gift<br />The return of the Sun cycle<br />Placing the twelf totem, the massive pillar on its way<br />With the markings from the water carriers, Zethines<br />Soon all twelve tribes from all of the villages and the outlying hunters<br />Would gather on the plane of the ancestors<br />Near the mouth of the creation delta<br />The Henge mounds have been tended<br />Meat and grain have been laid aside<br />His apprentices have been schooled<br />Why did this script need to raise its hairy head again?<br />Capturing speech in markings in the dirt<br />Tales are to be told<br />Symbols on a tablet will cause the People to worship the clay<br />Not listening to the stories of God<br />Horth had learned all of the speech symbols from his teacher, Gareth<br />Gareth had been a great warrior priest, keeper of the scared tales<br />Hunting the lion that attacked Arrack with Gareth is how Horth<br />Became lame<br />On that hunt in the dust while waiting out the lion in the hills<br />Is where Horth learned these symbols<br />Gareth convinced Horth that the People must not create this false God<br />Or God would surely punish the People<br />Horth promised Gareth<br />The lion circled back on the pair and took Gareth and Horth’s calf muscle<br />Before Horth could strike a fatal blow<br />Horth fingered his talking staff, feeling the mark for Gareth<br />The marks on the talking staff were just memory devices for stories<br />They were not the same as the marks in clay<br />Children played near the wall, kicking a goat-belly ball<br />It was always good to hear their laughter<br />The Mothers were meeting in the fire circle this evening<br />They would be planning the lineage, arraigning unions, determining education<br />The intermingling of tribal blood was essential<br />Girls and beardless boys would be given places within<br />A village’s walls<br />Horth needed to see to the completion of the pillar’s position<br />This new one would align with the winter’s setting sun<br />The calendar would be complete<br />The first of the three was for the rising of the summer’s sun<br />The last of the second three marked its setting<br />The first of the third three aligned with the rising winter sun<br />This last one would mark its setting<br />These sacred days set aside to worship God and to praise his<br />Creative power and our thanks for his gifts<br />The summer festival is for life and creation<br />The winter festival to mourn our dead and show the strong connection<br />To our ancestors<br />Horth’s talking staff handed down from tale keepers of the long past<br />Leads the People in worship and praise<br />He wanted Zontan to follow him, but that may not be God’s will<br />Zontan remains an enigma to old Horth<br />After checking on the proceedings for the Mother’s meeting<br />He will head down to the grove of trees during the evening’s breezy time<br />To listen to the whispered wordshfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-32485442355842654322008-11-03T09:53:00.000-08:002008-11-03T09:54:15.930-08:00An Ancient Tale #135 (part 4)Weasels and jackals were active tonight<br />Zontan and Uris could see the distant glow of the fire circle<br />Three full moon’s from tonight would be the winter’s end<br />A time for both putting the year’s dead to eternal rest<br />And when the Mother’s would select mates for the hunters<br />And farmers, toolmakers, priests, and others of each settlement of the People<br />The Mothers determine who we are; the Fathers what<br />Zontan had avoided Bibe’s choices, so far<br />He was well past the time for starting a family<br />Even Uris had fathered two children by Bethe<br />They were fatherless now, but the Mothers would take up their care<br />The People’s tradition of the line determined by the mother<br />There were twelve settlements, descendents of the twelve daughters of Orb<br />Soon all would be walled villages along the river<br />Sumer’s wall was nearly finished and all of the stilled homes<br />Would be abandoned<br />Quetin was not comfortable about leaving his family home<br />He enjoyed the solace of living on the edge of the river and village<br />Near his obsidian store<br />Quetin did not have the solitude of the hunters in the hills<br />On the platitude above the river’s banks was the circle<br />One entrance pointed to sunrise in middle anos; the other to sunset<br />In the end of anos<br />This end of anos, the People would raise the last, the twelf pillar<br />Each one carved to match each totem village<br />The inner circle would be complete<br />Horth, a son of Greathe and the keeper of the tales,<br />Would speak on the beginning of time and our placement in it by God<br />Stories handed down from the time of Aamdam and Evean<br />Zontan was there last month with the debate to expel Uris<br />He knew the symbols that Uris knew and the abomination that it meant<br />Capturing speech in symbols for all to see and not hear<br />Put in clay with no interpretation<br />The Fathers felt the fear; the Mothers knew ithfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-74238428962286025502008-10-24T07:41:00.000-07:002008-10-24T07:42:21.909-07:00An Ancient Tale #135 (part 3)It had been rainy and lonely those first few nights<br />With only some cold grains to eat<br />Chasing him out with stones<br />Sending him out of the walls into the wilderness<br />Bidding him to never return<br />Driven out like that first couple from their maternal grounds<br />Uris felt that the people had stolen the fire from him<br />He had stayed angry<br />On the fourth sunrise as his wounds healed,<br />He dried out and let that madness evaporate<br />With the water from his skin<br />He found flint, obsidian, wood, and the will to move on<br />It was a time to hunt, not just for meat, but for a way to continue<br />He could not fashion the spear tips to match Quetin<br />Using the obsidian and striking stones he made smaller tips<br />And with strands pulled from his tunic<br />Was able to make the smaller striking sticks<br />He twisted the twine into a string, bending a strong shaft<br />Made a bow as he had seen a northern man carry once<br />It would do<br />The hare on the spit that night tasted like victory<br />If not vindication<br />Uris tried to understand the elders reticence in drawing words<br />Betheadeeon had first showed him how to make some of the symbols<br />He didn’t know why it was blasphemous if he only pictured praise for God<br />Or showing the exploits of Gilgamesh<br />Some of the elders didn’t want these tales easy for everyone to see<br />Without them to tell them the tales<br />Control<br />He would ask Zontan why the speech spinner-elder, Horth, had turned on him<br />Uris knew that Zontan could draw speech and hunted alone<br />He would track him when he came to the hills to hunt<br />They both knew how to set the symbols in wet mud to keep the words<br />Uris knew that it was death to be caught on the hunting paths<br />He knew how to hide his smoke in the hills<br />Damp leaves of the Tigrus tress suspended over small flames from hardwood<br />Skins from the hares would cure well and keep him clothed<br />But he missed his mother’s spinning<br />Maybe he could find a mountain tribe and hunt for them<br />Teaching them of God and Gilgamesh and of his people who descended from Eden<br />And cultivated the crescent<br />From one full moon to the next, he planned and hunted and scratched symbols<br />In far hills<br />Uris knew that Zontan would hunt the hills during the full face of the moon<br />He knew his rockhfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-45186869416551102902008-10-22T07:35:00.000-07:002008-10-22T07:36:13.467-07:00An Ancient Tale #135 (part 2)The moon rise is cool in the hills above the river<br />It’s large, round, white lion face lights up the land and village<br />Dark rimmed eyes stare down<br />Seeing all<br />The dark will grow cold and long<br />I am grateful for the company while I sit on a rock, waiting;<br />Spears at the ready<br />Using a non-lethal end to make pictures of words<br />It is still forbidden to do so<br />Urisabethe was stoned for it, after only last moon rise<br />He has been banished and lives in these hills, alone<br />I will meet him tonight while I am on guard duty<br />The jackals are active tonight and I must stay aware<br />There is another lion pride that has killed our cattle<br />They hunt at sun rise when God sends us the new day<br />My people once only lived off of what God gave us<br />Now we are able to plant and grow;<br />Raise and herd cattle, sheep, goats<br />As well as hunt with skill; using knowledge gained from<br />The fall of Eden<br />The tale of the Gil – Gilgamish – has taught us how<br />I rub out the picture speak with my foot and take up the trail again<br />Of the lion pride<br />Wolves howl at the night’s light<br />I hear the cattle’s concern from far below<br />The first summer night when I took my man-lion’s tuff, I was 16 anos<br />My father had fashioned me a strong, sharp spear<br />I tracked the pride to its lair, Eathis taught me well<br />I did not pick out the old lion as I was told<br />But the alpha; I wanted the pride’s best<br />When I baited him to charge – I place the shaft’s butt in the sand<br />Holding it fast with my foot and drove its head deep into his chest<br />As he fell at my feet, I was not prepared for the roar of rest of the pride<br />At his demise<br />Only the fire circle that I lit with my flint kept them at bay<br />I took the beast’s head in my hands, and praised his spirit to God<br />Knowing the when I ate his meat and wove his main into my hair<br />I would grow from his strength<br />Uris taught me to draw that story in the ground<br />Someday, I will place that in wet clay and let it dry so that it lasts forever<br />Horth and other tale-tellers will pass it in the circle of fire<br />These talk pictures will one day be inscribed for descendents<br />Ancestors and descendents will be able to live in the same moments<br />Knowledge and stories<br />Something moves to my left – I heft a spear, ready<br />This night will be longhfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-59622423578616868922008-10-17T07:13:00.001-07:002008-10-17T07:13:30.596-07:00An Ancient Tale #135 (part 1)The first time the men took me into the circle of fire and<br />I heard the full tale of the hero, the Gil<br />I was 48 seasons or 12 anos<br />Smooth faced and just beginning to learn the hunt<br />The full gray beards sat closest to the red leaping flames<br />And told about time before history<br />The circle of fire was the night time circle of time<br />The straight tall polls arraigned to time the seasons<br />Letting us know when the sun will lower in the sky<br />And when it will begin its rise in the sky again<br />Here in the Tigerus valley this time table determines our<br />Plantings and when we bury our dead<br />Our river provides us plants and meat<br />Plants grow, animals come to water<br />I am Zontanabide, son of Quetin, the spear-tip maker<br />And Bibe, my mother, herb mistress, knowing the property of plants<br />My father can see into the heart of obsidian stone<br />Chipping out the strongest tips with flesh slicing sharpness<br />The flutes he fashions fit tight into the split-top pole<br />He knows when the sinew is chewed enough and will dry<br />To hold it all together<br />He made my spears special for me to kill my lion and<br />Taught me how to throw straight and true with keen eye<br />I have my lion tuff tied to my hair<br />And I’m around to prove both his worth as a spear-maker,<br />My courage as a hunter<br />I’ve heard the story of the Gil for six winters<br />Each time I see into our past with better understanding<br />The word spinner, Horth, is the wisest man the people<br />His beard is white and long, his days as hunter are pasthfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-37211596840522305922008-10-14T08:12:00.001-07:002008-10-14T08:27:01.708-07:00The Lottery<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NA6nDAaNCOQ/SO9YxICURBI/AAAAAAAABE8/YHVF6GStXY0/s400/edouard+manet%7EBar-at-the-Folies-Bergere-1882-Posters.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NA6nDAaNCOQ/SO9YxICURBI/AAAAAAAABE8/YHVF6GStXY0/s400/edouard+manet%7EBar-at-the-Folies-Bergere-1882-Posters.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Eduard came night after night<br />And sat at his table to take in a view<br />Those bangs, the straight nose, the hour glass<br />And waited for her to sigh<br />But it was only that green liquor to take him away<br />But could not forget that down-ward gaze<br />Her painted face couldn't hide her beauty<br />The milk-maid nee' bar-maid<br />And that small mouth<br />That he could only guess would taste of<br />Garden peaches<br />The only way to capture her for himself would<br />Be to put her on canvas<br />Because he would never be able to capture her between his sheets<br />Her downward cast gaze matched his forlorn stare<br />Ah well, Eduard knew that there two-franc women<br />And that was a lottery he could win<br /><br /><img src="file:///C:/WINDOWS/TEMP/moz-screenshot.jpg" alt="" />hfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-40966947289693219932008-10-13T05:12:00.000-07:002008-10-13T05:13:12.569-07:00Wet SocksI’ve had wet feet since we hit the beach<br />Eight days ago<br />I’m sitting in a dirt hole, cold; it’s getting dark<br />And I can move back and try and sleep on the ground<br />When the night gets black<br />I have seven kills<br />Must think of them as Germans and not other men<br />I’m trying not to think of home<br />It seems like a long time ago I was playing football<br />In high school<br />But, it was just six weeks ago<br />I had never shot a gun before<br />Now I have seven kills<br />I hear my mom’s voice once in a while<br />But only her tone and not her words anymore<br />It was either me or them<br />The fire fight seemed to go in slow motion and<br />Last forever<br />I scan the field with my glasses<br />There must have been wheat here before...<br />It’s only a memory now<br />My feet are cold, but at least I made it inland<br />I’m only up from the beach somewhere in Italy<br />I remember reading about the Romans<br />And that’s all I know of Italy<br />Except that the Germans came and killed Italians<br />And now we must kill the Germans<br />I have killed seven of them, and they killed a bunch of us on<br />The beachhfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-14266603975521820852008-10-09T22:41:00.001-07:002008-10-09T22:41:32.350-07:00Touch #531He lightly brushed the back of his hand against her cheek<br />And she responded smiling, brushing back<br />As he titled her chin up to kiss her lips<br />She pulled him into her<br />More than moist lip to lip<br />Exchanging electrical charges<br />Her laugh was like a light breeze that seems<br />To sneak in through an open window<br />The sheets still held the memory of last night<br />But the room was charged with the laughter of the morning<br />Too soon they would wash and dress and leave<br /><br />They lay back on the bank, resting shoulder to shoulder<br />As languid as the smooth surface of the late summer creek<br />She whispered something that the dragonfly flew close to hear<br />But just missed it<br />He smiled that deep type of smile<br />Slowly leaning into her<br />And she responded by laughing and leaning into him<br />When they touched palm to palm and chest to chest<br />Even the breeze stilled to watch<br />The sun felt warm, but did not match the heat on the blankethfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-8195568286278528182008-10-09T09:16:00.000-07:002008-10-09T09:17:26.036-07:00MonstersI want to know that my monsters are hiding behind closed<br />Doors<br />I want them lurking in the shadows ready to pounce and<br />Devour<br />I want them in books and on the screen<br />I don’t want them running banks or congress<br />In charge of manufacturing or making decisions about my<br />Health care<br />Scary monsters should live in my head and not head of companies<br />That make people work long, hard hours creating wealth for the few<br />I want my monsters chasing Scooby-doo or Ripley<br />Not putting my friends on the street with little hope of work<br />Or housing<br />Running numbers that are so large that none of us can comprehend them<br />Using industrial fillers for baby formula or children’s’ toys or pet foods<br />Sowing fear and selling guns on the cheap<br /><br />In another time he would have been the head of some organized crime<br />Organization<br />But, that’s not where the money is anymore<br />Illegal drugs are too risky, better to work with the pharmaceutical companies<br />Cholesterol and diet medications are the wave of the future<br />Organizations have always owned politicians – it’s all in the donations<br />Master of the Universe is just another name for Godfather<br />Where once upon a time big Al would have wiped his competition out<br />Now, it’s just easier and cleaner to bankrupt them<br />And what they did and who worked there are of no concern<br />And when his game time ends<br />He knows who and how much<br />His holdings will be safe and his bank account fat<br />His buyout will be bighfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-3740904456241622402008-10-04T06:44:00.000-07:002008-10-04T06:46:34.672-07:00Little StreamsThe summer stream barely covers the rocks and stones<br />In its winding bed<br />The long grasses that reach out of the water no longer<br />Bend to its current<br />Dragonflies rest and sun themselves lightly<br />Tadpoles no longer part of the foodchain<br />Frogs slide slowly under the surface<br />Up or down stream take about the same effort<br />And they only worry about the occasional bird<br />Or barefoot boy aiming to make his first conquest<br />Cattails grow to heights above the road<br />And brown<br />Each morning the sun rises a bit later and each evening sets earlier<br />Everything is hoping to collect that last bit of extra warmth<br />He blankly stares out of his high-rise apartment window<br />Lucky to pay for an eastern river morning view<br />Soon the undergrounds would disgorge gray creatures<br />That would fill the streets and look like ants around<br />A piece of discarded candy<br />Even women dressed in their colored uniforms looked<br />Dark from up here<br />He fingered the smooth slightly greasy metal in his pocket<br />Today<br />He lit another cigarette and blew and smoke against the glass<br />It looked like pictures he’d seen of cosmic explosions<br />As the white cloud dissipated all around him<br />Time to go<br />Lock the door, ride the elevator, take a cab<br />It all seemed so ordinary<br />Not actually a chill in the air, but that first day after days of heat<br />And humidity<br />When the dry air is a relief, when the heavy air of August breaks<br />And you know that summer is over<br />The coffee shoppe was full and active<br />Suits, three piece, double button, pants and dress<br />Steam coming from behind the scurrying coats on the other side<br />Of the counter<br />It was a study in black and white<br />Normal<br />The gun’s magazine held twenty rounds<br />It was empty in ten seconds<br />Scattering, falling people; screams; shattering glass and broken lives<br />Filled more than coffee cupshfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-90501701973317704992008-09-30T08:40:00.000-07:002008-09-30T08:41:05.474-07:00Whistling againI had drifted away from the green and lush river district<br />Wandering around on the savannas<br />I became as parched and the dry, late summer, thrice-browned grasses<br />My tongue, so dry and swollen, stuck to the roof of my mouth<br />Desiccated lips drawn together and fused<br />As if my teeth were wired shut<br />Even my eyes became so moistureless that the lids fused together<br />I traveled on only feeling the heat of the sun<br />Providing me direction by its passing overhead<br />But, my ears remained opened, hearing the sounds, cries, shouts, songs, and whispers<br />The deep base profundo of the earth<br />Keeping time with the universe, slow and low<br />The rustle of some creature in the distant, warning, loving<br />The calls and shouts of joy, fear, loneliness, laughter<br />The wind playing tones and offering them up so that I could<br />Imagine my own tune<br />I would have whistled if I’d had some spit<br />I was isolated, but not alone<br />Then a friend came along and convinced me to sip and splash from<br />Their water sack<br />And they took me to comfort under the shade of their shadow<br />It’s been a while since I’d visited an oasis<br />The greens are so much more vivid, the cool blues of the water deeper<br />I think that I’ll sit by this date palm<br />Wondering about the balance between silence and wordshfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-57960287778416322542008-06-10T11:28:00.001-07:002008-06-10T11:33:02.490-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_5h5ljgOaM10/SE7H8ZvLYRI/AAAAAAAAAAQ/ZC4xOAikVt8/s1600-h/4WCM+Chapbook+Cover-+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_5h5ljgOaM10/SE7H8ZvLYRI/AAAAAAAAAAQ/ZC4xOAikVt8/s200/4WCM+Chapbook+Cover-+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210321659429085458" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_5h5ljgOaM10/SE7H8ZvLYRI/AAAAAAAAAAQ/ZC4xOAikVt8/s1600-h/4WCM+Chapbook+Cover-+2.jpg">Word Catalyst Magazine proudly announces its first printed chapbook with selections from our first year of online publishing.<br /><br />The book contains the work of 29 authors chosen by the editor. We would like to thank each and every contributor to the magazine for their input. Your purchase of this year's chapbook will help enable us to include more authors in our next volume.<br /><br /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_5h5ljgOaM10/SE7H8ZvLYRI/AAAAAAAAAAQ/ZC4xOAikVt8/s1600-h/4WCM+Chapbook+Cover-+2.jpg">The chapbook is a 48 page half-letter, saddle-stitched booklet with a full-color backdrop cover featuring the art of John D Moulton, a featured artist on Word Catalyst Magazine. The full-bleed cover is printed with a scratch, water, smudge and fade resistant micro-pigment ink. All inside text is black and white.<br /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_5h5ljgOaM10/SE7H8ZvLYRI/AAAAAAAAAAQ/ZC4xOAikVt8/s1600-h/4WCM+Chapbook+Cover-+2.jpg"><br />Each Keepsake Edition Chapbook is being hand assembled and published on demand.<br />If you plan to order more than one copy of the chapbook as gifts etc. please order them in advance so I can set a printing schedule. Thank you.</a><br /><img src="file:///C:/WINDOWS/TEMP/moz-screenshot.jpg" alt="" />hfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-3012567182999500632008-04-15T08:28:00.000-07:002008-04-15T08:29:51.667-07:00To YouI’ve walked among the broken and handed out biscuits<br />And smiles<br />As I’ve wondered down the streets of the town<br />From block to block and slow side street to busy corner<br />And stoop<br />Greeting your eyes with a kind word or directions, if I knew<br />Them or you cared to hear<br />My whispered wishes riding the winds reaching your ears<br />“Lift up your heads and nod to one another”<br />I shook hands or waved to those of you that I knew<br />Or wished to know me<br />Encouraged those of you who sit, not knowing what you<br />Wait for<br />Sang with the street musicians, roaming about for dimes<br />I shared what was in my lungs with you<br />And you, others that are to come<br />The plants that kept me alive, their ancestors will you<br />What I breathe in at fall, their seed in your spring delight you<br />When there were parks I would watch the young parents<br />Watching their wards<br />Or feed the squirrels with those who had passed that time<br />Before me<br />But I feel your pulling away like the moon moving away from<br />The earth at only millimeters a decade<br />I feel the stretch of the universe, that movement of time<br />The town has become a city and there are too many streets for me<br />To cross<br />I leave those to you<br />I’ve sang my songs and now it is up to you to carry and call the tune<br />What materials that I was blessed to use is yours<br />I’m reduced to the atoms from which I rose<br />And into the silence that I washfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-44230610621754147582008-04-01T20:34:00.000-07:002008-04-01T20:35:01.573-07:00Stephen Hawking DancesSitting on the cusp of my extinction<br />I’m perched on the cliffs of my uninhabited isle<br />Throwing bottles into the sea<br />Some are corked, some are not, some contain messages, others not<br />No two messages are the same, I think linearly<br />Because of the undertow, the rocks below are littered with glass<br />And some wet paper<br />And the beach down the way<br />Is covered with returns<br />I’ve been taking my living out of bottles again and I have plenty<br />I had over-understood your kindnesses<br />So all of the messages are about or to you<br />I have lived in exile too long and have only heard the<br />The rushing of the wind or only my heartbeat in my ears<br />Orange turning to red, cooling to green and then blue<br />I darn not close my eyes and watch what is on the inside<br />Projected onto my lids<br />At night I stare up into the stars as they dance around<br />I saw Stephen Hawking dance once<br />And the music that he stepped to was<br />“Nothing produces nothing, it produces something”<br />He proved, mathematically, what we’ve all known all along<br />There is nothing<br />Black holes don’t suck in all of time and space and<br />Turn them into nothing<br />They emit Hawking radiation<br />And begin the dance again<br />There is no end, just different states of being<br />So nice that equations are made to sing so eloquently<br />Like stars we’re all slamming into one another at the speed of light<br />Or traveling away from one another<br />Deeper and deeper into dark mattered space<br />Degrading as time takes its toll<br />I need to slam into other bodies and emit positive energy<br />Not just to sit and stare into space and drink and farthfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-19487333894953479892008-03-31T09:51:00.001-07:002008-03-31T09:51:43.827-07:00And More Rain Comes DownWe’ve stopped watching the news<br />All they say is that more rain is coming<br />But I knew because of the heavy winter snows<br />And if the rains came all at once<br />We’d see the river roar outside its banks<br />The river is running fast and angry<br />Swallowing all of our fields and streets<br />Taking back what we had stolen<br />My great-great grandfather had escaped the trail of tears<br />And became European to settle this land<br />But he secretly kept the spirit of the people<br />And it’s been handed down to me as I have<br />Passed it along to my sons and daughters<br />Spring planting will be late this year<br />The river doesn’t bring riches to our fields anymore<br />Just mud that hardens like cement in the sun<br />We spent last night sandbagging the river bank<br />And I heard someone’s dog go by yelping at the dark<br />I moved as much as I could upstairs<br />Our second floor is groaning over the amount of stuff<br />That we have<br />And hope to keep<br />The wife is worn with worry<br />Over more than her great-grandmother’s porcelain<br />But we’re the lucky ones<br />Charlie’s house was taken<br />It sat on a bluff that the river ate away and then<br />His house fell into the muddy waters<br />The state guard would have been here to help<br />But no one is left here in our state<br />They’re all over there, fighting<br />Just another administration killing others on a path of tears<br />I’m tired and this is the last flood that I’ll battle<br />What’s left will be left – time to move to higher groundhfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-29450403701861306762008-03-28T01:46:00.000-07:002008-03-28T01:47:10.125-07:00Touching the StoneTwo spirits hearing the same distant plaintive train’s whistle<br />Feeling captured in amber<br />Words are sometimes without meanings<br />Spoken as light as air and with the same consequences<br />Whispered in that mindless wind that won’t settle<br />Circling each other with the majestry of love-sick cobras<br />One move life<br />The other death<br />You leave me an emotional puddle<br />Curled up on the floor<br />Weeping dry tears because there is no more moisture<br />Switch<br />Focus<br />The dirty bedraggled unkempt poet still in the clothes he’s worn for months<br />Mutters at his clubfoot as he crosses in the middle of the busy street<br />Carrying all of his belongings in plastic bag<br />Over his shoulder<br />The tin cans rattle as he limps away creating their own song to the heavens<br />And her words hung on the edge of his ears, whispering<br />“You were probably good looking once”<br />Switch<br />Focus<br />He reaches out to touch her shoulder<br />And hopes her skin doesn’t tighten and her back curl away, this time<br />He pictures rubbing lotion on her burnt back<br />To comfort her for her lack of discretion flying too long near the sun<br />He knows what he is not and that he can never be that bright light<br />She holds nature above nurture<br />And follows the sight line of the horizon<br />As clouds spill over the edge of the world<br />Switch<br />Focus<br />An elderly couple sit on the park bench<br />Sharing the sound of the song coming from the children at play<br />On the swings<br />Back and forth<br />Giggles reaching for high squeals<br />From joy to easily forgotten terror<br />Theirs is a shared smile<br />The contentment of his hand on her shoulder<br />Teenagers holding hands never realize how important that can be later<br />In lifehfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-90632071889659184882008-03-27T08:08:00.001-07:002008-03-27T08:08:32.844-07:00BeyondBeyond language, learning, science, and knowledge<br />I feel your existence, uncomplaining<br />Incorporeal<br />Taking me to where I know that I can’t walk<br />Riding vapors, updrafts of drafts<br />No mortised joint holds anything<br />I’d cry at this beauty, but its reach exceeds tears<br />Breath is so bright it burns<br />But there is no flesh for it to sear<br />As I look out of old eyes<br />You lead me back in and out of time<br />There is no metered measure<br />So there is no beginning or end<br />Beyond speech, we nod in agreement<br />As I bow to the power of no words<br />No concealment or congealment<br />Floating past the boundaries that would have been placed<br />On these thoughts or movements<br />We dance upon the tips of grass in summer<br />Before the dew forms in morning<br />Forming and reforming with wisps of clouds in the<br />Afternoon<br />I lose myself in the formation of your thoughts<br />Hearing the music that comes from your unblinking eyes<br />A rose bloom waits on a song you might sing<br />You return me to what was myself and won’t be againhfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-52276954605728881432008-03-25T23:27:00.001-07:002008-03-25T23:27:50.681-07:00Ode to the Chocolat CookieTasty siren calling to my heart and soul<br />Peeking peaks of rich dark gooey chocolat<br />Melting in a warm brown confection of delight<br />I place a piece on my tongue and press it to the roof<br />Of my mouth<br />I do not chew it, but let it dissolve<br />Enjoying the sweet sugars, buttery flavors, and<br />Slight bite of the semi-sweet chocolat<br />I take my time and each piece is its own reward<br />Satisfying like<br />A summer night at the ball game<br />The giggles of your child at the sight of a caterpillar<br />The smile in the eyes of your lover<br />And then the last piece<br />Not lamented because it’s gone<br />But celebrated because it was there at all<br />Those moments added to a life well spent<br />Ah, so much in the conviction of a confectionhfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-58917852036361417832008-03-11T09:21:00.001-07:002008-03-11T09:21:53.764-07:00On Poetics (part 1) – the poemSpinning atoms around atoms in the first black darkness<br />Swirling about the dark matter of gravity<br />Creating universes<br />Until there is the denseness of the spark of light<br />And time<br />Unseen atoms to molecules to the majesty of surroundings<br />Fired in heat and pressure until carbon and quartz<br />Become mountains reaching upwards<br />A chunk broken off of the Mountain of Poetry<br />Hurling into the flow of time<br />Sinking,<br />Waiting,<br />Flowing waters sent from the crying sky<br />And weeping mountain snows<br />Wandering their way, creating mystic canyons cut through the sandstone<br />The poetry chunk using the water’s flow to hone its sharp edges<br />Smoothing out the language of the spark of star-stuff<br />The quartz flakes grab the light and shine up through<br />Defused muddy H2O<br />Using the time’s seasons to work its way up from the depths<br />Each cycle of time, flood to drought to flood to drought<br />And on and on<br />Moving a millimeter per cycle, up<br />Slowly creeping to the river’s edge and poking a smoothed, honed<br />Head out of the water towards sun and shine of time<br />The rock became a gemstone<br />A definition of time and existence<br />Working its way to wait and dry to be found<br />And shine in someone’s hand<br />It’s taken eons to work its way towards the shore<br />From the depths of what once was solid and hidden<br />Ah, but wait...<br />They’ve flooded the canyon to wash silt down river<br />The stone is picked up by the unrelenting white-water rush<br />Weight and worth slams it to bottom<br />It will need to spend the next eons of ebb and flow<br />And attempt to work its way back to the light and edge<br />Until found and seen<br />But, here’s the question – who or what will understand<br />What it offers... its unique explanation of beginnings and eternity<br />Or will they just see another wet rock?hfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-23148677941184331812008-03-07T01:52:00.000-08:002008-03-07T01:53:12.154-08:00come SailingCome sail the azure sea with me<br />Feel the pull of the pulsing waves<br />The whisper of the breeze singing softly<br />Tasting the salt from the spray as we knife<br />Through the water<br />Seeing past the curve of the horizon<br />Skin warmed and shining in the Caribbean sun<br />Gleaming under the night sky’s swirling stars<br />Barefoot wet flaps as we run around<br />The small deck like children chasing dreams<br />Laughing<br />Sitting after dinner, chatting about what we read<br />As the day grew long, becalmed<br />Bobbing in the ocean like the last Cheerio in the bowl<br />Holding fast, lashed to the mast using a short rope<br />Wet in raingear as the summer storms beat the bow<br />Wave after wave<br />And after years of tacking back and forth<br />Laughing into the wind and crying to the lee<br />And keeping those storms at bay<br />With our hands callused from the ropes<br />Twining our lives to one purpose<br />Your smile that holds the blazing heat<br />Tilting our heads together over the tiller<br />We’ll pull in port<br />And say what a ride it was<br />Please don’t say nohfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-5612857396647371212008-03-05T06:52:00.001-08:002008-03-05T06:52:48.573-08:00Love In Masonic TimeTheirs was a family of masons<br />There is no mystery of the square and trowel<br />Just its practice<br />Somewhere back in history<br />A great-grandfather to the tenth power<br />Fit one rock on top of another and the family building trade<br />Began<br />His dad was a block layer who could hold four blocks<br />In one hand<br />A huge man who saw life in black and white<br />Mortar and block<br />He started out as a brick layer who now built brick facades<br />For luxury apartments<br />Wondering how the world is moving at the speed of light<br />The level line was his measure and mean<br />His daughter is an architect designing eco-tech high rises<br />Using pre-formed Chicago concrete materials<br />Understanding stresses that he could no longer comprehend<br />His brother was a crane operator who use to swing the ball<br />And now runs a demolition team<br />Bringing down in a single blast what it took men at one time<br />Years to construct<br />His son owns a green materials company<br />Using methods that didn’t exist when he was born<br />Layer by layer, craft on craft<br />Coral build on the layers of the living to sustain life<br />Continually building on the past<br />Sustaining a life in motion for existence<br />Reaching ever up and adapting to increasing light and warmth<br />Understanding the golden mean without ever knowing a<br />Square or level line<br />Parent to child with love and mastery of the trade<br />Building on the past without setting the crushed stone for the base pour<br />Will topple the structurehfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-24577255398991722152008-03-01T14:30:00.001-08:002008-03-01T14:30:55.979-08:00Dream In Prime Numbers #351A body at rest tends to stay so<br />One in motion goes until it runs out of energy<br />It runs into another object<br />Or it dies<br />The sun sat on the horizon as if it couldn’t take<br />It’s eye off of the site below it<br />Burning and tinting just<br />The edges of the high wisps of clouds<br />Melting away the layer of smoke and sweat<br />The field was littered with men,<br />Dead, dying, or wounded<br />There were no victors, no parades, no songs of conquest<br />I heard the sound of moans from the dying<br />And the cries of those they left behind<br />I held your sagging and baggy, craggy face in my hands<br />And could not wipe away the sardonic silent sadness<br />From your eyes<br />What was passing as my friend<br />Was hanging with the sun, holding onto that last<br />Instant of light before the dusk<br />But there was a small smile on his lips<br />Welling up from somewhere from your broken body<br />Whispering the joy that you once were<br />Could there be laughter again?<br />Having played the fool so long to the brave<br />It’s hard to have a joke puff out of my mouth<br />However, I know that you would want to hear<br />One last silly collection of words<br />Making fun of meaning and languagehfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-33186245562790279892008-02-22T08:40:00.000-08:002008-02-22T08:51:47.261-08:00Selected SilenceSelected Silence<br /><br />If a Buddhist monk falls in Myanma Naingngandaw<br />And Chairman of the State Peace and Development Council<br />Smashes cameras and lets no sound out of the country<br />Do the NCGUB still cry for change?<br />If a women in the jungle Bukavu villages of Congo stops screaming<br />Will anyone know it’s still rape?<br />If a Hutu is born is it genetic that they hate and will grow up<br />To kill a Tutsi?<br />If a refugee camp in Durfar is overrun by the painted white Janjaweed trucks<br />And al-Bashir double-speaks about someday soon<br />Do the Fur, Zaghawa, and Massaleit ethnic groups still die?<br />If a Kikuyu is hunted down with rocks and an ax<br />Can he love his neighbor Kalenjin?<br />When a Shi'ite joins the militia to wipe out the past of Sunni domination<br />Does it make a ripple in the number of who’s dead?<br />If the US waterboards someone who dies<br />And the tapes are destroyed<br />Does any admit that it’s torture?<br />If a father from Detroit dies early because they have no health insurance<br />Is it mass murder or mass indifference or neglect?<br />A child’s eyes tears up, but they’re silent<br />For fear of retribution<br />Their burn marks are covered so as not to cause<br />Suspicion<br />And what don’t we hear that happens<br />With denied plausibility?<br />The sirens wail in our dark night<br />And it’s not the all-clear signal<br />What do we hear that crashes us on the rocks?<br />What don’t we hear that eats at our beings?<br />Who is listening to the cries of our mothers?<br />My ears are defended from the decibels of the afflicted<br />My eyes glaze over from the sheer numbers of the dead<br />And the missing<br />I can’t comprehend the suffering<br />I find no path that is not screaming to be heard or<br />Littered with the fallen<br />We can only start and comfort one voice at a time<br />And raise our voices to be heard by those causing this voice of silencehfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-15920658740735683982008-02-20T11:14:00.001-08:002008-02-20T11:14:37.136-08:00A Day at the Beach, Night under the Eclipsed MoonBlue-green, emerald-azure water<br />Drinks at the white shore<br />Quartz-crystal reflects in passing moments<br />Blazing sunshine<br />The wind whispers a melody whose<br />Notes come from a past<br />As the sand dunes’ grasses change them into a song<br />Of the future<br />A young couple with searching fingers for each other’s<br />Hands, electric touch<br />A young mother sits watching her son<br />Build his sandcastle at the edge of the receding surf<br />It’s gleaming parapets daring the tide<br />An old man leaves three tracks behind him<br />And smiles down on the boy<br />Seeing both the past and possibilities<br />Like dolphins swimming between the waves<br />I was told that I was not tall enough<br />But I reached for the sky<br />They told me that I was too small<br />But I fit inside my skin<br />I was told that I wasn’t tough enough<br />But I fended off their slings and arrows<br />They told me that I wasn’t smart enough<br />But I could put one foot in front of the other<br />Each challenge, each test, each moment<br />Is another defining event<br />I’ve not yet reached every goal<br />But I’ve seen the gold of the sunshine<br />The strength of an eagle in flight<br />The sparkle of a gem in hand<br />The growth of an idea becoming reality<br />The beauty in your eyeshfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5337790268825036711.post-73715115698629377092008-02-17T09:38:00.000-08:002008-02-17T09:39:12.101-08:00ThursdayHe felt the eyes on him when he woke up<br />He heard little doors opening<br />By the time he finished his coffee he could<br />See the little demons coming out of the walls<br />And they were throwing little pebbles and weaving<br />The strands<br />Of doubt, insecurity, discouragement, hopelessness, intimidation,<br />apprehension, worry...<br />Within the hour<br />He was being pelted by their stones<br />As the little demons grew and laughed at him<br />He was anchored to his chair by<br />The strands of fear, dread, despair, horror, terror...<br />Woven into a net<br />Of ropes<br />He felt the bonds of Gulliver<br />By noon the demons were larger than life<br />Beating him with boulders of dejection and loss<br />He sat staring wide-eyed into the void of himself<br />A tear ran down his cheek<br />One drop of hope to turn the mountain into sand<br />Tomorrow, he would close their eyes<br />And keep the portal shuthfurnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06696258127478731741noreply@blogger.com4