More Before and After Poems

Worst Love Poem Ever

We blasphemed with our bodies, two boys
play-acting epic love scenes inspired by the Bible:
Jonathan and David, Jesus and His beloved John.
My favorites were Ruth and Naomi. Whither thou goest...

But I shall abide by things that I know how to hold onto:
like the certainty of outrage, the moral stamina to write
the worst love poem ever, to say "fuck you" while smiling,
but all my ink pens keep exploding from the heat.

Write a poem for me instead. Tell me something sideways again.
Hint at need in the oblique manner that you and I communicate.
Write my fate in the margins, leaving volumes unsaid
in the white spaces between the lines.

Or perhaps we have a longer story yet to tell, an epic.
Something we cannot compress into a lyric poem.


And the original:
Untitled
We've been sloppy with our bodies,
boys playing scandalous games inspired
by the Bible,:
Jonathan and David,
Ruth and Naomi,
Jesus and hHis beloved,
John. My favorites were Ruth and Naomi.
Whither thou goest.

But me, I should stick with abide by things
I know how to hold onto:
the certainty of outrage,
the moral stamina to write the worst
love poem ever, to say “fuck you”
with a smile on my face. Damn!
The craziness of the flesh!
It stops me. So beautiful. I mark it.

Alright, you have my attention.
Tell me something sideways again, hint at need
in the oblique ways that you and I communicate.
Or wWrite my fate in the margins,
leaving volumes unsaid between the lines.
It's August in New Orleans,
a hard time to write a love poem. anyway
when all mMy ink pens keep exploding from the heat.

But our story epic
cannot end, not here.
No cinematic walk-offs, please.
(Yes, I am listening to myself.)
We have a longer story yet to tell,
something I can't compress into a poem.
And wWhy would I try?Awhy would I try?

_______________________________
Confession of Faith

Purple-black crows have pecked these bones,
these carcasses of coastal pine polished white
by the persistent apetite of the shore.

But this poem is merely metaphor.
Imaginative reasoning, at best. At worst,
a newsflash from the interior.

Farther up the beach, a bullwhip
of sea carrot lassoes back around
itself, encircling an unlikely pile of quartz.

Suggestive accident of Nature?
Or the ghost of another soul
who has hovered here before?

Clouds dart, and a sudden sunbridge
throws out an invitation: Crossover the ocean
to a farther, unseen shore.

Metaphor upon metaphor!
And too great a leap of faith.
Onto a tenuous surface of sunflakes,

glimmers on water that offer
no sure foundation? I am Christ-like
only in my reluctance.

Nearby from a descending hill, where a drain pipe
juts, I hear singing, an unexpected polyphonic
chorus of monks intoning Om.

Shifting timbres, layers of wind echoing through
an open pipe, a kind of Genius rising
then fading to a whispered mantra, Om.

Kneeling down, I reposition
an oyster shell to its best advantage,
reflective side up.


And the original:
Why dDo bBeaches iInspire pPoets?

Can I see only p Purple-black crows pecking at bones,
at carcasses of coastal pine polished white
by the shore's persistent appetite of the shore.?.
But this is only the opening metaphor, of course.
Imaginative reasoning, at best.
Or Aat worst, a newsflash from the interior.

Farther up the beach, I find a bullwhip of sea carrot
lassoeds back around itself, encircling
an unlikely pile a pyramid
of rose quartz. A An unlikely
miracle of nature? Or merely the yet
another ghost
of human thought
hovering in the landscape?

Clouds dart, and a sudden sunbridge
throws offers an invitation to crossover the ocean
to explore a farther, unseen shore.
But that is tT Is that alsoT But that is too great a leap
of faith?. AOnto a tenuous layer of sunflakes?
Glimmersings on a watery surface, golden ephemera
that offer no sure foundation?
Only more metaphor?.
No human ever walks on water.

Where a drainage pipe juts
from a descending hill
I hear singing, an unexpected
polyphonic chorus of
monks intoning OM, shifting, layered timbres
of wind echoing through an open pipe,
a kind of Genius that fades
to a whisper and then silence, almost telling me:
Time does not start here.

Kneeling down, Awed Inspired, nonetheless, I kneel down
I to reposition a clam shell
to its best advantage.

And a Short One

I honed this haiku-like short poem while walking the woods of Washington state, daily for 2 weeks. A year later, the words are very much like the original, but with key changes in where lines return, a changed or repositioned word here or there.

Madrona
Yearning, twisting Madrona tree
peels back his crimson foreskin, exposing
the raw desire of the Earth
and a sleek skin of green beneath.


Here is the original version:
Madrona
Twisting, yearning Madrona peels
back his own red foreskin, exposing
the raw need of the Earth and a sleek
skin of green beneath.