On Bayou Lafitte

The floating lands, folded by a storm surge,

rebounded with tides too saline

for Giant Blue Irises to thrive.

Yet these blue tenacious flowers do survive,

roots clutching at the certainty that change

is the nature of Nature, and that 
even Giant Blue Irises can rebound.

Musical Debut

Tonight is Dress Rehearsal for "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, the Musical". This show marks my musical theater debut in New Orleans, this coming Friday night. I'm excited and proud to have come this far. Dress Rehearsal. I expect things to be harried and confused tonight, but overall very well-done. We've rehearsed our songs, practiced our set changes, lighting cues, and choreography. We're in good shape.

Me, I'm in good shape too. Dancing does wonders for my body and stamina. I feel pretty good. And proud to say I'm hanging in there with REAL dancers, some in their late teens. Fortunately, there are 2 levels of choreography in the show: REAL dancer choreography and simplified, mostly upstage in the back choreography for me and the other singer/actors. I rely on my female dance partners to guide me around, signal the next change, and maintain tempo. But otherwise, I'm DANCIN'!! In a show! Not bad for 42 years old.

There's a poem about the experience of dancing starting to form...

NaPoWriMo ~ Week 4

A poem a day is a chore, but overall, I'm happy with my progress. Even on days when I do not publish a poem, my mind is writing.

If you are reading this on Facebook, my revisions make a lot more sense on the actual blog (http://kungfuevangelist.blogspot.com) where you can see the colors at work. Bold white text is the original impulse on a particular day. Green text is revised after the first day. Gray text is deleted.

DAY 7


DAY 6


DAY 5

cloud of Sweet Olive


DAY 4

change is the nature
of Nature


DAY 3 ~ Bayou Lafitte

The floating lands,

folded by a storm surge,

return rebounded with tides too saline

for gGiant bBlue iIrises
to thrive

And yet they Yet these tenacious flowers
do survive, roots
clutching to the certainty knowledge that
change is the nature
of Nature

And that Giant Blue Irises
can also rebound.

DAY 2

DAY 1

NaPoWriMo ~ Week 3

Week 2 started strong, but then seriously dropped off. The poems were longer, more noticeably structured, and located firmly in New Orleans, sights and recent experiences. But then, nothing. Or perhaps I should say, too much. Too many thoughts swirling inside my head like a carousel, but no gold ring to grab hold of. It's times like these when my pocket-size notebooks are really handy to jot down snippets.

DAY 7 ~ Genius in My Living Room

How long can I be content
being just a genius
in my living room?

I know, pPublication
is a secondary concern for writers
after writing.
But validation, admiration, respect?
Love? Who doesn't want love?

But if love can be won,

I haven't won it yet.
Plenty of admiration though,
some respect, more copious eEncouragement, yes,

some respect, and even admiration. And yes
a bit of plenty of head-wagging.
But love? Really
I should look elsewhere.

Validation, admiration, respect...

To feel a part Of It All.
Not just feel it, but believe it.
To look outward
instead of
in.
CTo sit, crowded at the table with the other VIPs

with the the other, hungry young celebrities, all of us
scanning the ballroom, looking outward

instead of in, anxious to see

and be seen, anxious for someone to call

our names.

DAY 6


DAY 5


DAY 4 ~ The Final .2 Miles

A marathon is more than 26 miles long.
To be precise, it's 26.2. The .2 added
because a young queen wanted to greet
runners of the first modern marathon runners
at the gates of her palace.

At the line-up there are 26 thousand
of us, hopping in place with excitement,
under the falling sky flowers
of the opening ceremonial fireworks.
Speeches I don't hear. I eat
my first handful of Cheerios.

At the mile 6 marker, I am holding steady,
happy with my selection of moisture-wicking socks,
my feet falling into that pleasing rhythm
I recognize from training, when that barefoot Ethiopian
who soon will win won the race was is already returning,
grinning as he passesd me in the opposite direction,
flat feet flapping on the blacktop.

And when I finally see saw that 26 mile
marker for myself, my momentary upsurge of pride,
elation, and relief was are swallowed
by the realization of .2 miles
yet to go!. Oh no!

But everything I brought
to sustain me for 26 miles
I had have used up already,
all my good intentions gone,
both water bottles empty, and I had
consumed every bite-sized bit of energy bar
consumed, plus and all the Cheerios.

My physical stamina was is long-since depleted,
and I ran run solely on emotional energy now,
and that too wanes. was waning. fast

My right IT band was is tearing away
from the knee, and my stomach was is
painfully bloated painfully. What fuel was is left
that I could can use?

A tiny voice inside me whispers, Rage?.
Yes, of course, why not rage against the dying light?.
Like so many other times before, Wwhen all else fails me,
rage can carryiesd me over what felt feels like
the final .2 miles of my life.
Whatever works.

No one can ever take that away what I have accomplished
so far, from me, nor the understanding body certainty
that long distance goals
are really short distance goals
when taken daily, further divisible into
one step at a time, and then
the next.

I have am not finished yet. I earned am still earning
every painful step of these final .2 miles
before I can be greeted at the queen's gate of an ancient queen.
I still run the marathon, and know that sometimes
just maintaining forward momentum has got to be enough.


DAY 3


DAY 2


DAY 1

NaPoWriMo ~ Week 2

I've never written so much poetry at once, not even in creative retreat. I'm more-or-less thrilled with the 7 poems I've written so far. All 7 are in various degrees of first-draftness, but some have potential for further development--after this break-neck pace is over.

Ok, week 2. Inhale. Here goes...

DAY 7
turning tide


DAY 6



DAY 5



DAY 4



DAY 3 ~ French Quarter Fest
Sexy, sexy people
and not so sexy people
dancing, nodding,
rocking side-to-side,
snapping, clapping, or doing
the Funky Butt

to a kind of musical hybrid
that can flourish only
in New Orleans:
calliope and the Blues,
Zydeco Bounce,
or the world's premier trio
of steel guitar, sousaphone,
and washboard.

Salt peanuts for sale
or a painted face.
Let's catch that crawfish
eating competition
and then grab a beer~always
a Big Ass beer.

Grateful for sunglasses
dimming the glare
off of the river
but regretting the lack
of sunscreen. Oh well,
you'll look luminous
dancing tonight.


DAY 2
What use are empty hands?

Better for clawing digging up through soil.
No premature graves for me!

Better for cupping water
to my thirsty lips.

Better for reaching out holding hands
with to someone else.

Better for touching,
catching,
pushing, throwing
pulling,
and holding myself together.

Better Good for waving goodbye.
Best for caressing!


DAY 1 ~ Where the Industrial Canal Meets the River
At the point
where waters merge,
green grapples brown,
and breezes buffet my
face and body on all
sides at once.

On the water side, the levee
slopes down to rocks
clashing like Caligula
with the tide.
Foolish kings. Water will
have its way.

But on the levee's
grassy side, the pom-pom heads
of clover, grown high, nod
vigorously with the winds
like a million angels dancing.

And in between both sides,
lies a middle path
paved in broken oyster shells,
bumpy on my bike, and narrow,
though seldom straight.

NaPoWriMo ~ Week 1

April is National Poetry Writing Month, and I'm participating in a nationwide group write: a poem a day for the next 30 days. Hmm... Sounds intimidating. But here I am, tossing my hat into the ring. Check this blog now and then, http://kungfuevangelist.blogspot.com

Text color indicates work in progress. White text is the original impulse for a particular day. Gray/black text is a deletion. And green text is new since the original impulse.

DAY 7
Where waters merge
green meets brown,
and the breeze buffets
my face and body
from all sides at once.

Clumps of clover grown high
on the incline of the levee
shudder, but on the water side
are rocks
clashing like Caligula
with the tide.

Foolish king.
Water will have its way.


DAY 6
Whispering begins in the raffia friction
of last year's fronds, stubbornly refusing
to fall from the tallest palms.

Then bamboo rustles her taffeta leaves
as the pipes that dangle from the eaves
begin to chime.

Wind animates them all,
with desire
at the roots of everything.

Why then should I let go of desire, let go
of it all~to crossover into Nirvana
or some other sweet oblivion?

Who would ever want to leave
these trees, this wind, those chimes?


DAY 5 ~ (Unasked-for) Advice for Writers
You are a writer
only when you write.
You are a Writer
only when you revise.

Learn to write
by writing,
then re-writing,
and by reading the Greats.
Listen when writers talk,
especially about writing.

Don't wait for inspiration.
Find inspiration in your writing.

Don't write to earn gain love.
Love what you write.

Don't write to be get published.
Just do your best work.
Have something to say.
Say it well.
But never worry about
Voice. That is a Marketing term.

Write to weave
patterns, to create order,
to construct meaning~
because meaning, like story,
is a constructed thing.

Write because
your days are haunted
by words, images, and emotions~
inside the private theater
of memory.

Write because, like me,
you have no choice
but to unburden yourself heart
of our aching this barely endurable
love for this our phenomenal world.life.


Easter Sunday DAY 4 ~
A Poem by Frederick Mead
cConfessional tone.
sSexual longing.
sSpiritual groping.


DAY 3
I awake every morning
longing
for an angel's burning kiss
or a poem on my lips~
aching to feel Chosen.

And so I start my day
constructing my voice
from all the available accents~
stout-hearted, yet guarded lest
my fragility show, armored
by personality.


DAY 2
I speak
iron, plainly,
volcanic sounds
erupting
from deep within my
lungs of fire,
words hammer-forged
inside the cavern
of my mouth.

I make seek
pattern,
expressing meaning
through rhythm
or repetition,
near rhyme, or
the telling silence,
in structures meant to
guide,
clarify,
and delight

You my
reader,
first Muse top banana
of in my Pantheon cosmology, world order,
even though you might
never grasp my meaning
across the our gap
of language.


DAY 1
Fluttering hummingbird
heartbeats pulse felt
where skin presses
skin, bodies together
in pleasure, beating out the
syncopated measures of
desire: Want, want, I want!

Word Temples

Recently I learned that the Chinese symbol for "poem" is comprised of 2 characters that mean "word" and "temple". A poem is a word temple.

WORD TEMPLE

In the beginning is
the deed. For compassion is
is more than a noun, more than
emotion, a brief distress
for the Other's distress
that yet

slyly eludes escapes the ache of insistent ache of
Bodhichitta ~ the that spirit of compassion,
that which yearns only to cherish Other ~
but rather, escapes eludes through the loophole
of misdirected
non-attachment.

Instead, lLet compassion become
a verb, a clarifying bell
calling the mind to action, or a gaze
penetrating through to a more pure land,
a New Jerusalem
where compassion and sympathetic actions are the
are the true measures
of righteousness.

For faith without works
is dead faith, a life-less statue
erected in the posture of faith
but worshiped inside
a temple
made of words.

Let compassion fly!
Let compassion be the winged horse
that carries us forward, all of us,
towards our mutual salvation.
All of us,
co-arising!

_______________________________________

Word Temple

In the beginning, is
the deed.
For compassion is
more than a feeling,
more than emotion,
a brief distress
for the Other's distress
that yet eludes the aching call
of aching bodhichitta
through the choice of misguided misdirected
non-attachment.

Instead, let compassion be
a verb, the clarifying bell that calls
the mind to action,
or the penetrating gaze into
a more pure land, a New Jerusalem
where sympathetic action
is the true measure
of righteousness.

For faith without works
is dead faith, a life-less statue
erected in the posture of faith
but worshipped inside a temples
made of words.

Oh let compassion fly!
Let compassion be the winged horse
that carries us forward, all of us,
toward our mutual salvation.
All of us
co-arising.

___________________________________________________

In the beginning, is
the deed.
For compassion is
more than a feeling we feel,
more than an emotional state,
a brief distress over for another's distress,
but inhabiting word temples,
confusing evading but eluding the ache of achy
that yet eludes the aching call of bodhichitta
for non-involvement misplaced misguided non-attachment.

Instead, cCLInstead, let compassion be should be
a verb, a the clarifying bell
that calls our minds the mind to action,
a the burning glimpse
into a more pure land,
a the New Jerusalem
where sympathy sympathetic action
is the true measure
of righteousness.

For faith without works
is dead faith, a life-less statue
erected in the posture
of spirituality,
inside a temple
made of words.

Oh let compassion free!
Let compassion it be
a the winged horse
that carries us all forward, all of us,
towards our mutual salvation.
All of us
co-arising.