Waiting for the Hummingbird


hummingbird

 

Will you be tempted by my latest attempt

to lure you into my life?

The black lacquer hook secures the playful pedestal

I’ve erected in your honor

I’ve erected in your absence.

An erection in remembrance.

 

I’ve seen your rotating spin soar high above

The deep green weeping willow for me.

The one that shelters the violets.

The one that mimics my pain.

The one that forgets me not.

The one I know you remember.

 

Secretly, I watch you dive haphazardly into an amorous arc

Your wings beating 100 times a second, sometimes two.

Your body contorted into hopeful angles,

To attract the attention of the ruby throated one next door.

She is younger.  She is shiny.

But how can you want her? She’s not me.

 

The U shapes you form as you fly higher

Scare me

Excite me

Make me cry.

I offer you crimson nectar with the hope

This Summer won’t be another fly by.

 

 

 

 

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Beach Baby


My view from the Balcony

My view from the Balcony

The Gulf of Mexico calls….no the sands aren’t sugary white.  No the place I stay isn’t tourist ridden.  But there is calm.  There is rest.  There are sand dollars.  There is time to think.  And there is my love.

See you in a week!

 

On the Beach at Night, Alone. by Walt Whitman
ON the beach at night alone,
As the old mother sways her to and fro, singing her husky song,
As I watch the bright stars shining—I think a thought of the clef of the
universes,
and of the future.
A VAST SIMILITUDE interlocks all,
All spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons, planets, comets,
asteroids,
All the substances of the same, and all that is spiritual upon the same,
All distances of place, however wide,
All distances of time—all inanimate forms,
All Souls—all living bodies, though they be ever so different,
or in different worlds,
All gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes—the fishes, the brutes,
All men and women—me also;
All nations, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, languages;
All identities that have existed, or may exist, on this globe, or any globe;
All lives and deaths—all of the past, present, future;
This vast similitude spans them, and always has spann’d, and shall forever
span them,
and compactly hold them, and enclose them.

 

 

Synchrony


I had it one time, okay maybe two. But never at the right time.
Or the right wing.
Or the right stuff. Because stuff is just that:
stuff.

It’s that woman who adores music you detest yet she has long blonde hair and a cleavage avatar. You adore her with social attention.
You don’t tell her you are nihilistic, unemployed and living with your Mother.
You stun the world with your wit and misspelled words because they give you character.
No degree, not even a high school one, but by God you have character. Americans appreciate such depth don’t they? Especially those behind the masks.

Simultaneously, a noble soul leaves the earth while you tap tap tap 140 characters to impress. The hole left in the souls of many can’t be dammed by the jargon juggernaut that holds no sincerity.
It’s just stuff. But you impress.

It’s mindless. It’s a catch-all. It’s the Lee Harvey Oswald of all conspiracies.

In the dark matter that holds my universe together is a clue. I sent you a map of it. I sent you a picture of it. I just need help to touch it again. I just need help that comes from nowhere to not lose it again.

And it spins in my mind like Binion’s million dollar makers. The reels always hitting bells
never any whistles. Or sometimes sweet cherries. They take the form of smiles, of understanding, of great sex. But that’s just stuff.

The stuff of dreams.

And I cry.

And you take off the mask, the sunglasses, the fake pride.
And you pull me up by the shoulders and wrap yourself around me because you feel my pain.

Coincidence? I think not.
It is Divine Synchrony.

Happy Birthday Emily Dickinson


emilydickinson

The Academy of American Poets reminded me that today is Emily Dickinson’s birthday.  Emily Dickinson was my late Mother’s favorite poet and I remember fondly reading the many books of poetry my mother collected with Ms. Dickinson’s poems earmarked.  To honor both she and my mother, I’ve included one of my favorite poems for you to read:

There’s a certain Slant of light (258)

by Emily Dickinson
There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons – 
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes – 

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us – 
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the Meanings, are – 

None may teach it – Any – 
'Tis the Seal Despair – 
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air – 

When it comes, the Landscape listens – 
Shadows – hold their breath – 
When it goes, 'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death

The Surly Darkness of the Wolfman


Oh my!! One last demon to expunge so we can enjoy the Christmas Holidays with a light heart!  More Halloweenish than not, but so was the relationship.  Ironically, there truly is a Surly Brewing Company in Brooklyn.  They give a damn!

surlydarkness

So thirsty but your surliness won’t let you drink.

The dark ale of self-absorption has made you drunk.

Your howling falls on 140 character deaf ears .

They don’t care about your musical aroma.

Or your high notes that you believe make you smooth.

A social disease.

An unsociable worldview.

Expose. Arrogance.

Excommunicate. Churlishness.

Explore.

Dry out.

Get meds.

Get a job.

Help yourself. Help Others.

So dark with a mind so bright.

Turn on the light.

Surly Brewing in Brooklyn Gives a Damn

Why don’t you?

Before Voting Inspiration


A Nation’s Strength
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

What makes a nation’s pillars high
And it’s foundations strong?
What makes it mighty to defy
The foes that round it throng?

It is not gold. Its kingdoms grand
Go down in battle shock;
Its shafts are laid on sinking sand,
Not on abiding rock.

Is it the sword? Ask the red dust
Of empires passed away;
The blood has turned their stones to rust,
Their glory to decay.

And is it pride? Ah, that bright crown
Has seemed to nations sweet;
But God has struck its luster down
In ashes at his feet.

Not gold but only men can make
A people great and strong;
Men who for truth and honor’s sake
Stand fast and suffer long.

Brave men who work while others sleep,
Who dare while others fly…
They build a nation’s pillars deep
And lift them to the sky.

Tinkerbell’s Lament


It makes me so angry that I am an option not a priority.
What the hell is the matter with you? Don’t you understand what you’ve got?
Don’t you know I am who?

I am not the third of your three wishes.
I am not the prank Lotto card.
I am not the short woman behind the emerald green curtain begging you to click your ruby slippers.
I am the finish line and I am the start.

I am the binding of your unwritten book,
I am the lyrics to your song
I am the misdirected woman you have lost
I know where you belong.

You don’t realize your place in the grand scheme of life. You are not only dust to fairy dust.
You are special. You are wanted. You’re not the minus you’re the plus.

Take off that mask of bravado
Your surliness turns no one on.
It’s a sad symptom of all the anger you wallow in
Feel the reaping of what you have spawned?

The future isn’t never-never land.
In your world asking is intruding
No asking, no communication, no understanding
In your self-imposed Tower of Babylon.

You bark about the entitled, yet you live your life “as if”.
Work is not a four letter word,
but nihilism is

Hurry and
Break the Bukowski bondage
seek your own happiness.

Don’t you know?
Don’t you know?

You’re a grown up Peter
Panning for another’s fool’s gold.

Open wide
Eat and Drink, then try very hard to see
It’s not too late, it never is
to find a star and maniacally swing

There they are
See them?
Fallen, shooting, sucked into a black hole

Grab one now! Love is precious!
Live
Before you get too old.