Saturday, August 14, 2010

In 44 Minutes

“Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life.”
Omar Khayyam

It never takes me 44 minutes to write a poem
but sometimes I am writing it in my head for 44 days
it just takes that long to grow there to fill in the blank places

I won't change the world in 44 minutes and I suppose
it passes in the blink of an eye the same as a year does
when you aren't looking
when you are just living in the moment and it ticks away
the sands falling through time and at the end faster and faster

When I am looking for you 44 minutes seems torture
and if you can imagine someone twisting your arm behind your back
for 44 minutes
a bus hitting you and it taking 44 minutes to realize you wont survive
44 minutes for water to boil
44 minutes to hear you say
"Have I told you today I love you?"

I'm sure no one's ever written a sonata in 44 minutes
or built a highway
but if you string together that burst of time
doing what you want what you know is true and good
when you are feeding your soul
44 minutes can change a heart
it can open a window
fill your lungs with air
even cause you to smile when someone is being unkind
and if you trust love
you can fly
to perhaps to an ancient city
and walk by a river that created time
and stroll there

We are remembered not only by the work we do here
but how we love
The balance comprises the whole
In 44 minutes a man can decide he's done fighting
and just close his eyes and go under the water
and trust that there's a bigger plan for all of us
pieces of a cosmic puzzle of love and life and renewal

When I know I am only as valuable as the time I share
when I forget I'd rather be alone because being near you
is such joy
and "being with you is like being alone."
when I know you are close and my heart is racing
and not because it's shiny new but because it's time tested
something you can count on
something true
and always you


Wednesday, August 4, 2010

A little Aaron to fill the summer

Because it's raining today (its been raining for days) and there is something very magical about a not so gentle summer rain. Like a flower drinking from the pouring rain, the same rain that could wash it away.

And because it's always a favorite of mine on a rainy day

Monday, August 2, 2010

Love Letters

I am weary with love's maladroit dance today
and could toss love aside easily for chocolate
or a new rose in the garden
or any movie with Daniel Craig

Restless summer days like this my father
would take us to the lake to go fishing
and listen to the radio on a blanket
sipping orange soda

I want to stand in the garden
and tear up love letters
and watch the earth worms eat the pages
the idea that those pen marks
could be worm shit
makes me giggle
because every time he makes me cry
I plan my exit

I'll write a cryptic note
leave it next to a bottle of red wine
pack a suit case full of blame
and go look for the blue wind boy
and the next time not take love so seriously

Keep your hand inside the ride at all times
avoid making toast while swimming
when you find a boy that could break your heart
keep a little piece hidden in your coat pocket
for the end of summer
and I will show you where to plant it

And Annie's best of all the best:

I used to be a lunatic from the gracious days
I used to feel woebegone and so restless nights
My aching heart would bleed for you to see

1-Oh, but now

I don't find myself bouncing home
Whistling buttonhole tunes to make me cry

No more I love you's
The language is leaving me
No more i love you's changes are shifting
Outside the words

No one ever speaks about the monsters

I used to have demons in my room at night
Desire, despair, desire
So many monsters
(rpt 1)

2-No more i love you's
The language is leaving me
No more i love you's
The language is leaving me in silence
No more i love you's
Changes are shifting outside the words

And people are being real crazy
And you know what mommy?
Everybody was being real crazy
And the monsters are crazy.
There are monsters outside
(rpt 2, 2,...)

Do be do be do do do oh
Outside the words

August's flower

August's Flower

I planted a pot of morning glories near the front window
I wanted to be able to sit there in late summer, listen to the summer bugs sing
and have their blue and white blooms crawl up the side of the house
on a trellis because a garden feels more like a garden with a trellis

I have been watching them grow those little seedlings
into the heart shaped green leaves spilling out of the pot
but the miracle in all this talk of the glories of the new day
is in the tendril not in the flower
Those tendrils curl out from under the plant and they wait and wait
they wait for a wind strong enough to blow their sticky fingers
onto the trellis so they have something to hold on to
somewhere to climb
something of strength
to compliment that tender twirl of living thing

Without the strength of the wooden earth ladder
this pot of leaves would spill out onto the ground
and nobody could see them from the street
and I couldn't see them from my favorite chair
in my favorite window where the kittens like to keep guard for squirrels
so the trellis is their spine, unattached but part of it
not alive but holding life allowing it to flourish

How do you tell a trellis that it is nothing but wood
if it were not for the bravery of that tiny tendril of curled sticky love?
How do you point to the blooms and tell him
"If it were not for that blossom you'd be kindle"
Sometimes strength bears a curious hubris
and in nature's child-like soothsayer ability
she points out the obvious that beauty will always inspire
that strength is only as good as the beauty that leans into it
crawls up its leg and rests on it's shoulder, unafraid
and ultimately unashamed


I was missing my friend Jay this morning and he introduced me to Nina. When she sings in french it will steal your heart. Today is a quiet summer day and the perfect time for a little Nina in the garden.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

The Catfish Poem I love

Let's talk about Richard Brautigan. He is one of those writers I want to embrace but ultimately would like to strangle. I find one poem of his I love and the next I hate. The Catfish Friend poem I found years ago and made it a study of some altered books I made. I love the images it creates:

The Catfish Friend

If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge
of my affection
and think, "It's beautiful
here by this pond. I wish
somebody loved me,"
I'd love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be
at peace,
and ask yourself, "I wonder
if there are any catfish
in this pond? It seems like
a perfect place for them."


Some of Brautigan's poetry seems like a child's fairy tale and others as though it was never finished that it wasn't really a poem but more of a thought of a poem. He was the voice of San Francisco and the beat movement of the 70's and 80's. I suggest a little interest in his work and see what you can take away as something you will love.

The Wait

It seemed
like years
I picked
a bouquet
of kisses
off her mouth
and put them
into a dawn-colored vase

the wait
was worth it.

in love.

Richard Brautigan



Yes, the Fish Music

A trout-colored wind blows
through my eyes, through my fingers,
and I remember how the trout
used to hide from the dinosaurs
when they came to drink at the river.
The trout hid in subways, castles,
and automobiles. They waited patiently for the dinosaurs to go away.

Richard Brautigan