Tag Archives: poem

To his Own Beloved Self The Author Dedicates These Lines – Mayakovski

22 Jan

Ponderous. The chimes of a clock.
“Render unto Caesar … render unto God…”
But where’s
someone like me to dock?
Where’11 I find a lair?

Were I
like the ocean of oceans little,
on the tiptoes of waves I’d rise,
I’d strain, a tide, to caress the moon.
Where to find someone to love
of my size,
the sky too small for her to fit in?

Were I poor
as a multimillionaire,
it’d still be tough.
What’s money for the soul? –
thief insatiable.
The gold
of all the Californias isn’t enough
for my desires’ riotous horde.

I wish I were tongue-tied,
like Dante or Petrarch,
able to fire a woman’s heart,
reduce it to ashes with verse-filled pages!
My words
and my love
form a triumphal arch:
through it, in all their splendour,
leaving no trace, will pass
the inamoratas of all the ages!

Were I
as quiet as thunder,
how I’d wail and whine!
One groan of mine
would start the world’s crumbling cloister shivering.
And if
I’d end up by roaring
with all of its power of lungs and more –
the comets, distressed, would wring their hands
and from the sky’s roof
leap in a fever.

If I were dim as the sun,
night I’d drill
with the rays of my eyes,
and also
all by my lonesome,
radiant self
build up the earth’s shriveled bosom.

On I’ll pass,
dragging my huge love behind me.
On what
feverish night, deliria-ridden,
by what Goliaths was I begot –
I, so big
and by no one needed?

V. Mayakovski, 1916



poem: east of where i stand

7 Oct

my brain fills
with scattershot landscapes,
tumble weeds blow dead
across long flat rivers of black asphalt,
trees and shrubs bend from a ceaseless wind,
dust carves veins atop dry clay river bottoms –
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poem: lost in a myth of my own creation

7 Oct

there’s a scar on her back
and I wonder
is that where the magic starts?
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poem: fields afire

27 Sep

there is no silence at the center
of a garden filled with dead flowers
and falling leaves;
a garden surrounded by armor and brick
and the bones of soldiers gone so long from us now –

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review: Train to Chihuahua by Travis Blair

14 Sep

review: Train to Chihuahua by Travis Blair
by Jack Henry on Monday, May 9, 2011 at 9:18pm

I have often said that I don’t like reading poetry books. That is, books filled with poetry. Specifically books filled with poetry by a single poet. It can be a tedious, terrifying and sometimes traumatic event. The problem with most books of poetry by a single writer is with the poems. A few are great, many are good and far too many just suck out loud. SUCK OUT LOUD. This is true of the lofty academics on the high nosed presses to the self-published heroes in backwater USA. It happens, all too often but it happens.
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poem: shattered highway

14 Sep

shattered highway

…and I watch a broken down road rumble
beneath my wheels, the desert wind whipping
through my thinning hair,
memories of love lost and battles won
drift through my head,
a dull gray moon lifts effortlessly into a waning sky –
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poem – absolution

13 Sep


just after sunset
driving west
open highway
cool breeze
lavender skies
and a buzzing fly for a companion

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poems – shorties

13 Sep

not into it
a soft breeze blows in across the backyard
every day around 4 pm –
trees bend, swirl and drift lazy across blue velvet skies –
fish boil across the top of the pond –

i find my spot on the back step –
smoke another cigarette –
trace back through the roots of my day
searching for a small fragment to tuck away –

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poem: alone on a path that leads to the back of my mind

5 Apr

the blinking cursor damns me –
– some days i cannot write
– some days i cannot speak
– some days words have no meaning
and an incredulous sky opens with sighs of sorrow,
consumes me,
swallows me whole without thought or consequence
and i find myself wandering alone
on a path that leads to the back of my mind –
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guest editor at the Whistling Fire –

10 Dec

for the month of March I am the guest editor at the Whistling Fire. That means you can submit, I read, accept or reject, and post. Not that complicated. The guidelines are the page are a bit difficult to read so I will add them here:
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gloom cupboard –

15 Mar

i had the good luck of getting published in Gloom Cupboard. it can be found Here.

if you’ve not read Gloom Cupboard you are missing out. they generally pick writers much better than myself.

poem: at least say goodbye

8 Feb

at least say goodbye

at least say goodbye
so long
far well
fuck off
or something

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poem: sitting in the poetry room @ city lights bookstore

18 Dec

Sitting in the Poetry Room @ City Lights Bookstore

it is morning
it is cold
it is Saturday
it is San Francisco

Chinese children play in the alley behind the bookstore
laundry hands on fire escapes
laughter breaks the drone of cars and buses
and fire trucks en route

ghosts sit on shelves
their names familar
some are friends
some are teachers
some are dead
some are waiting

a poet sits at a round table
sunlight enters without threat and written notice
his name will never leave the debt in his wallet
but his will suggests a want

he writes
in a blue book
on lined pages
carries a camera
as if to remember things he will soon forget
a harvest moon soon surrenders
snow is waiting
birds sing

warning alarm:
emergency exit only

poem: basement

17 Dec


in the basement you hear
of strangers
as they travel
as they move from left to right

under bare bulbs that hang on wire
books sit forlorn
but waiting
always yearning
dreaming hopeful

women that wear high heels
sound out Morse code translations
puppets on strings cross they cables
gale storms
on transparent seas

Russians offer tales of trepidation
Mayakovsky, my fellow-traveler
the moorings are rusted
an ebb tide makes way

i remember songs of radiant wonder
that quelled torments
of a skin seasoned by fire

poem: two tourists on a bus and in a restaurant in san francisco

15 Dec

Two Tourists on a Bus and in a Restaurant in San Francisco

big bus riding
top deck
tourist town
the City
40 degrees
probably less
bridge crossing
Golden Gate

clouds split
sun shines
on her, her smile
eyes sparkle – indeed
a thousand years
within a single

across a bridge
bridge crossing
clouds break
a stream of light
a rail
of hope
future expression
her eyes
the City
future built
even now
even then

back of the bus
up on top
sight seeing
seeing sights
skinny streets
Queen Anne
Italian something
(i can’t quite remember)
history and words and mumbles

skies gray and graying
behind windows
on a dock made of wood
worn smooth by boots
of fishermen
a fishery now restaurant

she shines
as all other conversation fades
silence carves delicate picture
her hand is cold
but warming

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