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5835. wonkers2 - 11/9/2006 3:22:46 PM Rumsfeld's Poetry--The Unknown
Another clip plus original clip of Rumsfeld's theory of the unknown. 5836. NuPlanetOne - 11/13/2006 4:12:51 PM Bitch
I woke up. In the dream
You stood there, wagging
Your finger
Bragging. You had won
You were dragging
My corpse
In your other hand
Like you used to stand
Accusational. Ragging me
Senseless. Defenseless
Screw you. I’m awake now
It’s not about how
Or where it all went wrong
Or who did what. Nagging
Neutered. Take a bow
Yet here in the dark
Wide awake. Your bark
Just has no bite
You lurch from a dream
Canines sparkle, snagging
A pant cuff
Shook off and stomped
Not quite as tough
Why did it seem
So complicated?
5837. jexster - 11/23/2006 6:13:17 AM HOMELESS POETRY
SF Project Homeless Connect
The Friends of the San Francisco Public Library have worked closely with Project Homeless Connect, collecting poetry from homeless clients, to be included in their series, Poets Eleven,a citywide poetry series. The program includes poetry readings at one branch library in each of the eleven city districts each month for eleven months.
One recent submission was made by David Halenda who had sought services at Project Homeless Connect 13. "Man you don't know what it means to get even a little praise. Feels like I been working in a very deep hole in the ground these past years..." was David's reaction to being a part of the Poets Eleven series. Following is David's work entitled Smoking Mirror, which is also on display in District 9 at the Mission Branch of the San Francisco Public Library
Smoking Mirror
by David Halenda
all the old ones they gather about
like trinkets from another age, obsolete
coated in dust
like widows of cinders
ghost wives dancing the dance
of dead dreamers
to the rhythms of decay, dripping
dripping
while planets in regal processions
chase their suns through this littered void
in clockwork perfection
All the old ones floating in the black
past the last rotted edges of memory
like some fetus frozen in a womb of stone
fossils of children singing
there is nothing here
there is nothing here
there is nothing here
there is nothing here
in this little room of chipped and yellowed paint
walls hung with daguerreotypes of stern women
and rigid drunken men
The light bulb flickers, weakens
The electric plant falters
cylinders, cracking, groan into rusted comas
crooked shadows shuddering
while the pistons they groan
and the river gently kills
there is nothing here
in this little room, built of coal and smoke
all the old ones
stored in a chest of cedar
lost in the attic
of a wooden house
long ago burned to shadows ingrained
in the briared ground
all the old ones
like crude gods of cinder block
and pig iron
they never erode never rot
but collect themselves, thickened by stillness
like crowded prayers
all the old ones they sit motionless
mute listening to the moth's silent wailings
as they crash over and over against the screams
as to the wake of some forgotten friend
5838. Ulgine Barrows - 12/10/2006 4:52:14 AM NuPlanetOne
You write such gorgeous poetry, well done!
5834. NuPlanetOne - 10/31/2006 12:27:09 AM
The Strong Silent Type
This is brilliant, it could be a picture of a first date or 50 years of marriage.
5836. NuPlanetOne - 11/13/2006 4:12:51 PM
Bitch
I woke up. In the dream
heh, I woke up from a dream the other day where my family had actually done some housework. I strolled through a clean house in that dream. Then, it ended. 5839. Ulgine Barrows - 12/13/2006 8:22:01 AM Scotch howls
Bourbon fucks it all
Gin rages
Tequila vomits
Beer gets a gut
Wine gets snobby
Vodka goes for the money
Gin goes for the game
Rum for the bonhmoie
Liqueurs, those spicy nuts, they go for the leg
And they can bite
Champagne is my choice
Alas 5840. nuplanetone - 12/18/2006 6:28:42 PM As I do every year I thought I might write a winter poem. But try as I might, it seems the season here in the Northeast keeps attempting to resemble Spring. False starts, of course. Global warming? Global warfare! Spooky.
Anyway, I have arrived at a New Year’s resolution and since it includes all of you, I will announce it here. I have collected all of the poems I have put up in here, (and any I could find from Slate) and was amazed to realize that there are more than a hundred of them. So, I vow to create a chapbook entitled: NuPlanetOne/The Mote Poems. Or something along that line. I was equally amazed at how unfinished most of the poems really are and how many of them were illogical and in need of reworking. I want to be done with it by next Christmas. I’m hoping that I have at least fifty poems worth reading at years end. Partly to ease the financial investment and mostly in hopes I consider at least that many of them worthwhile. Discouragement, encouragement, ideas, or who cares, greatly appreciated.
And since it is so Spring like up here these days, this is one I reworked leaving only 104 to go.
Cobblestones to Heaven
There is such a relaxing exhaled feel
As I take in the warmth and odors
Of this fresh Spring morning glistening
Beyond my window. Seductive
In its complacency yet busy
Constructive little bugs and birds are
Finally at work on flowers with the hue
Of the perceivable spectrum. I am listening
Watching. Amazed at how it begins
At how it wins me over. Sucks me
Back into its eternal promise. A blue
And endless sky spread out with white
Puffs as if they were cobblestones
To heaven. That perhaps I might
Hopscotch up like a happy smiling boy
Allowed to start again. No phones
Today. Because I am looking
To where the furthest cloud
Drifts to the ground. I am looking down
Now half way up. I will jump and land softly
In a bed of buttercup and forsythia
And with hands nestled behind my head
I will doze and dream and compose
Something violet besieged with daffodil
And propose that Spring, that life
And all the things that fill us with joy
Perpetuate. Then hop on up to heaven.
5841. alistairconnor - 12/18/2006 7:44:51 PM What a gratifying project! I would love to see that on paper.
Dumb question : what is a chapbook? 5842. NuPlanetOne - 12/19/2006 6:32:28 AM Thank you Alistair, and hardly a dumb question. Here is a general description: ‘A chapbook is an informal self-published book that can be used for your own poetry or favorite recipes of your family.’
Further, there are numerous printing concerns here and there that will produce varying degrees of quality and design. They offer templates and or follow the design specifications you request. Usually one needs to order a first printing of a hundred or so copies. It is up to the poet to peddle the merchandise, setting a price per book that might allow him to recoup the initial investment, anywhere from 300-1000 bucks, depending on the amount of pages, graphics, ect. In most cases one places the order, irons out the details, and interested parties order through the printer or a designated web portal. Some folks take delivery of their first printing and go store to store hoping to catch fire. Others, like universities and poetry sites sell them off their websites. It’s all the rage these days, so I am told. Anyway, I bet wabbit could figure out how to do something like that on our homepage if everyone really wanted a copy. Otherwise I will get them to you guys one way or another.
Wabbit, please pardon my presumed assumptions about your abilities or participation.
5843. NuPlanetOne - 1/1/2007 6:13:22 PM A rewrite for the occasion.
What the dickens has gotten into me?
Happy New Year! I’m Scrooge throwing up
The window. You there! What day is this?
Do you know that poor unfortunate every
God damn bad thing in the world down the
Street there? Ya, that’s the one. Here, here’s a quarter
Go fix it. Now hurry. And with good music
And in a flurry the world had its happy ending
I am sending out for food. Screw it. Poor people do it
We can build a road right through it. Because
Today is different. It’s a new year. Two skinny
Arms on the snowy sills looking at the cold
Sunshine. How many more New Year’s days
Do I get Lord? Can I drive a new Ford if I change
My ways? The angels and other things you sent
Me last night, or was it last week, you know
The peek you gave me at my miserable and
Preposterous ending. Well, that’s me in the window
And I’m changing. I can feel it. And a Merry
Christmas to everyone! They all heard it. They
Were all stunned, even if they only glanced
Then merrily danced on their way. What could I say
To change that Lord? What if it perchanced
That I fell screaming, pleading that they stop
And listen. Then they would stop to see what
The dead guy looked like splattered in the snow
Forget that Lord. I’m a new man with a New Year’s
Resolution. I learned it hard and I learned it slow
I’m going to run in and get dressed and fix everything
But damn! If things don’t look pretty much the same
Out there. Forget that lord, I’m a born again optimist
So twinkle a star over Bethlehem and bless little Tim
And though the future ain’t promised and my chances
Are slim….It’s a new year!
5844. arkymalarky - 1/1/2007 7:40:36 PM I love starting off another poetic Nu Year! 5845. NuPlanetOne - 1/29/2007 5:50:13 PM 24 Hour Blues
There is something dogging me
A heaviness. A dread
Feelings of emptiness
I must be depressed. Finally!
I know what it is
This feels like the blues
Are these the blues?
I need an instrument
To play them on. A Saxaphone
I need an analyst
To dig into my past
How long do they last?
Should I sit by the window
On a passing bus
Staring out into space
No. I will sit alone in a booth
In a café and brood
I won’t order food
What if I do smile?
It must be a grin
A sad looking grin
Of chagrin. Self pity
And if it lasts a day
Who are you to say
Get over it?
5846. NuPlanetOne - 1/29/2007 5:51:43 PM ...and this one reworked and done for the chapbook.
The Plume
What I remember most, now
Is stepping out into the night
Morning really. The streetlight
Infused, reflected off brick
And panes and windshields
Held in the air an incandescent
Masterpiece. Still. Quiet
Truly a different universe
Instantly apart and separate
From the weight and plumes
Of the incessant aura in the building
Where we had lived. Together.
How that world had enveloped me
Stepped out with me
Came to become my burden
A yoke. Breathing in a bubble
Stale, oppressive, exhaled. A sigh.
Almost phobic, your world spiraled
Not sickly. But gradually
You cooled and hardened. Had
Defined features. Cast a shadow
Were in real time a pedestrian
Yet clearly recognizable to me
As a stranger. You had found a spot
For me. Held me in the plume
I had to break free.
How shall I describe the clarity
The release. The calm
The crystalline reflection sparkling
In the damp pavement as I moved
Toward my car. Each separate
Noise, distinct. As if my ears
All my senses, awoke and
Detected something familiar
It felt instantly I had come back
From somewhere. And I felt the panic
That something was left behind
Something important, indefensible
Something left to fend.
And although I stood trying
Reaching in, groping to find it
Feel it. It was not there
I knew suddenly, so hopelessly
I could never go back in
I would see you in one dimension
Opaque. And it startled me
That such a thing could happen
That nothing could revive it
And though I was worried sick
That you would be alone
In that surreal and artificial light
My tires left wet glistening tracks
On the asphalt.
5847. NuPlanetOne - 2/3/2007 6:53:36 PM Betrothed
You want gut wrenching angst
Drenching flows of suicidal woes
Kids in conflict with mom and dad
As if they had nothing to thank about
As if being bad was the only way
You could make them say anything real
That dad can shout and mom can pout
Something to make it feel better
To send off a letter. A mail. That because
You fail Humanities you are incomplete
Yet they greet you sheepishly at holiday
The visit back home where you are the
Gnome in your room changed to office
Changed to broom closet. Closet antichrist
You are. That would twist the neck of
A proselytizing son of a bitch and which
One of you sweet mom or dad won’t twitch
When I marry that fuckin jerk.
5848. Ulgine Barrows - 2/7/2007 8:51:59 AM That's an odd post for you, NuPlanetOne.
None of your usual earth tones, more of the orange/red. 5849. NuPlanetOne - 3/10/2007 8:04:23 PM Commitment
The occasional gleeful screech of a child
Carried down wind as its mother chases behind
Hardly another soul along the beach except
A dog running around and around its master
Gulls, and off the horizon a tanker doesn’t move
Moving across the edge of the globe because I
Keep checking it. You are sitting in white sand
Away from me and I am on the breakers tossing
Smooth rocks over your head. Stop it you insist
And I ask if you meant the rocks as you twist about
And look surprised. You get up and walk down
Toward the water and just then the dog and master
Go by you and the dog splashes and you jump back
That huge smile you give to animals widens your
Face and you bend and pat the soaking thing
And it leaps up and knocks you onto your butt into
The water. Your screech as playful as the child
Upshore and as if no one else existed you hug that dog
And coo and carry on like old friends. I sink back
Against the breaker stones and search for the tanker
That got swallowed by the distance. A gull perched
Higher up on my right screams something at me
And bobs its head holding its wings open. The sun
Breaks from behind a wad of clouds and I go lazy
Like a Sunday paper and try not to think or smoke
But the argument is way too fresh and I should
Have left my smokes in the car and I would have
To finish the argument anyway. You are talking
Now to the master and parting and heading back up
The beach. The smile is a smirk and you sit back in
The same spot and face me shaking your head then
Spin around back toward the water. The mother is
Chasing the child now and catches it where the dog
Had splashed you. They roll and wrestle and hug and
She carries the kid away. Let’s get a dog. I said.
5850. jexster - 3/22/2007 2:44:11 AM Yesterday NewsHour featured a Canadian philosopher who received a Templeton Award for his work on the spiritual element in politics and history. His view is that traditional power and economic models are insufficient to understand human conflict.
Tonight, first in a series Poetry of the Middle East
There's a lot to be learned from the artist - poets, painters, novelists especially in turbulent times. Time and time again, they seem to anticipate the deeper trends that others miss.
Think there's something here too. 5851. Ulgine Barrows - 4/5/2007 7:54:47 AM "Commitment
The occasional gleeful screech of a child " 5852. Ulgine Barrows - 4/5/2007 8:02:06 AM That's not poetry
I love/hate my son
When he was 3, I couldn't urinate
or change a tampon
by myself
without him smacking my door
Now, son is 12
And cleaning up
after himself is a foreign concept
that I smack his door with 5853. NuPlanetOne - 4/21/2007 7:49:12 PM Billions
Earth time, the observation
A sun rise, a sunset
Time, the concept
A life, a death
Forever, the hope
More time, given time
Always, the conundrum
No birth, no end
And just things
Awake and observing
Living things
And empty space
Where it all swirls
About a galactic center
Who, what or why
Swirling along with it
Billions of balls of swirl
Perhaps swirling about
A greater unfathomed center
And time, the river
No estuary, no source
Just a current.
5854. Ulgine Barrows - 4/25/2007 7:25:38 AM I see purple when I read that, NuPlanetOne, maybe some blues.
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