(i'm a big fan of Dr. Suess)
cspeak
Moderators: deer of the dawn, Furls Fire
thanks Murrin!
(i'm a big fan of Dr. Suess)
(i'm a big fan of Dr. Suess)
you're more advanced than a cockroach,
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
A Murder of Crows
Crows Go
Crows go
black on blue
over the apple and cherry trees
over the backyard fences
behind the curtain
but that is out of memory,
out of mind.
Once my questions were about crows
about their leavings, their loud,
diagonal comments,
tirades, screamed down
from their comings and goings.
Once I loved my father
because he talked like
a southern Marlon Brando
confident and confused
and fatherless himself,
but he was too much a crow
and I was only a reflection in a black wing
Once I loved my mother
because she was still in her absence
a martyred saint
with no cause, no voice,
and no obvious distinction,
but she was too much a crow
and I was only a black feather
pulled from her breast.
Now I have loved too many
and I am the crow.
I sit in the tree and count my comrades.
The Cleaning of Crows
Each Sunday morning, early, before Mass,
before breakfast, before all other rituals,
comes the washing.
In that quiet hour, the removal of the grime of the rookery seems possible,
but, apart from the workings of the machines, nothing is truly clean.
Even the final spin is filthy with time.
Cycles end and begin and end and all our wings are still black
I go ,on Sunday morning, alone, because that is the way of crows,
to preen themselves in solitude, for only themselves.
I take my own quarters,
shiny ones that I have collected during the week to feed the machines.
I sit apart from the jackdaws and magpies, believing myself larger
and above their mimic chatterings,
but,
the seasons are so much the same as those of our fathers,
who washed themselves in streams and beat the dirt from their clothes on rocks,
who talked of justice for the living and peace for the dead,
who believed in their earthly migrations and followed floods to find food and God.
And I am the same as my father,
the same genus as the jackdaws and magpies,
and we are all bent over some sort of cleaning,
some sort of weekly washing,
some sort of laundry.
So each Sunday morning I keep the appointment,
watch the cycles,
drink coffee,
blink my black eyes,
and consider my own position in the tree.
Counting Crows
Three crows on the roof.
I hear them call me up, into
the hour we call golden, caw caw
when the sun sits low and red over
the western edge of the city.
I am waiting to know if one of them is for you.
Four crows on the beach.
Everywhere I go their number increases.
And the moon will not set.
At ten a.m. it stubbornly watches over me.
I am waiting for a welcome, waiting
for a sign that I have arrived.
The crows fly away and do not take me with them.
I become food for the sand flies.
There are five crows in my father’s house,
five crows in your mother’s kitchen,
ten crows between us and the truth,
and still, I am waiting.
Crows Go
Crows go
black on blue
over the apple and cherry trees
over the backyard fences
behind the curtain
but that is out of memory,
out of mind.
Once my questions were about crows
about their leavings, their loud,
diagonal comments,
tirades, screamed down
from their comings and goings.
Once I loved my father
because he talked like
a southern Marlon Brando
confident and confused
and fatherless himself,
but he was too much a crow
and I was only a reflection in a black wing
Once I loved my mother
because she was still in her absence
a martyred saint
with no cause, no voice,
and no obvious distinction,
but she was too much a crow
and I was only a black feather
pulled from her breast.
Now I have loved too many
and I am the crow.
I sit in the tree and count my comrades.
The Cleaning of Crows
Each Sunday morning, early, before Mass,
before breakfast, before all other rituals,
comes the washing.
In that quiet hour, the removal of the grime of the rookery seems possible,
but, apart from the workings of the machines, nothing is truly clean.
Even the final spin is filthy with time.
Cycles end and begin and end and all our wings are still black
I go ,on Sunday morning, alone, because that is the way of crows,
to preen themselves in solitude, for only themselves.
I take my own quarters,
shiny ones that I have collected during the week to feed the machines.
I sit apart from the jackdaws and magpies, believing myself larger
and above their mimic chatterings,
but,
the seasons are so much the same as those of our fathers,
who washed themselves in streams and beat the dirt from their clothes on rocks,
who talked of justice for the living and peace for the dead,
who believed in their earthly migrations and followed floods to find food and God.
And I am the same as my father,
the same genus as the jackdaws and magpies,
and we are all bent over some sort of cleaning,
some sort of weekly washing,
some sort of laundry.
So each Sunday morning I keep the appointment,
watch the cycles,
drink coffee,
blink my black eyes,
and consider my own position in the tree.
Counting Crows
Three crows on the roof.
I hear them call me up, into
the hour we call golden, caw caw
when the sun sits low and red over
the western edge of the city.
I am waiting to know if one of them is for you.
Four crows on the beach.
Everywhere I go their number increases.
And the moon will not set.
At ten a.m. it stubbornly watches over me.
I am waiting for a welcome, waiting
for a sign that I have arrived.
The crows fly away and do not take me with them.
I become food for the sand flies.
There are five crows in my father’s house,
five crows in your mother’s kitchen,
ten crows between us and the truth,
and still, I am waiting.
you're more advanced than a cockroach,
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
thanks guys.
you're more advanced than a cockroach,
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
i can't remember if i ever posted this here or not so i will.
it was begun, as you can probably tell, on an airplane.
i wrote it when i thought a loved one was going to die
and i thought i needed to re-evaluate my idea of living.
those are some stone cold sobering moments.
i hope you get that when you read this.
that is all.
Flight to New Orleans
Imagine seeing the heart clearly,
(when it used to be a ghost town)
like light,
moving through two panes
of unmarred airplane glass.
Before I knew of air travel
I could sense a flight plan forming,
could smell it, like a weather pattern
building up against the banks of my southern river;
cold fronts in my father's house, runways inlaid
with pieces of my mother's broken heart,
tornado warnings in my brother's eyes,
and when the storm hit
I flew up,
without license,
without instruction,
into the crowded night streets,
looking for lovers and strangers
to reflect me in the wet pavement,
to postition me in the blackness,
tethered, as I was, by invisible threads
of nothing,
to nothing.
I saw life beyond me, the shape of it,
the perfect cinematography of steam
whistling from a boiling kettle,
the heavy pulse of taxicab traffic,
the mottled flesh of a blood orange,
and I craved what I could not touch in myself
like a ghost who does not know she has died,
and the geography beneath me never changed,
never moved me,
and I was twisted into thin lines like neon,
colored only by the fragile glass around me.
I filled the log book with names
and kept track as best I could but
whole pages turned brittle and yellow,
and I tired of the plot, thickening,
like a forgotten stew on a cold stove,
and more's the pity, I found I was hungry
and could not,
as my ectoplasmic self,
consume enough vice to forget
how to breathe.
I dropped altitude and banked
over New Orleans, a parish that was used
to inclement weather, living below sea level,
and beautiful decay.
I re-entered my body at thirty-three thousand feet,
over the Atchafaylaya Basin, when I saw
the golden risingsun ribbon of the Mississippi,
winding its way toward the delta,
and as my heart settled back in between my ribs
I was aware
that I was no longer
afraid of landing.
it was begun, as you can probably tell, on an airplane.
i wrote it when i thought a loved one was going to die
and i thought i needed to re-evaluate my idea of living.
those are some stone cold sobering moments.
i hope you get that when you read this.
that is all.
Flight to New Orleans
Imagine seeing the heart clearly,
(when it used to be a ghost town)
like light,
moving through two panes
of unmarred airplane glass.
Before I knew of air travel
I could sense a flight plan forming,
could smell it, like a weather pattern
building up against the banks of my southern river;
cold fronts in my father's house, runways inlaid
with pieces of my mother's broken heart,
tornado warnings in my brother's eyes,
and when the storm hit
I flew up,
without license,
without instruction,
into the crowded night streets,
looking for lovers and strangers
to reflect me in the wet pavement,
to postition me in the blackness,
tethered, as I was, by invisible threads
of nothing,
to nothing.
I saw life beyond me, the shape of it,
the perfect cinematography of steam
whistling from a boiling kettle,
the heavy pulse of taxicab traffic,
the mottled flesh of a blood orange,
and I craved what I could not touch in myself
like a ghost who does not know she has died,
and the geography beneath me never changed,
never moved me,
and I was twisted into thin lines like neon,
colored only by the fragile glass around me.
I filled the log book with names
and kept track as best I could but
whole pages turned brittle and yellow,
and I tired of the plot, thickening,
like a forgotten stew on a cold stove,
and more's the pity, I found I was hungry
and could not,
as my ectoplasmic self,
consume enough vice to forget
how to breathe.
I dropped altitude and banked
over New Orleans, a parish that was used
to inclement weather, living below sea level,
and beautiful decay.
I re-entered my body at thirty-three thousand feet,
over the Atchafaylaya Basin, when I saw
the golden risingsun ribbon of the Mississippi,
winding its way toward the delta,
and as my heart settled back in between my ribs
I was aware
that I was no longer
afraid of landing.
you're more advanced than a cockroach,
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
-
Avatar
- Immanentizing The Eschaton
- Posts: 62038
- Joined: Mon Aug 02, 2004 9:17 am
- Location: Johannesburg, South Africa
- Has thanked: 25 times
- Been thanked: 32 times
- Contact:
Stunning LuciMay. I like the new one on the blog, but this one "sounds" more like you.
You know what it reminds me of? (And some of your others too for that matter?) Pat Conroy's poetry in Prince of Tides. The poem Southern Magic in particular..."I blaze with a deep southern magic / the bombardiers taxi at noon..."
A very visceral impact.
--A
You know what it reminds me of? (And some of your others too for that matter?) Pat Conroy's poetry in Prince of Tides. The poem Southern Magic in particular..."I blaze with a deep southern magic / the bombardiers taxi at noon..."
A very visceral impact.
--A
wow...most humble thanks, Av. i can't remember if i have ever read Prince of Tides...seems like i have but i could just be confusing it with the movie which i didn't care for all that much). but thank you. i'll have to pick it up and give it a read.
the one on the blog is a "found" poem...sortof. ger and i were talking about music. those are his words. that's why it doesn't "sound" like me, heh, IT'S NOT! (see initials at bottom of poem...GES..gerald, LES...lucinda. thought i should credit us both since i thought it was poem enought to write down.
the one on the blog is a "found" poem...sortof. ger and i were talking about music. those are his words. that's why it doesn't "sound" like me, heh, IT'S NOT! (see initials at bottom of poem...GES..gerald, LES...lucinda. thought i should credit us both since i thought it was poem enought to write down.
you're more advanced than a cockroach,
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
heh. you ARE good!Avatar wrote:The movie was lousy.
I'm sure I have the text of that poem somewhere...I used to know it, but only fragments remain. Will post it if I find it.
No wonder it didn't sound like you. Damn I'm good.
--A
post the poem when you find it.you're more advanced than a cockroach,
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
bumped to share with new poet friend Aelyria! 
Beachfire
There were remnants of others having been there before us,
telltale signs of nights when lovers or work crews or
hungry birds had built nests in the sand and watched
the fishing boats move like clouds of light across the
dark edge of the horizon.
We claimed no knowledge of these ancestors,
religious zealots who took their cans with them and
left only blackened skeletal remains of laughter and belief,
but we used their charred bones for tinder and kindled
some kind of fire.
Nothing moved but the sea wind and the dune grass
and we camped within sight of an abandoned highway,
pitched our makeshift tent and told stories and old jokes
in an attempt to keep the fire going.
The sea is a woman, tonight. you said, when you
could no longer remember why you had come,
and in my hunger to hold you, I walked toward
the water with my eyes closed, memorizing the
smell of smoke and salt air.
And so, after a while, we moved tiredly toward morning
speaking in dulcet tones and resisting the urge to touch.
The sky never lightened and we marked the passing of
the boats as if they had drawn their nets in full of us.
You kicked sand on our burning coals and said, Those
that come another time will make their own fire with
what we have left here,
and we drove, in your truck, back into the city.
Beachfire
There were remnants of others having been there before us,
telltale signs of nights when lovers or work crews or
hungry birds had built nests in the sand and watched
the fishing boats move like clouds of light across the
dark edge of the horizon.
We claimed no knowledge of these ancestors,
religious zealots who took their cans with them and
left only blackened skeletal remains of laughter and belief,
but we used their charred bones for tinder and kindled
some kind of fire.
Nothing moved but the sea wind and the dune grass
and we camped within sight of an abandoned highway,
pitched our makeshift tent and told stories and old jokes
in an attempt to keep the fire going.
The sea is a woman, tonight. you said, when you
could no longer remember why you had come,
and in my hunger to hold you, I walked toward
the water with my eyes closed, memorizing the
smell of smoke and salt air.
And so, after a while, we moved tiredly toward morning
speaking in dulcet tones and resisting the urge to touch.
The sky never lightened and we marked the passing of
the boats as if they had drawn their nets in full of us.
You kicked sand on our burning coals and said, Those
that come another time will make their own fire with
what we have left here,
and we drove, in your truck, back into the city.
you're more advanced than a cockroach,
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
the sudoku thingy that Vain made for us reminded me of this piece.
written after an auto accident in which i was knocked unconcious. woke up in the ambulance with the EMT asking me questions. he asked me who was president and...a picture of my DAD came into my head, so i answered "Bill", which is my dad's name. heh. luckily, Clinton was in office at the time so even the wrong answer was right!
Counting On My Fingers
I am counting on my fingers,
one car goes into one car one time.
I was going to Bolinas,
that secret zip code,
but now,
I am doing calculus,
beginning at binary,
one zero one zero
and I am losing even this aggregation,
in out in out
figuring,
two drivers
six passengers
three pedestrians,
equals eight white lights
on the ceiling of an ambulance.
Is it division or subtraction?
I weigh one hundred and twenty pounds,
I am thirty-five years old,
go to the next flashcard,
where was I going?
I am counting on my fingers,
and these digits do not belong
in this formula,
this sequence of numbers,
they are on my hand,
operational symbols,
on the dashboard of my car,
pushing away from a collision,
take away, take away take away,
and then,
aftermath,
I am standing in the flourescent, antiseptic
hallway of County General,
and impact finally occurs,
a shadowy vehicle that will not stop,
a fist in the face,
a moment I cannot apply to this
anomalous equation,
and as it comes,
like a ridiculous motion picture fiction,
all around me goes gray and still,
and I am counting on my fingers,
counting on my fingers,
counting counting
and I ask,
is there a doctor in this house?
I have lost time,
lost my footing,
but no one is looking,
no one is listening,
things and beings
have not really stopped moving.
I am the only woman on this island,
and the fog is thick and cold and
makes my head hurt.
Let me have my lover, I beg,
he knows how I am stranded here,
but they only blink their blank eyes at me
and ask me to sit down.
And this is the sum,
I am angry at the examination table
because it does not fit my body,
I am angry at the blanket
because it is not soft enough,
I am angry at County General
because it does not seem to care
that my life has been disrupted,
I am crying, I am afraid,
I am alone and altered,
mathematics evade me,
and I am counting on my fingers,
counting on my fingers.
written after an auto accident in which i was knocked unconcious. woke up in the ambulance with the EMT asking me questions. he asked me who was president and...a picture of my DAD came into my head, so i answered "Bill", which is my dad's name. heh. luckily, Clinton was in office at the time so even the wrong answer was right!
Counting On My Fingers
I am counting on my fingers,
one car goes into one car one time.
I was going to Bolinas,
that secret zip code,
but now,
I am doing calculus,
beginning at binary,
one zero one zero
and I am losing even this aggregation,
in out in out
figuring,
two drivers
six passengers
three pedestrians,
equals eight white lights
on the ceiling of an ambulance.
Is it division or subtraction?
I weigh one hundred and twenty pounds,
I am thirty-five years old,
go to the next flashcard,
where was I going?
I am counting on my fingers,
and these digits do not belong
in this formula,
this sequence of numbers,
they are on my hand,
operational symbols,
on the dashboard of my car,
pushing away from a collision,
take away, take away take away,
and then,
aftermath,
I am standing in the flourescent, antiseptic
hallway of County General,
and impact finally occurs,
a shadowy vehicle that will not stop,
a fist in the face,
a moment I cannot apply to this
anomalous equation,
and as it comes,
like a ridiculous motion picture fiction,
all around me goes gray and still,
and I am counting on my fingers,
counting on my fingers,
counting counting
and I ask,
is there a doctor in this house?
I have lost time,
lost my footing,
but no one is looking,
no one is listening,
things and beings
have not really stopped moving.
I am the only woman on this island,
and the fog is thick and cold and
makes my head hurt.
Let me have my lover, I beg,
he knows how I am stranded here,
but they only blink their blank eyes at me
and ask me to sit down.
And this is the sum,
I am angry at the examination table
because it does not fit my body,
I am angry at the blanket
because it is not soft enough,
I am angry at County General
because it does not seem to care
that my life has been disrupted,
I am crying, I am afraid,
I am alone and altered,
mathematics evade me,
and I am counting on my fingers,
counting on my fingers.
you're more advanced than a cockroach,
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
Very nice poem.
The last part connected on many levels. One I'll mention here.
My daughter - an SUV roll over when she was 16
I get the call, I am at dog class with Rusty
I beat the ambulance to the hospital
and see my daughter wheeled out
she is in pain, distraught
she asks to be listened to
over the bustle of the doctors and nurses
prodding, poking
then she spots me
"daddy, am I going to die?"
my heart stops
I say "no", wishing it so - but no one talks to me either
I sense that kind of anxiety in your poem.
The last part connected on many levels. One I'll mention here.
My daughter - an SUV roll over when she was 16
I get the call, I am at dog class with Rusty
I beat the ambulance to the hospital
and see my daughter wheeled out
she is in pain, distraught
she asks to be listened to
over the bustle of the doctors and nurses
prodding, poking
then she spots me
"daddy, am I going to die?"
my heart stops
I say "no", wishing it so - but no one talks to me either
I sense that kind of anxiety in your poem.
He/She who dies with the most toys wins! Wait a minute ... I can't die!!!
oh yeah! absolutely!!! poor caitlin...that breaks my heart the poor sweetie.
i had absolutely no memory whatsoever of the accident when i woke up.
the whole thing was completely wiped from my brain. and then, while waiting and waiting and waiting to be seen by doc at County General (which, on any given evening is like a freaking WAR ZONE, patients lying on gurneys in halls and med staff running around like crazy)
it came back to me, but only in shadow, no detail, no color, just sillouette and shadow. it was the weirdest thing. and still, when i try to remember it, i can't. i just remember the memory coming back in the hospital, not the accident itself.
bizarre.
i had absolutely no memory whatsoever of the accident when i woke up.
the whole thing was completely wiped from my brain. and then, while waiting and waiting and waiting to be seen by doc at County General (which, on any given evening is like a freaking WAR ZONE, patients lying on gurneys in halls and med staff running around like crazy)
it came back to me, but only in shadow, no detail, no color, just sillouette and shadow. it was the weirdest thing. and still, when i try to remember it, i can't. i just remember the memory coming back in the hospital, not the accident itself.
bizarre.
you're more advanced than a cockroach,
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
I don't know how I have missed reading this all this time. . .
I love your poems. . . I find them quite powerful and evocative. At times they remind me of Miller Williams. . . at times other contemporary poets like John Ashbery and Mark Ford. . but always it is your own voice. I'm honored to have the opportunity to get to know you, and I look forward to reading more!
~Lyr
I love your poems. . . I find them quite powerful and evocative. At times they remind me of Miller Williams. . . at times other contemporary poets like John Ashbery and Mark Ford. . but always it is your own voice. I'm honored to have the opportunity to get to know you, and I look forward to reading more!
~Lyr
thanks for the kind words Av and Lyr. 'preciate it.
you're more advanced than a cockroach,
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
Mild Flirtation
His woman was there, wearing my name, smiling, kind.
I hit him right between the eyes with mine.
Here it is again. Here it is.
He kept still, no shaking, no movement,
stayed still and with his even, deep-gray voice said,
I don’t know how to tell you either.
That was enough. She saw. I saw. We all see.
Now we have had a civil conversation
and I am afraid it is over.
His woman was there, wearing my name, smiling, kind.
I hit him right between the eyes with mine.
Here it is again. Here it is.
He kept still, no shaking, no movement,
stayed still and with his even, deep-gray voice said,
I don’t know how to tell you either.
That was enough. She saw. I saw. We all see.
Now we have had a civil conversation
and I am afraid it is over.
you're more advanced than a cockroach,
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
thanks Sarge. 
you're more advanced than a cockroach,
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~
have you ever tried explaining yourself
to one of them?
~ alan bates, the mothman prophecies
i've had this with actors before, on the set,
where they get upset about the [size of my]
trailer, and i'm always like...take my trailer,
cause... i'm from Kentucky
and that's not what we brag about.
~ george clooney, inside the actor's studio
a straight edge for legends at
the fold - searching for our
lost cities of gold. burnt tar,
gravel pits. sixteen gears switch.
Haphazard Lucy strolls by.
~ dennis r wood ~