“The Dream Songs” is a book of poetry I bought for a college class. Before the semester even got going, I drove into it and read the book.
John Berryman
Tag: poetry
Downtrodden
Little screams flutter by
like so much cash at Christmas.
On the cold, creaking merry-go-round,
murder by centripetal force planned.
The walnut trees tsk.
Beneath the candy canes
doing flex time for the traffic lights,
melting slush with
the impression of honesty
imprinted by every boot over the crosswalk.
From Beneath
Paved paths pillow an even
harder earth,
crusted with my previous bones.
From beneath,
the gift of water rising sneaky
through the crevices,
a notice to vacate pinned to the crest.
Schumann
Diagnostic rock stars
light the pink sickness
on my forehead
with the squeal of a spirochete.
I am sick.
The antibiotics climbed
the mountain
and blew away like ashes
at the top.
Who will I turn to
when the music stops,
perched on one screaming
foot in my box?
The seats in the crowd
are filled with the
whisperers.
On stage, the fully
realized monsters of
scientific sound.
Actualized mindfucks
who are going somewhere
because the conveyor
belt from the stage
runs only for them.
They see through me.
The extra vision in
my head a hammock
supporting the exhaustion
of my pine cone.
I have thoughts of lances,
of silver mercury
waiting for a cog rail
that sleeps.
I will take the mercury,
apply it to my forehead
like Ash Wednesday.
My Easter is on tour
with the band.
Grateful
The coordinates of my gratitude
are inestimable.
Somewhere on an earth of regret,
a small point of velour gratefulness.
The small seal
of my face
with the veritable scent
of a name
the size of a fall from grace.
Living at the bottom,
the detritus falls like
snow on the blanket
I never bought.
At the right latitude,
where it glides into
an unresponsive longitude,
the gifts given by the one
who burns my name as incense,
his arms draped in velour.
Foreign Language, Primal Sister
The clouds drag over
the prairie to work
in the horse fields.
Rain—an instant sister.
Outside the barn,
the Mandarin language
in a raincoat.
Always the words
wonder where they
will fall when they
drip off the tongue.
My sister floods the plains
as a gift to our ancestors
who wove bicycles on looms.
Instant sister never arising
from good faith,
but falling from certainty,
a meteorological right
I’ll fight for.
In the wind,
Mandarin chatters.
My Story
My story is the decor
in a vault robbed of my
birth certificate.
Painted chapters—
good information about the
berries who influenced me
and the flowers I changed.
Chapter by chapter,
my flag unfurls,
a rainbow stiff in the breeze
on a line that could snap
and cut the sweet planet in half.
The juice will drip into
the hungry mouth
of directionless space.
The epilogue is encased
in purple plastic,
a report with glittering graphs,
sobering statistics.
Thrilling Poetry
You must read this book! It is unique and filled with great imagery and sylph like ideas.
Fire. Then Water.
The forest clutches
stolen fire
while lightning loses her identity.
We hold onto bad things
and are leveled like
post-tsunami water.
In the forest,
trees in pain –
the communication between
leaf and air severed.
When the grasses and branches
have burned,
the forest repents.
And then the falling
of fallen water.
The White Eyelash
This book of poetry is breathtaking. It drew me in, entered me, expanded my thoughts.
Miniature Moon 