Lost in cozened, laughter
still cheering, still hearing the ting
of goblets raised and met.
The true hero is absent
as conscience flees histories spirit
distraught with warm ambition.
Honesty tangles in galleries of thought,
shard in cubist moonlight,
washed in shadows of war stained wonder, where
Social justice weaves discourse, and
sincerity doubles as corruption.
They've earned their dignity
boasting, bootlick flattery,
a backslap jam, a cakewalk dance on water.
Laughter pleads rejuvenation
from ignorance blessed by deceit.
Unconscious hoopla searches recovery
from moral blasphemy regressing humanity
that one day find its course
as nighttime falls upon reality, and
the spirit of a dream once cherished
is painted off as orange coconuts
served at Gatsby's dinner party.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Monday, December 20, 2010
A letter to Gertrude
Last semester my daughter started her first year of college. She doesn't have a car and wanted to take a Monday night creative writing course. I decided to take it with her. We had a lot of fun. We had a class writing assignment to write a letter to any writer we chose. We had to type them up and include them with our final portfolio.
Dear Gertrude,
Of all the writers I had to chose from which are millions if not more, I chose you. First I want to tell you, you made it. You are an extremely popular figure in American literature. I own many of your books; although, I must admit, I haven't read them all. I do plan to one day, and I know this is okay because I asked my psychologist who has a whole wall covered in books on shelves; I asked her if she's read them all, and she said no she hadn't, but she planned to some day. I told her, I was worried because I have so many books that I haven't read. The book shelves are full, and my desk and dressers consist of stacks of books. There is a book shelf in the hall, full - with books stacked on top. There is one down stairs that looks the same and a random book here and there that I might want to read when I have coffee. Your books are all together on a small shelf of special books because they are amongst the first I collected; anyway, my doctor agreed we know something about every book we own which is more than not knowing anything at all.
I actually discovered you by the artists, and Hemingway and that is because he wrote letters; I was writing letters, so it seemed appropriate I read his book or books. That's when I began to buy books. I still intend to read them all. It all happened so fast. The first book I bought was actually a book about Renoir. I bought that book because I wanted to learn how to paint. Then I bought Monet, and I don't remember what happened after that, except that I went back to school late in my life because I wanted to learn to paint. I felt terrible that I was getting older and didn't have as much time as some of the others. I don't remember exactly where your name came about, it might have been Picasso, but it was one of the two. And, I knew you moved to Paris from California and collected art - oh yes, and that you wanted to be a lion, and I had just finished a painting where the lion played part as the weather - well I tried, but it was a terrible painting.
That's one of the reasons I went to college. Anyway, I was very interested in color theory, which lead me to study the cubist painters, which lead to the mystery of Picasso, and you were there in the middle of everything it seemed. It was around that time, I earned an AA in liberal arts, and then I transferred to the university and changed my intended major from fine art to literature.
I kept collecting more and more books, one of which was Hemingway's book, A Moveable Feast, which I did read and learned a lot about your life in Paris. I know well of your part in the lost generation - an excellent term by the way and a truly quintessential experience.
I just want to say, I respect you not only for your outstanding writing abilities, but for your courage to be yourself and be proud of that, and that brings me to why I am writing this letter. I'm supposed to be writing about important things a writer needs to know, and I believe you are an example of many of those things. First, a writer needs to be their self. I don't think they need to prove anything or defend their self from all the self appointed judges of everyone's life but their own - just be who they are and have a good time with it. We are all different, we all have our strengths, but our personality needs to lead the show. There are always more people out there like us being beat down by whoever decide they deserve to - like you used to do to Hemingway... just thought I'd throw that in for fun. We all learned a lot from you, all of you.
It's the real people that make it to the future. The critics may get some attention in their time with their little games, but they don't stand out in the future. They have a few friends that laugh at their stupid jokes - just the dumb following the dumb. They are so cruel, but I think it's important, we let them tell their own side. When history looks back, they will see the truth. I prefer real people following real people.
From most everything I've read, humanity seems to be a central thread that ties the generations together - well that and knowledge. It's us and them; they include: the critics/judges, the politicians, and the war makers.
It takes real courage to stand in front of a crowd of stone throwers and not try to hide your true identity. Take Jesus for example; his story lives on, but none of those guys throwing stones ever got very far in the future. I bet there was some real funny guys back then too. I also believe education is important. I know you studied psychology. It takes a lot of work and respect for those artists that pave the fragile road to our future. Perseverance is important too and a good catcher's mitt to catch those stones in time.
Well Gertrude I'd better let you back to your novel,
Sincerely,
Jolie
Dear Gertrude,
Of all the writers I had to chose from which are millions if not more, I chose you. First I want to tell you, you made it. You are an extremely popular figure in American literature. I own many of your books; although, I must admit, I haven't read them all. I do plan to one day, and I know this is okay because I asked my psychologist who has a whole wall covered in books on shelves; I asked her if she's read them all, and she said no she hadn't, but she planned to some day. I told her, I was worried because I have so many books that I haven't read. The book shelves are full, and my desk and dressers consist of stacks of books. There is a book shelf in the hall, full - with books stacked on top. There is one down stairs that looks the same and a random book here and there that I might want to read when I have coffee. Your books are all together on a small shelf of special books because they are amongst the first I collected; anyway, my doctor agreed we know something about every book we own which is more than not knowing anything at all.
I actually discovered you by the artists, and Hemingway and that is because he wrote letters; I was writing letters, so it seemed appropriate I read his book or books. That's when I began to buy books. I still intend to read them all. It all happened so fast. The first book I bought was actually a book about Renoir. I bought that book because I wanted to learn how to paint. Then I bought Monet, and I don't remember what happened after that, except that I went back to school late in my life because I wanted to learn to paint. I felt terrible that I was getting older and didn't have as much time as some of the others. I don't remember exactly where your name came about, it might have been Picasso, but it was one of the two. And, I knew you moved to Paris from California and collected art - oh yes, and that you wanted to be a lion, and I had just finished a painting where the lion played part as the weather - well I tried, but it was a terrible painting.
That's one of the reasons I went to college. Anyway, I was very interested in color theory, which lead me to study the cubist painters, which lead to the mystery of Picasso, and you were there in the middle of everything it seemed. It was around that time, I earned an AA in liberal arts, and then I transferred to the university and changed my intended major from fine art to literature.
I kept collecting more and more books, one of which was Hemingway's book, A Moveable Feast, which I did read and learned a lot about your life in Paris. I know well of your part in the lost generation - an excellent term by the way and a truly quintessential experience.
I just want to say, I respect you not only for your outstanding writing abilities, but for your courage to be yourself and be proud of that, and that brings me to why I am writing this letter. I'm supposed to be writing about important things a writer needs to know, and I believe you are an example of many of those things. First, a writer needs to be their self. I don't think they need to prove anything or defend their self from all the self appointed judges of everyone's life but their own - just be who they are and have a good time with it. We are all different, we all have our strengths, but our personality needs to lead the show. There are always more people out there like us being beat down by whoever decide they deserve to - like you used to do to Hemingway... just thought I'd throw that in for fun. We all learned a lot from you, all of you.
It's the real people that make it to the future. The critics may get some attention in their time with their little games, but they don't stand out in the future. They have a few friends that laugh at their stupid jokes - just the dumb following the dumb. They are so cruel, but I think it's important, we let them tell their own side. When history looks back, they will see the truth. I prefer real people following real people.
From most everything I've read, humanity seems to be a central thread that ties the generations together - well that and knowledge. It's us and them; they include: the critics/judges, the politicians, and the war makers.
It takes real courage to stand in front of a crowd of stone throwers and not try to hide your true identity. Take Jesus for example; his story lives on, but none of those guys throwing stones ever got very far in the future. I bet there was some real funny guys back then too. I also believe education is important. I know you studied psychology. It takes a lot of work and respect for those artists that pave the fragile road to our future. Perseverance is important too and a good catcher's mitt to catch those stones in time.
Well Gertrude I'd better let you back to your novel,
Sincerely,
Jolie
Saturday, December 4, 2010
A collection of Fibonacci poetry
Fibonacci Poetry
The Fibonacci number sequence 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13… etc.
The next number in the sequence is found by adding the previous two.
Ex:
1 + 0 = 1
1 + 1 = 2
2 + 1 = 3
3 + 2 = 5
5 + 3 = 8
8 + 5 = 13
Most of the Fibonacci poetry I’ve read on the internet is created at this level, but there is no restriction to the form. The next number in the sequence is 13 + 8 = 21. I’ve seen them reversed, mirrored, doubled and anything imaginable adhered to the basic mathematic structure. You can make it as complicated as you like. If you’re a mathematician, you can probably find some really cool combinations, but for us guys who like to keep it simple, this is all you need to know. This is a spiral pattern as illustrated here:
http://www.mcs.surrey.ac.uk/Personal/R.Knott/Fibonacci/fibnat.html#spiral
Handful of Stars
I
held
a hand-
full of stars,
a palm of live wires,
glowing red like an x-ray
tiny fragments of light building energy
nudging, crevasses between fingers particles free
and
race
into
the night sky
shooting in reverse
to original position
taking wishes of the night from lovers' lips,
casting them back to a time before they fell in love.
(Fibonacci poem Doubled)
The Ledge
Here
on
the rock
ledge, I rise
to meet with challenge.
My spirit knows its strength endure.
Shadow plays its turn beneath an eagles open wings.
Ghostly images tell a tale
on a barren stage.
Unknowing
I am
still
there
Dear Adam ~
Just
look
at them
in chaos
fighting like monkeys,
the greed and jealously your genes,
I’ll admit to sharing, but my part was justly love.
Sing
song
blackbirds
early break
of day, gather in
multiples, arrange in a tree
to celebrate rain with song to light the edge of night.
Blame~
They
believed
it was right,
so we forgive.
Their side was no crime.
It’s a human mistake.
Blame is justifiable.
They truly believed; they were right.
Even when they see, they close their eyes
to humiliation that covets them.
The Fibonacci number sequence 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13… etc.
The next number in the sequence is found by adding the previous two.
Ex:
1 + 0 = 1
1 + 1 = 2
2 + 1 = 3
3 + 2 = 5
5 + 3 = 8
8 + 5 = 13
Most of the Fibonacci poetry I’ve read on the internet is created at this level, but there is no restriction to the form. The next number in the sequence is 13 + 8 = 21. I’ve seen them reversed, mirrored, doubled and anything imaginable adhered to the basic mathematic structure. You can make it as complicated as you like. If you’re a mathematician, you can probably find some really cool combinations, but for us guys who like to keep it simple, this is all you need to know. This is a spiral pattern as illustrated here:
http://www.mcs.surrey.ac.uk/Personal/R.Knott/Fibonacci/fibnat.html#spiral
Handful of Stars
I
held
a hand-
full of stars,
a palm of live wires,
glowing red like an x-ray
tiny fragments of light building energy
nudging, crevasses between fingers particles free
and
race
into
the night sky
shooting in reverse
to original position
taking wishes of the night from lovers' lips,
casting them back to a time before they fell in love.
(Fibonacci poem Doubled)
The Ledge
Here
on
the rock
ledge, I rise
to meet with challenge.
My spirit knows its strength endure.
Shadow plays its turn beneath an eagles open wings.
Ghostly images tell a tale
on a barren stage.
Unknowing
I am
still
there
Dear Adam ~
Just
look
at them
in chaos
fighting like monkeys,
the greed and jealously your genes,
I’ll admit to sharing, but my part was justly love.
Sing
song
blackbirds
early break
of day, gather in
multiples, arrange in a tree
to celebrate rain with song to light the edge of night.
Blame~
They
believed
it was right,
so we forgive.
Their side was no crime.
It’s a human mistake.
Blame is justifiable.
They truly believed; they were right.
Even when they see, they close their eyes
to humiliation that covets them.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Gold City
My key was stolen
along with my little black purse.
It was my fault.
I left it unattended
on a chair near the pool,
but I still have the lock
unlocked and waiting.
It was only a ninety-nine cent lock,
but the key was magic
when it matched a dream
and story I'd written.
I carried it everywhere
examined it with wonder, but
I didn't realize
what it meant to me
until it was gone.
My heart was broken.
I should have kept it safe,
but maybe it was meant
to be taken.
Now, the lock is cold and useless.
I often contemplate
throwing it into the sea,
but I can't.
It seems meaningless,
yet signifies hope
something I can hold..
and then one day
I found the perfect match,
the locks that line this gate;
their keys all lay
beneath the water
of the Fountain of Trevi.
But my lock was at home,
and the key gone, so
I took this picture,
and I can still pretend
because as long
as I still have the lock,
the story never has an end.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Poor Kitty
(Moose at 6 weeks)
Poor Kitty
It's one of those nights
time just needs to pass.
My daughter's cat was spayed.
She's home from the vet
still a little drunk from anesthesia.
She won't listen to my daughter
trying to follow instruction for her care.
Keep her quiet,
keep the collar on,
so she can't bite at the stitches.
Give pain med in the morning.
"Mom," she yells.
I go in her room.
The cat is on the top bunk
with her collar off,
growling and twitching her tail.
"How did she get up there?"
My daughter has tears in her eyes.
"She just climbed up there. She won't listen,
and she won't let me help her."
I pushed the collar over her head,
lifted her down and put her in a dog kennel.
She worked the collar off again,
pawed the door,
upset about being confined.
I have this
indescribable discomfort,
a misplaced guilt,
that doubles as responsibility,
to do the right thing,
and lack of control
to make Moose comfortable.
Our poor sweet kitten;
she trusted us,
and we've suddenly turned to torture her.
Her blue eyes stare,
her body seems weak.
We are all miserable,
watching her through the door of the dog crate.
And I paid money for this.
I want to return for an undo,
just give us back the other cat.
You can keep the money.
She can have kittens
until our house if filled with cats
and they in turn may have more.
That's the way nature intended.
We are sorry Moose,
time just needs to pass.
When Christmas comes,
we'll buy you a sock full of toys,
by then we'll all have forgotten.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Yesterday and "Blood Test"
I'm looking through the new Palomar College catalog trying to decide what to take next semester. I'm thinking I need to know more about politics or law. So many of the famous poets had either law, or psychology degrees. But then I was thinking, maybe I could take philosophy over; I don't remember much about Socrates and Plato, Descartes, and those. Maybe it will help my writing. Or maybe I should paint; that was my first vision.
I went to the university yesterday. I need to apply to admissions, so I can graduate. I climbed the stairs, looked at the statue of Caesar Chaves, "si se puede," is written on the stair beneath him, which translates: "It can be Done." I remember the years I climbed those stairs every day, looking out the windows like the girl in the "Sister Christain" video I posted on my Facebook. That video actually lit a fire under my seat, it's time to graduate. OK, So I went to the university. The faces are always so kind and helpful there. If only they could know the hell I've seen, but how does one explain? and how does one explain without blaming one person or another. Some one stole my wonderland? or maybe it's the same for everyone. It's the collective conscience. Everyone is wondering the same thing. We are all one creature and we're injured - yowling into the fabric that tells the future. If I speak, I'll ruin it for everyone. They'll all think I'm stupid - or crazy.
I always hoped they had the answers that I was missing in my life. The air smelled so perfect, I ran my hand along the sitting height brick wall that leads toward the admissions building, passed Starbucks, and a line of students waiting to go through the door. The bricks were warm. I thought how time had passed so fast. I didn't appreciate those years enough, and now returning to finish made me feel like a loser. I should have a career. I never figured it out; I never figured it out. Maybe I just need to graduate. That's it. I'll understand once I graduate. The bell on the clock tower rang, and I looked at the windows, remembered the video, remembered looking out from those windows at one time, but I didn't see me here today. I was thinking about drawing a picture, or writing a metaphor.
Admission's stamped my official transcripts and sent me to another office for counseling. I ended up at a long desk explaining why I was there. They gave me a card and told me to email the councilor to make an appointment, so I came home, emailed, but I haven't got a response yet.
About that Sister Christian video.. what's beautiful: I posted a poem at Myspace awhile back. It was more of a journal entry than a poem. It's called Blood Test. That poem is really about what's eating away at me inside. It's about defining my personal identity. When I was writing the part about visiting the Vatican and having a vision, it came to mind that they wouldn't like me. Why would a Catholic church give a holy vision to a Christian? Of course they didn't know. Nobody looked at me weird. I was just another tourist visiting Rome. And what I saw was just an artist's spirit roaming the Vatican, and besides religions hate and kill each other. Then I thought, what a beautiful acceptance at that level. To think of oneself as a sister Christian, and in my own needy way, it seemed like humanity was on course... and isn't that what this is all about...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z92bmlcmyq0&ob=av2n
Blood Test
The doctor took my blood today,
two vials of dark red juice.
I should have gone yesterday
but, I forgot to fast.
The hawk is calling,
circling high.
I've sat in this place,
so many times to write.
The sun is calling too,
I have to close my eyes to see,
leaving me to hear,
the neighbor
with his weed eater.
I changed into old shorts,
the ones I wouldn't wear to town,
and the white tank I should have trashed,
the one with a tear.
I think about my blood and urine,
left at the clinic,
the doctor placing labels on the vials,
my name typed on each. That's me, yep.
The church bells sound,
reminds me of the day,
my father and his friends
carried my mother's coffin.
The bells had a similar sound,
as we walked across the fresh mowed lawn,
to where the hole awaited,
a nice place to rest.
I remember walking through the Vatican,
wishing I'd been baptized.
The artist's spirits
alive in labor's left to be admired.
Whether religion is right or wrong,
I like to believe there's a God,
one that loves all human kind,
that doesn't wish to kill the others.
I dipped my fingers in a sculpted bowl
held up by cherubs,
found the water with my finger tips,
touched it to my skin like perfume...
to sanctify I vision I saw,
while admiring the crosses,
and statues, filled with holy dream
to share with the future.
I went to the university yesterday. I need to apply to admissions, so I can graduate. I climbed the stairs, looked at the statue of Caesar Chaves, "si se puede," is written on the stair beneath him, which translates: "It can be Done." I remember the years I climbed those stairs every day, looking out the windows like the girl in the "Sister Christain" video I posted on my Facebook. That video actually lit a fire under my seat, it's time to graduate. OK, So I went to the university. The faces are always so kind and helpful there. If only they could know the hell I've seen, but how does one explain? and how does one explain without blaming one person or another. Some one stole my wonderland? or maybe it's the same for everyone. It's the collective conscience. Everyone is wondering the same thing. We are all one creature and we're injured - yowling into the fabric that tells the future. If I speak, I'll ruin it for everyone. They'll all think I'm stupid - or crazy.
I always hoped they had the answers that I was missing in my life. The air smelled so perfect, I ran my hand along the sitting height brick wall that leads toward the admissions building, passed Starbucks, and a line of students waiting to go through the door. The bricks were warm. I thought how time had passed so fast. I didn't appreciate those years enough, and now returning to finish made me feel like a loser. I should have a career. I never figured it out; I never figured it out. Maybe I just need to graduate. That's it. I'll understand once I graduate. The bell on the clock tower rang, and I looked at the windows, remembered the video, remembered looking out from those windows at one time, but I didn't see me here today. I was thinking about drawing a picture, or writing a metaphor.
Admission's stamped my official transcripts and sent me to another office for counseling. I ended up at a long desk explaining why I was there. They gave me a card and told me to email the councilor to make an appointment, so I came home, emailed, but I haven't got a response yet.
About that Sister Christian video.. what's beautiful: I posted a poem at Myspace awhile back. It was more of a journal entry than a poem. It's called Blood Test. That poem is really about what's eating away at me inside. It's about defining my personal identity. When I was writing the part about visiting the Vatican and having a vision, it came to mind that they wouldn't like me. Why would a Catholic church give a holy vision to a Christian? Of course they didn't know. Nobody looked at me weird. I was just another tourist visiting Rome. And what I saw was just an artist's spirit roaming the Vatican, and besides religions hate and kill each other. Then I thought, what a beautiful acceptance at that level. To think of oneself as a sister Christian, and in my own needy way, it seemed like humanity was on course... and isn't that what this is all about...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z92bmlcmyq0&ob=av2n
Blood Test
The doctor took my blood today,
two vials of dark red juice.
I should have gone yesterday
but, I forgot to fast.
The hawk is calling,
circling high.
I've sat in this place,
so many times to write.
The sun is calling too,
I have to close my eyes to see,
leaving me to hear,
the neighbor
with his weed eater.
I changed into old shorts,
the ones I wouldn't wear to town,
and the white tank I should have trashed,
the one with a tear.
I think about my blood and urine,
left at the clinic,
the doctor placing labels on the vials,
my name typed on each. That's me, yep.
The church bells sound,
reminds me of the day,
my father and his friends
carried my mother's coffin.
The bells had a similar sound,
as we walked across the fresh mowed lawn,
to where the hole awaited,
a nice place to rest.
I remember walking through the Vatican,
wishing I'd been baptized.
The artist's spirits
alive in labor's left to be admired.
Whether religion is right or wrong,
I like to believe there's a God,
one that loves all human kind,
that doesn't wish to kill the others.
I dipped my fingers in a sculpted bowl
held up by cherubs,
found the water with my finger tips,
touched it to my skin like perfume...
to sanctify I vision I saw,
while admiring the crosses,
and statues, filled with holy dream
to share with the future.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Letting Go
I slept well in the bed I chose,
the tall one with a flowered comforter.
As the elevator door opened,
I saw him across the hall.
He was with a party of six or so.
They gathered near the door;
the button arrow pointing down.
I started to go after him,
began to speak,
but didn't let the words go.
He was right there,
he would have heard me,
he would have stayed.
A lady in a nice dress and handbag
spoke to a younger woman in jeans.
"You sure have put on the weight."
The numbers above the door
moved down, stopped, and the door opened.
I stepped forward,
began to say his name, but I didn't.
He would have turned;
he would have stayed.
A voice spoke from behind me,
a woman quietly said:
"Let him go; that is his family."
So, I just watched,
as they all rolled their luggage
into the elevator.
10/12/10
the tall one with a flowered comforter.
As the elevator door opened,
I saw him across the hall.
He was with a party of six or so.
They gathered near the door;
the button arrow pointing down.
I started to go after him,
began to speak,
but didn't let the words go.
He was right there,
he would have heard me,
he would have stayed.
A lady in a nice dress and handbag
spoke to a younger woman in jeans.
"You sure have put on the weight."
The numbers above the door
moved down, stopped, and the door opened.
I stepped forward,
began to say his name, but I didn't.
He would have turned;
he would have stayed.
A voice spoke from behind me,
a woman quietly said:
"Let him go; that is his family."
So, I just watched,
as they all rolled their luggage
into the elevator.
10/12/10
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