banality aside
we step
lightly on each others toes
try
and try
to find some light
in each others eye
tread
in each side step
of being
self and selfless
and gather wonder
in our heart’s
discordance
what tune
what
do we do here
find here?
inside of magic
and nothing
is there the same blood?
and what light
in your eye
will mirror me?
take my heart’s hand?
joy
filled
with no second guessing
as dreamers
are
the same blood
of magic and nothing

Semanas semejante suenos
Mi corazon es el mar
Salio con un murmuello
Tranquillo y contento
Y a veces soy una tempestad
Marco el compas con mis ondas
Yo soy nunca resposado
Yo soy nunca durmiente
Semejante suenos
Soy siempre alli
Mi risa es el chaparron que alimenta el mar
Soy un espejo
Brillo con el sol
Y en la noche
Creo estrellas sin suma
Although I have been [...]

And yet another…war…and another….always money for war….but never enough for indispensible things like education, housing, healthcare….when will we wake up Americans?

Is the moon out tonight
Will she be peeking
Through the wisps of Summer’s fog
Watching me
As tears slip
And glitter as they fall
Is the moon out tonight
Or is she sleeping
Not aware in her bed of stars
Wake and watch me!
I’m not dreaming
Far now from where you are
I am like a tireless child
With her night clothes
Tangled tight
The more that the [...]

Silence
Wakes me
Finds space in my bed
Between the sheets and my dreams
Snuggles up and pretends it’s been there
For days
I focus
This cloud
This shine
I hear nothing but the memory of dreams
Its logic pours into this reality
Senseless
Slowly
I lose the threads of thought
From then to now
Bound together by
Silence still sleeping

I’ve only recently discovered Mark Doty’s poetry. His words create such lucid pictures. Usually this type of writing wallows too much in it’s own imagistic indulgences. Doty’s poetry uses imagery to work toward a greater concept. He instigates thought.

Bukowski Understood “Poetry Readings.” The pretension, the urge to destroy the poet through selfish shortcomings. Well, here I took three readings by Charles and remixed them into one piece. Henry Chinaski took no shit at poetry readings. Listen in.

Heavy steps on drunken feet
Join jazz beats
Wake me from my sleep
Now knowing the mess
Of death
Homes no longer possessed
I long for laughter’s flight
Pouring out with doorway light
Into a warm Louisiana night
My ache finds it’s heart
Safely here, this world apart
Like a shiny penny tossed
I have arrived with nothing lost
My luck in placid water stands
And grants my wishes [...]

An angel sang
with cherub’s beauty,
I forgot her tattered wings.
I know she aches
from holding worlds
of hopes that burn
her quiet dreams.
From climbing forth
from painful pit,
her back must ache
as wings are dragged.
And yet her voice
from heaven’s choir
cannot be stiffled
cannot be gagged.
I have seen this angel quiet,
holding up her
shoulders strong.
She emerged with
radiant beauty,
with wisdom fresh
and this new song.

alone
in soft dawn light
the moon pulled back the tide
left softly to abide
alone
in placid strength
with seaweed floating near
waves breaking in my ears
alone
beside the sea
with all the world asleep
in fortune’s dream of peace

This sway
Like sea-legs
I spin
Into the bliss of oblivion
Rest on the pillow of waves
Awash in this
Moment of purity
With a careful glance behind
I see the last
Of the soft sunshine
Pull myself into this core
Wander back, new
To who I was before
Greet myself
With this kind bliss
Like a hand of friend and lover’s kiss

These ancient chants,
Sound strange to you,
As you sit there in your churches.
But I would like to remind you,
Of the book which fell from your lips,
And landed on the bloodstained steps,
Blending,
With these ancient chants.

i rise in the morning…

Hey, it’s only poetry.

Who are all of these people …

Old pond…

Time moves geologically across our hearts and minds, our physical existence weathering choices and experience. We rise and fall in our individual eternities

The intimate 135-seat North Beach venue is an elegant setting for Nalley, who is fast becoming internationally known for her breathtaking charisma; an assured vocal style wholly her own, and every bit the chanteuse of the 1930’s and 40’s.

Marc Bathmuthi Joseph
“Racism got off on his own P.R., said, I’m the star of this show, here y’ go. Nothing to say until Capitalism slipped into the frame, ‘hey baby what’s your name?’ Racism spitting game, but Capitalism was looking-she flipped in on him like he was a two-bit hooker. He took her and shook [...]

I enjoy how Mr. Collins bares his soul, moving imaginatively and fancifully through time, poking fun at history, himself, the laws of allegory, gravity and metaphor…