Off the Wall Poetry Carnival

Since I didn’t officially theme it, I thought I’d borrow the title of the first poem to name this carnival.

Off The Wall was sent by Pat Paulk of Laughing Ghosts. He offers tight, vivid poems regularly to a rather large fan club. I had not known of him before this. I’m glad I do now.

A shadow on the wall
talked to a curious dog on the sidewalk,
what they said was without sound,
what was understood not known.
The dog eventually moved on, the wall
waited for the next shadow.

My dear friend Liz Strauss of Letting ME Be sent me a few choices, of which I picked The View, because it’s off the wall for Liz. Liz has a way of turning sadness into a bright lesson. Thank you, Liz.

my eyes
filled
with my response
following
a path
of two drops
that wash
away fearful feelings
to place a smile
on my
self-image

your eyes
in my head
change the view

Ron Russo of Wondering Soul sent this next poem, Remember. Ron’s spirit is always pointed toward healing and love. This poem, a gift for “Travis”, makes that clear.

Remember who you really are and be that!
Remember the vast, radiant emptiness
from which you came
and from which all things arise.
Remember, you are that.
Not that you are one with all…
you are all.
Remember the sun that shines from
your eyes.
You are that.
(continue reading…)

David Patton of Uncle David sent this new poem, “Silent As Snow Falling To The Ground” for the carnival. David’s poetry has raw, mythic power and rustic freshness. He told me he has written a poem a day for over a year on his blog. And these are not 10 line poems, either. This poem offers a soft, light touch.

Silent as snow falling to the ground
The speckled air abounds
As whiteness covers all.
First snow of the season;
An inch or two or so.
Tracks of the white tailed rabbit
A squirrel climbs up an old sycamore
The rusted links of a chain-link fence
Are barely visible as the cold wintry winds do blow.
Quietness sits by the door, piling deep in the cold.
A poet’s pen to paper marks this singular passing.
In the scheme of things it is its own doing,
In one day of many and many more to come.
The snow is here, blowing slanted in a northern wind.
It tells not who but the way that they go.
Snow is cold but melts in the warmth of the palm of the hand,
the hand must be cold to hold.
Walking alone in Forest Park
The wind blown snow is a song
Without words or instrument;
A song for the eyes and soul,
And I twirl around and flair my arms
To sing alone.

Kelley Bell sent me this little story poem, Godless Child, from her blog For Whom the Bell Tolls. Her words cut to the heart of sexist injustice.

Once Upon A Time…

There was a little girl, born in the Land of The Free,
and the Home of The Brave.

She was taught that she could become anything, even President,
though no girl had ever done THAT before.

She was taught the importance of education,
and read many books by Great Men.

She was told to get a job,
But to expect less pay then her male peers.

She was told to climb the Career ladder,
and bumped into a glass ceiling on the way.
(continue reading…)

If a haiku could convey a philosophy of life, MB’s poem The World as my Oyster is the poem. Most of us are familiar with MB’s poems from Find me a Bluebird. How does she create so much sublime space with so few words?

a pearl grows slowly
around the grain of sand that
is lodged in my heart

Here is another of MB’s haikus, Darkenss.

the edge of ice cuts
against the last of the green
darkness settling in

Ozymandiaz of Toadstool Diaries, who has apparently hosted a number of these carnivals, was thankful I was hosting this one. He sent this poem, simply called Entry. Though written as a Christian poem, it carries a universal spiritual message to submit to the wisdom and forgiveness of our higher selves.

I burn myself in effigy
Mourning my life as should be
Wherever ears may be bent
I strain them without relent
Displayed in Jesus Christ pose
I am revealed without repose
Clearly you can see the pain within me
I cannot be free until you all see
How I let me be
Insecurity
(continue reading…)

Ren Powell of Sidestepping Real sent this unpublished dream-like poem to me. When asked what the theme of this carnival was, I suggested “dreams of poems”, which I had listed among other ideas for sumissions. One can see why she is a published poet. Images are layered with meaning, scenes within syllables. The last line can be either a question or a statement. Both are true.

Elder Moon

The girl behind the counter
of the Dairy Queen (sees

the tree branching from his mouth)
(believes

everything)—his voice fragile,
dry bark

snagging on the velvet esophagus
wet with ice-milk:

That Neil Armstrong never stepped on the moon!
‘Goddamned government ruse.

The old man makes
craters with a plastic spoon.

On her cigarette break she sits with him
(digging into the Depression, and
deeper

hair-like
pale moments
of his supple years)

Don’t you believe anything

anyone tells you.

Jo Janoski sent a poem called The Poet. It’s a series of Haiku’s. How did she know what’s going on in my head when I try to write poetry?

Head bent, thoughts flying.
Playing touch football mid air.
A poem is born.

Poets express love
While warriors declare hate.
They meet at depth’s door.

Words elude poets
like water avoids deserts
until monsoon time.

Rhymes make cozy friends.
Meters have minds of their own
But married, they rock.

I wrote a poem called The Room to convey a dark November night of waking dreams.

Black November air
oozes across the pine board floor,
cold molasses being poured.
Shadows of craggy oak twigs
gnaw the walls for flaws.
The moon cannot escape,
so peers helplessly
from her thin blue ark.
(continue reading…)

This final poem is most appropriate to my after thought theme of a dream about a poem. Bill Piety of Peter in search of Pan posted
not very far from 4th yesterday. It’s a dream of dreaming poetry, dreaming life, lost dreams, and living dreams.

dreams make a hard death
old brown shoes that keep no shine
pants that keep no clean
i frighten women from the church
sunday feigns a bitter cheer

but i’ve a corner not far from 4th
i can hear some whisperings
from my local catholic saint
telling secrets without relief
jagged little words unclear
(continue reading…)

Well that’s all folks. Thanks for stopping by.

Sacrificial Tree

Here are two poems about Christmas Trees. I’ve always been torn about having cut trees. I’ve reconciled my guilt by thanking the tree for giving me the soulful pleasure of its wonderful smell and living presence in my life.

I keep my trees as long as possible, usually until my birthday in mid January. This year I haven’t yet gotten a tree. I’ve just been too dissipated physically and emotionally, plus winter came on early, hard and strong. Who knows, maybe I’ll still get inspired.

Sacrificial Tree

Darkness descends upon afternoon’s glow
And pulls day’s light to down below.
As fickle air courts heavy chill
Feeble warmth flees up,
Conceding defeat
To weighty still.

I then illuminate the sacrificial tree
To lift the void which leadens me.
Her scintillating glitter
Enshrouds my fears
Enveloping my heart in glamorous sight.

This starry gift is infinitely old
yet ripe with richness
as time’s birth of soul.
Such sweet ritual!
Such mundane skill!
Giving root to such lofty thrill!

We need only open our hearts,
Our senses, our doubts, our souls to Her allure.
The myth of the season is born again.

Our Christmas Tree

Our Christmas tree stands before me,
evergreen through the seasons,
glowing with light
through darkness and freezing.
My soul is warmed by its
shimmering spirit,
all crystal and glimmering,
giving life to love needed.

I’m able to hope
by such burning glory
for peace where there’s strife
and love for those, lonely.
My heart aches with sadness
that you can’t be here near me
but life must go on, then
for Beauty’s Eternity.

technorati tags- christmas tree poems, Christmas poems, solstice poems, Christmas tree

The Drummer by the Sea

A drummer sits by the sea
        listening to the hollow, holy undulation
of his mother’s clock
breathing against his face, his heart-
beating a different rhythm, a
        syncopation, a duet.
He calls to her and
she answers.
        She answers as he calls; he listens
to his own voice in the waves, her
rhythm,
his heartbeat, their duet…
the drummer hears
a whisper inside his ear,
(He took his inner voice to be
                           Hers.)
"Why," s’he said, "do I feel so lonely?
We haven’t been together in a long time.
Why, in order to be together
must we first be apart?"
S’he listened and heard and relaxed and
came together and came apart: together, apart.
S’he felt the swelling of their breath,
rising, falling, like the waves on the beach,
like the rising and falling of
their body,
the air,
the day,
the night,
and their rhythms;
soothing,
drumming beats,
of the sea, of the waves,
the waves and the foam,
and the crunchy, cool sand
and their feet titillated by it,
on it, off it, on, off.
billions of grains, ancient mountains,
crumbled empires,
fallen spires,
and the timeless sea, giver and taker,
and the dark lurkings underneath,
fear giving breath to joy.

Sacrificial Tree

Here are two poems about Christmas Trees. I’ve always been torn about having cut trees. I’ve reconciled my guilt by thanking the tree for giving me the soulful pleasure of its wonderful smell and living presence in my life.

I keep my trees as long as possible, usually until my birthday in mid January. This year I haven’t yet gotten a tree. I’ve just been too dissipated physically and emotionally, plus winter came on early, hard and strong. Who knows, maybe I’ll still get inspired.

Sacrificial Tree

Darkness descends upon afternoon’s glow
And pulls day’s light to down below.
As fickle air courts heavy chill
Feeble warmth flees up,
Conceding defeat
To weighty still.

I then illuminate the sacrificial tree
To lift the void which leadens me.
Her scintillating glitter
Enshrouds my fears
Enveloping my heart in glamorous sight.

This starry gift is infinitely old
yet ripe with richness
as time’s birth of soul.
Such sweet ritual!
Such mundane skill!
Giving root to such lofty thrill!

We need only open our hearts,
Our senses, our doubts, our souls to Her allure.
The myth of the season is born again.

Our Christmas Tree

Our Christmas tree stands before me,
evergreen through the seasons,
glowing with light
through darkness and freezing.
My soul is warmed by its
shimmering spirit,
all crystal and glimmering,
giving life to love needed.

I’m able to hope
by such burning glory
for peace where there’s strife
and love for those, lonely.
My heart aches with sadness
that you can’t be here near me
but life must go on, then
for Beauty’s Eternity.

technorati tags- christmas tree poems, Christmas poems, solstice poems, Christmas tree

Not so Rare Air

High up on the eighth floor
the view spreads a smorgasbord
of warm golds, tangerines and greens,
lit by bronze back-light across the dream.
He could almost smell that odd burnt Fall
bouquet through the plate glass picture wall.
His world held a long, slow major chord.

But the air up here is not so rare
as he thought it might have been,
considering the pain it took to get up those all those floors.

At the end of his third day in this room, Dorn felt truly refreshed, rested and ready to face the impending surgery to remove his ailing gall bladder. The pain which brought him here had now been relegated to yet another chapter in his living novel of that subject. But the experience of it had reminded him of how much of an unlikely teacher it had been.

Pain is no friend to anyone. It stretches and warps time. It removes even the most secure protections of philosophy and spirituality from any soul it inflicts. The self is laid bare. As he lay 2 hours in the ER 3 nights ago, moaning loudly for relief, Dorn reviewed all the pain he’d been through, mostly in the last 12 years.

All this began with cancer, the surgery for which he awoke from in a blazing supernova of raw pain; though, oddly, a minute before while coming out of anesthesia coma, he had asked for a Banana Split Sundae. With a dozen parts of his guts rearranged and re-attached, it would be 6 weeks before the Sundae dream could come true. Meanwhile, he had a morphine button which could be activated only every five minutes.

It is possible for time to stop. It stops when a train is about to hit you in the face, or perhaps after your gut has been hit and you are waiting for the pain to start. Or when you are waiting for a lover to return from a dangerous trip. When it starts again, it is not like normal daily time, but now moves counter to the holding time, counter to the waiting, not faster, but deeper, like in honey.

The awakening after his major cancer surgery was literally gut wrenching. Each five minutes took at least an hour. Sometimes one minute took a week to pass as he watched the clock, with the attentiveness of a dog watching the door for it’s deceased owner to return. After he pressed the button, or rather when he pressed it and it finally worked, since he pressed it many times in the seconds before 5 minutes were up, something happened which could only be described as a spiritual message being sent to each screaming nerve cell, soothing it momentarily, as if covering with a warm blanket each suffering pain victim in the world all at once. Then within a minute or two, the deceptive comfort is slowly realized and each cell begins spreading the word of truth, “We must scream in agony, for it is our destiny until its cause is eliminated.”

Pain had been his nearest relative for a good part of the dozen years since then, a relative which he’d rather not see but who keeps showing up uninvited and spins his life into chaos during that time. It’s tricky to build a lasting structure of behavior and habit when continuity is lacking. If you walked 10 steps through a field and tripped in 4 holes, you would continue only with trepidation.

He also believed that abdominal pain accompanied by nausea could be the most un-grounding kind of painful experience, an earthquake at the center of emotional open-ness. That perspective was only natural, since that’s the kind of pain he had experienced most. He’d also had migraines, a close second for the most disruptive pain. He had never broken a bone, never been shot. He had been punched to the ground once. That hurt, but his ego suffered more than his body. When he was 6 or 7 he dove into a shallow cement pool head first. The water turned a pretty shade of bright red around his head. However, that pain diminuendoed after a quick crescendo. As long as it’s receding, even the worst flood of pain seems less threatening.

But combine gnawing, constant pain in the nerve filled center of your gut, where your gut reactions come form, with the most universally ignominious of feelings, nausea… now there’s a combo platter from the fast food counter of Hell’s Kitchen!!

What had this intimate familiarity with such black pain gained him? Stories of pain without some glory are a hard sell. The war vet gets credibility for his pain because he has the heroism to match it. For the most part he had treated pain the same all a long, as something private and to be avoided. Thought he knew and believed that avoiding his pain was a natural right, he also knew the side affect could be a pleasant slowing of time, a poetic state of mind and body where the world became a large terrarium to be observed and enjoyed from a distance.

Alas, one of the almost inevitable side effects of being in pain so much is that one becomes all to eager to reach for that “blanket” of treatment to temporarily sooth the fires of all the wretched suffering. One of the limits of scientific knowledge is how to treat pain without resorting to narcotic “cover up” drugs (morphine or its derivatives), which don’t alleviate the pain as much as coat the consciousness of the sufferer with opiate honey to dispel the worst of the experience. The pain doesn’t go away, it just appears much, much further away. It’s a powerful illusion, but it’s still the best we have.

The pleasure of the release of pain under a narcotic blanket is two fold. First,the body’s own endorphins are released as the stress of pain subsides. Second is the the known effect of opiates, the softening of all edges in life’s pushy world. This narcotic buzz is well known from the poetry and philosophy it has inspired, from Baudelaire to Poe to Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes). Even American thinkers such as Jefferson, Emerson and Thoreau used opium as we use a glass of wine to relax. As the poem in the beginning of this post implies, the world seems clearer and more beautiful from the narcotic distance, but it is neither so rare nor so distorted as either end of its experience might seem. That is to say, it is not as evil as as its detractors say, nor as beautiful and singular as that addict might think.

The problem of addiction to pain meds is global and severe. The prevailing solution is to place a hefty dose of bureaucratic doubt into the system of health care. Suffering in the ER and many hospital rooms is the counter-balancing epidemic resulting from conservative doubt of pain to filter out pain med. abuse. A patient needs to really show suffering to convince the painless, comfortable skeptics surrounding him. That kind of commonly acceptable lack of compassion is reprehensible.

One respected European doctor had explained to him a radical minority opinion; “Pain” he believed, “is an evolutionary survival mechanism which is no longer needed in modern, human civil society. Pain should be treated immediately and with complete compassion and trust for the sufferer. Any problems of addiction should be handled secondarily.” Dorn agreed. And it wasn’t without experience of both ends, pain and addiction.

His addiction to pain meds had caused ripples of problems in his life, but none worse than the suffering of the pain itself. In fact, addiction had not so much created problems as covered ones which might have otherwise come to light in a more timely fashion. The deepest problems are the ones we run from when we resort to pain meds to soften the edges of a normal day. For Dorn, his depleted self-esteem was easier to inflate temporarily with the “distancing” effect of pain meds. Brush fires are easier to consider with authority when their heat seems far away. Composure can be maintained, and “normality” along with it.

Little of the experience of pain serves common use to the world, except perhaps a lesson in compassion for other’s suffering. But he felt he had learned much about who he is, was and could be. He could survive suffering. Mostly it had taught him how frail he really is, we all are, really, that our accustomed patent approval of our selves is often just a blink away from agony. Funny thing is, knowing that made him feel stronger, not weaker. Moment to moment self-approval and confidence is more real than the illusion of security as something continuous and solid.

Not such rare air really, but worth the climb to get there.