Writer's Block

5/13/11

(Written after a day of reading Charles Bukowski)

Writer’s Block

A siege has fallen over the town

Like a black curtain, shuttering everything

To night.

 Oddly, some folk in the town

Do not mind –

Fewer jobs,

Fewer things to do

Or worry about.

Others sit by their window,

Hungry like a fish,

And stare into the sea of the sky

And, failing,

Burrow their brains in the blank paper islands –

Then flush them down the toilet.

They built a wall just today

So that nobody could pass,

Escape, and bloom like a dahlia.

No, all is black as the wall is black

As the night is black

As our thoughts are black.

But I noticed a man,

Just a few moments ago,

Stand before the wall,

Black like hell,

And throw a simple rock

Over the wall

And we heard it land

On the other side

And felt the earth quiver

In circles, as on the surface of a pond,

Until circles filled the spaces

And bloomed like a dahlia.

Sitting by a Waterfall in New York

5/11/11

Sitting by a Waterfall in New York

Rushing water meets the rocks

Like hands grasping longing hands,

Then splashes into the air.

The river does not emit a gentle chatter,

A soft murmur here and there,

But roars, wild like a lion,

And I miss her.

The trees are long and tall,

Leaves are like her hair,

But they are not her hair,

And I miss her.

The Lethe flows before me,

And I dare not jump or fall

Into its savage arms,

Grasping, splashing into the air.

I can almost see her

Standing across the liquid road

In her long, love-red gown ---

Her eyes are the skies,

The clouds are her brows,

The trees are her legs,

The rocks are her toes,

Drenched in the river.

The water rushes fast

And I miss her.

10 O'Clock

5/10/11

10 O’Clock

The houses are haunted,

Pine trees sway like arms in the dark,

And the wind whistles through the air.

The fat man sits slouched in his sofa

Beer in hand, shirt below his feet,

And watches his walls turn green

To blue to pink to yellow,

Switching by the tick of the second hand.

The black cat runs across the street,

The children sleep warm in their sheets,

And for a moment everything is silent,

Until the phone rings

And a car shrieks somewhere in the night.

For my Mother

5/9/11

For my Mother

Mother stands at the old stove,

Plain and black with twenty little red flames

Spewing from the bottom right corner.

Handling the bowl of pancake batter,

She expertly tilts the bowl

And the plain white batter cascades

Into the pan, over the stove.

She listens as the white liquid sizzles

Into a golden-brown crisp,

But nothing special –

We’ve been through this before.

Son sits at the old table.

Handling his pancake expertly,

He tilts the jar of jelly onto his plate

And dips the steaming pancake

Into the thick red pool.

He eats and listens as the next one sizzles

Into a careful brown,

But nothing special –

We’ve been through this before.

Mother comes to the table

And sits across from her son.

They play their favorite card game

Expertly and listen to every sound –

The subtle click of the card on the table,

The wonderful voice of another,

And the warm breath of laughter

Exhaling itself into the room.