Poems I Invite You

Little poem don’t worry

Everyone is welcome in my book

If you want to join the other poems

go ahead

I won’t berate you, I won’t ask you to exist and then reject you

I’m not going to laugh at you or tell you you aren’t good enough

I’m not going to invite you and then pretend that I don’t know you

I may spend time in with the other poems but I’ll try to get around to everyone.

I won’t look back at you and laugh, for your vision spark may be

the true one for that day.

Little poem, for all my failings I will be your best friend.

I will try to remember that each is important now,

that one never knows which poem will open that door:

that might be the door to the heart or a door to a vision, a door

to the past, a door to the mystery of everything.

Some poets get there with the help of a little poem, I’ve heard

and I don’t doubt it’s true.

Ferry Bridge

This little poem is the second Primeval Poem, after “Moon Party.” 

They were both “instant poems”- this one has an image which was a precognition of the World Trade Center attack, one week after the writing of this: its inscrutable line about the air turning to sand and the grief that followed. 

I knew then what this was about.

Primeval Poem #2

Ferry Bldg, Bridge, afternoon

Poem:

Out in the pier I saw a little boy

chasing seagulls.

He did the baby dinosaur dance

for his ancient cousins.

They squawked their appreciation

hopped to one side or up to the pier

or beat the air gaily with one wing.

The green water smiled its flat square smile,

cool to its deep deep bottom.

The bridge continued its yoga stretch and relaxed.

Then,

because it’s the modern world and I’d seen it so many times

the boy did his warrior dance in slow motion, the air turned to grains of sand, and I began to cry.

Each star came out to watch, waited patiently as God filled in its brightness,

and then, set free,

the air shown with gold.

The green water was thirsty for that nice gold color, I noticed.

The bridge held back the night sky

for one more minute;

one last ship, a giant, red and black

pulled out to sea every wrinkle.

We have to be very still now.

No one move.

Solemnly a gull hops to one side though,

And up on a pier

and lifts its wing.

Primeval Poem. Moon Party.

Here is a poem-like thing you’re invited to. (Bongos optional.)

Moon Party

This is the way the body relaxes

This is the way the spine stretches

This is the way the being breathes

My vertebrae like a calm alligator

crawling out of the nice green swamp

The moon was big then,

scientists tell us, eons ago

Tonight I descend from the alligator

my eyelids open backwards

I stare at the moon in the heavens

the giant moon stares back

we have no vision yet. All is darkness and primeval

As an alligator I blink whenever I choose: I am king of all creatures in this epoch, in this particular swamp

The moon unrivaled in its staring

I am king of all creatures in my swamp

This is how the body breathes

This is how the spine relaxes

Welcome to my moon party

Welcome to my nice green swamp.

***

Send Me No Magnets

Send Me No Magnets

Send me no knick-knacks from your trip

no magnets, matchbooks, mugs or money clip

no cap, no t-shirt, no bandanna- I can’t use it

no complicated thingamajig that you know I’d probably lose it

no toy, no trinket, nor somethin’ that you won

Nothin’ that you picked up on a day that you had fun

none of the funny men with heads that wibble-wobble

no jewelry-like things or a bangle or a bauble

no clam shell hula skirt cocoanut-head maidens

no souvenir thing good for collectin’ or a-tradin’

no bumper sticker or frisbee with the name of a place upon it

no doohickey doo-dads- I tell you I don’t want it!

( I don’t even need a ballpoint with a naked lady on it!)

I don’t need an object carved out of a piece of native wood

I don’t need anything authentic even if it’s “good”

I need no postcards, pins or pendants- none of that will do

I don’t want a refrigerator magnet

I just want YOU!

***

Here’s a spontaneous bookstore poem about Dog Eared Books or Phoenix Books in SF from way back. I woke up jumped out of bed and wrote it down. It’s called “Sister Bookstore” It goes:

Ram

bunc

tious

Dog

girl

choose

me!

My wagon of

words

coming in

table of trees

out front

whisper birds

in back

your tall stools & ankles, your ladder,

your hardwood

window, yr grace

I tipped in

to see

you

Forever.

Equinox

Equinox 

there’s a god in my garden
thinking

-I chose twelve windows
the chaos season of each star 
yet by each window on my private world
footsteps on the walk without
passing by 
looking in 

Look again: 
emptiness and order

I sense you and your goddess talking 
I overheard 
a healing whispered word

Look again:
your flower world is blooming

***

Flight Deck

This is prose poetry from flight deck of Columbia which was lost on the sky over Texas. It’s just in the crate of poems:

Birthday Poem ( in the manner of OAK)

Hey Ann here’s a doggerel for a writer I know. What would grandpa k do!

I think I’ll never see
A poem like a tree or
A wheel barrow that is red
Or Alan Ginsberg(what he said)
But if I ever do
I’ll Fed Ex it to you
As a birthday greeting to a man of letters-
Don’t forget the thing with feathers.

That does not rhyme…hm.

Happy Birthday , Writer!