Category Archives: poem

Steam like Weiland

In honor of some still ringing ears from a wicked (wicked!) show last night at the 930 in DC with Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, thought it was time for this one written loosely about one of my fav frontmans (written back aways, slightly revised here).

Steam like Weiland

Steam from my Lipton’s
hot tea
dances like Scott Weiland
and wails
like a hot electric guitar lick
and fogs up my eyes like cataracts.

Oh the nights
where smoke replaced steam
moonshine instead of tea
and I need not imagine him
close enough to smell
the sweat.

Remember hot heat,
grind and sway
so close,
that plush hot heat,
that same song request
and that hot hot heat.

When tea cools down
the steam leaves drops
cold slippery, falling asleep.

For a Moment

Wrote this quickly a long time ago (circa 2003 maybe). Most people, I think, will be able to relate in some way or another…. Now, heading out to enjoy the weather and a great concert with BRMC tonight (black rebel motorcycle club) Till tomorrow… Oh, and if you can, let me know if you like hearing background on the poems or if you prefer just to see them posted alone!

For a Moment

for a moment
when it was safe
she thought about him
when the world wasn’t paying attention
she ran her fingers through the memories
and remembered him
when the day buzzed by
and clamored on with heavy ideas
she slipped away
and felt him smiling slyly
as he always used to do and
she sang with him
away from the paperweights and mouse-pads
she danced with him
when it was safe
she kicked back and dreamed of him,
sweetly and sadly,
then the world came roaring in again and
she can’t go back again
though for a moment
she thought she had.

my sister’s curly hair

When the light is right
her pretty curly hair looks red
like the darkest melted color of a sunset
or twined tree branches, free and wild,
growing down her shoulders dark
like chocolate cherry ivy.

We go places together
slip into hazes of Thursday night bars
with loud old bands
dance in the changing lights and
her curls bounce and twirl in time.

When she shakes her head at me
with a small smile
the curls fall quietly down
like waves of rain breaking
from a heavy cloudy sky

and when we swim laughing
in blue oceans of Carolina
the curls surround her like seaweed
dissolving
into salty reflections of sun
quietly fashioning night.

Even Memories Fade

Written late in the night many years ago. Found it in a handwritten book of notes. I have no idea, on a beautiful day like this one, why I felt like posting it.

Even Memories Fade

you, disappearing slowly,
a mist
a past a past life
crawling away from here like your life
depended upon it
but you really didn’t care that much about life
anyway
you, disappearing slowly,
and I
sit sit still watching
not concerned like I thought I would be
I thought I’d feel
an emptiness for the loss
but instead only numb
nothing.

Crocus (Near Easter)

All winter, I was curled tight in my bed
so that my legs had become part of my torso
and my arms wrapped around the whole bundle
as to let nothing out,
or in.

In the early equinox morning,
the sun rose up over the row-homes that
stretched into a scraped horizon.
I could see it with one half-shut eye,
through one slice of blinds but I did
not move from my bulb.

Soon, soon, the glow blinded
it pierced into my drowsy eyelids and ever so gently
peeled away my fingers, prodded my arms out, then,
carefully pushed my legs straight.

I stretched across the sheets.
I stood gently, unaware.
The sun enveloped the whole of the city and room.
I was unsure of my steps,
but I stretched up and
drank in the light…blooming.

The Firehouse Coffee Company

Day after day, I have these cheap wood
Tables and chairs,
The constant chatter of
Two women, both wearing the same
Grey of the winter sky
And the one man
Sitting curled in a brown leather arm chair
In the very back, under a brightly lit
“Firehouse Coffee Co.” sign.

I don’t imagine that he is waiting for
A simple letter like I am.
Too intense, he is more like the stares of
Those painted black eyes of the Blues Brothers
Who sit and greet all us caffeine addicts. Or the
Strangely blank face of the firefighter on the pole
Who is forever a stationary decoration to this house.

He never looks up, which makes his features
Resemble now the bleak abstract
Paintings of the great Baltimore fire, smoke
Ash, soot, and still he never
Looks up at me; he does, however, take a small sip.

No, no, forget my previous thoughts,
This man in the corner is not any of these,
He is a government spy,
A landscaper,
A dock worker at the Canton port,
A philosopher and student of Keats.

He is a muse to all of us waiting on a letter.

Psychic Ability is Inherited

alone, she
watched the impending
clouds. grey thick and heavy
with waiting.

her father had
warned of such moments
and her mother
spoke quietly, “then,
you must listen”

it was just that their faces
had lit with excitement
despite her “you should
not be here”

they were waiting
as they always had.

and inside she felt
expectant. outside the grey
sky whispered, “yes, you already know
it will rain.”

In honor of post 101 ~ A Small Girl in the Rain by Alice B. Johnson

I’ve made it to post 101! Incredible! It’s a heavy day, grey clouds thick with rain, sidewalks still wet. Perfect day in a quiet coffee shop (except for the reggae!) to write. Think, write. All this alone time in my head is starting to effect my mental state…. thinking all about generations and families and “free will.” I have just finished a Taylor Caldwell book as well (not sure if anyone here would be familiar with her work). Clearly, I could continue to ramble but I think I’ll save it and maybe put these cluttered thoughts to better use later. Here, now, is poem from my great-grandmother Alice B. Johnson that I felt fitting for the day:

Small Girl in the Rain

The small girl, with her face uplifted to
The gentle summer rain, stands very still,
Her hands outstretched to catch each lovely drop
That falls in pattering enchantment till
She feels its mystic touch. She opens wide
Her laughing mouth, as if to quench her thirst
With dancing drops that struggle to elude
The questing tongue, stuck out to catch them first.

Her small heart quivers with her love of life,
With windswept rain and each small living thing…
Drawn to bright loveliness of bird and bloom,
And to the lowly earthworm’s tunneling
Beneach her feet. Small goddess of the earth,
With arms upraised, she strives as if to capture
Earth…sky…the magic of the wind and the rain,
And keep the treasure of this new-found rapture.

She feels the vibrant urgency above…below…
Not knowing what it is that stirs her so.