31 Saturday Dec 2016
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Fingerpick C, G, Am, F repeat
Who are you,
And where are you beautiful.
Where’s your song,
That you must sing?
Lose yourself,
In all that is beautiful,
What’s torn apart,
What’s crumbling.
What’s Crumbling?
Improvise
Let me hear
Your sweet song.
What makes you cry?
What sets you free?
It’s you and me
On the edge of losing
All we have,
To eternity–
To eternity.
Improvise
Tell me now,
Where are you beautiful.
What makes you cry?
What makes you sing?
27 Tuesday Dec 2016
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Tags
1.
Let’s be honest,
No one cares how your poem
Is a reflection of you.
They care how it is
A reflection of them.
And when I say no one,
I mean me.
And you.
23 Friday Dec 2016
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There’s a rule among birds,
If it’s singing, it can’t be killing,
Which may, or may not, be true,
Except for the family of plump chickadees,
Who wintered beneath our cedar arch.
With their black caps and gray-backed wings,
They flitted from rail, to pan, to chair, to deck,
To aspen perch, peeking in at us,
Until I plucked my first A minor–
The 3rd and 5th string,
A melancholy chord found in most songs,
Even the chickadees’, it turns out,
When they hear you sing.
15 Thursday Dec 2016
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“We didn’t want anything else but freedom.
This world doesn’t like freedom.”
Abdulkafi Alhamdo, Professor of English, Last Call from Aleppo
What is Aleppo?
All that it was, or dreamed to be,
In rubble. Have you seen rubble?
It’s what hope looks like when it’s collapsed,
Reduced to broken chunks of asphalt
And twisted, distorted beams of rebar.
It’s brown. Not dark brown, but light brown,
The color of dust.
There is no truth, but suffering,
And the realization no help is coming–
No haloed army, no golden trumpets,
No white horses or heroes.
The choices you made,
In your heart of hearts,
Choice, like stone in your heart,
That is Aleppo now–
Stone in your heart.
15 Thursday Dec 2016
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The cold that is loneliness–
Ice, snow, hunger.
Did we care
The days had shortened?
Dark mornings,
Dark afternoons,
We stumbled, it’s true,
But don’t we all stumble,
Slide on the ice–
A dangerous toboggan
Of metal and glass and rubber
Just sliding,
sliding, sliding.
Where will it stop–
Against a sign, a bank of snow,
An oncoming car?
We turn the wheel
Left, then right, then left
And tap on the brakes,
Hoping they will catch
Onto something solid.
My love, turns out
You were the solid thing
On which I caught.
Bits of Poetry 