Category Archives: Poetry

Poems

Sooner or Later

The Usual Mode of Conversation Between God and Man

 

God:        Turn round, and come Home to me.

Man:   Two dozen dirty lovers before you, I must be a sucker for it.

I’d cry, but I don’t need my mother, just hold my hand while I come to a decision on this.

 

Sooner or later,

 your legs will give way, you’ll hit the ground. Turn round.

 

Save it for later,

just hold my hand while I come to some decisions on all this.

 

Sooner or later,

 you’ll hit the deck, you’ll get found out. Turn round.

 

I just need more time to think.

Save it for later,

but don’t run away and let me down.

 

Turn round, and come Home to me.

 

I’ve traveled all 7 seas, they’re rotten through and through, so what can you do?

Sooner or later,

you’ll run away and let me down.

 

Sooner or later,

your legs will give way, you’ll hit the ground. Turn round.

 

Two dozen other stupid reasons while we should suffer all this?

Sooner or later,

you’ll run away, run away, and let me down.

 

Sooner or later,

you’ll hit the deck, you’ll get found out. Turn round.

 

Save it for later,

just hold my hand while I come to some decisions on all this.

 

 

This continued for some time, right up to and through the present day.

 

 

Into the Deep

As I walk along the snowy trail
my face to the starry sky,
the night air feels as rain.
The animal self howls and moans
at the night, for it
knows of its illusory existence,
of its own eternality, its life and death.
For it heard, as I heard,
these words we spoke:
Rest easy in the Deep,
as the Deep….
for We are the Deep.

Orion in the Deep
Orion in the Deep

“The earth was formless and void,
and darkness was over the face of the Deep,
and the Spirit of God was moving over the surface of the waters.”

Ennui

Ennui  by  Ike Harijanto

 

It is not blind

for it has no eyes.

A glob blubbery blob, marshmallowy,

yellow, bloated Ennui

blows thick smoke from a hookah drooping

off its thick puckering lips.

 

For Life and Love it’s an ogre so hungry.

Beware of its smoke for it can swallow

whole and drag low,

then all motions drags a clunky

laborious chain of “Why?”

 

Marshmallow Ennui imperceptibly

turns into sticky molasses Depression quickly.

It’s not a morphing; it’s a giving of way,

for Depression is a desperate try

against falling so deeply asleep that is Ennui.

 

It drags you into a gray-brown bog,

Blowing its drowsy fog.

I fall asleep without knowing it,

thinking I’m awake, thinking I’m aware.

 

553830_439267869427405_548650054_n

Ennui is a know-it-all thinking, “I know too much.”

Ennui is an armchair traveller claiming, “Been there, done that.”

Ennui is jadedness yawning, “Meh,

seen everything already.”

Familiarity turns into a malady.

But don’t waste your life feeling guilty,

For it’s not you

who says, “All is done; nothing to do.”

It’s Ennui!

 

How did I fall asleep? I don’t know;

Didn’t catch myself nodding.

In this thick heavy fog, God of Light, please show

Just a needle of Your Light piercing.

From this aggressive vortex pull of Sleep,

that seducer,

I want out, I want to wake!

 

Henri in ennui, again

What are you, Ennui?

A resistance born of negativity,

a lack of meaning of life, or merely,

a superfluous entity?

What an irritating allergy

sapping energy,

this chronic, addictive serving of me.

Why are you here? What are you trying to tell me?

More importantly, how do I

widely open my eye?

 

Ennui

Thrill is not its remedy,

for Ennui’s not a hole

for the Muse to fill with lively creativity.

Maybe it’s a bothersome additional

to simply shoo, shoo.

 

Can’t reason with that entity.

Need I take it so seriously?

Ennui, ennui, go away

Come back another…

Well actually, don’t bother!

 

– Ike Harijanto

 

* The hookah is a reference to a poem by Charles Baudelaire entitled “To the Reader” in his Flowers of Evil

Henri in ennui
Henri in ennui

The cat is Henri, guru of ennui, found on youtube : http://youtu.be/Q34z5dCmC4M and FaceBook: https://www.facebook.com/henrilechatnoir

Summer Love

It’s a blade of grass in the summer moonlight
A sprinkler hisses, then a mist and cold spritz
It’s a pastel sidewalk, the colors the child
A jump, a skip, a call and response

It’s a porch, its swing and lantern, the tree underlit
A mother breaking dusk, calling her son back home
A dog sniffing the ground, you can’t help but laugh
While the grasshoppers chirp and the fireflies flick

It’s the town’s outdoor pool, water twirling up and dropletting down
It’s riding at night on a Schwinn Stingray bike
On the small town streets chasing the smoke fog
of the DDT truck, the smell heaven, better than ant subway’s

It’s Wyoming on the farm, going to the Indian dance
The irrigation canals, the alfalfa and manure
Sleeping on a high bed, on soft flannel sheets
The whooshing of tires down the highway before sleep

It’s the trip down Wind River to Thermopolis Hot Springs
My mother and sister, my virgin aunt who eats her Reeses
My virgin uncle driving, he sings in the fields
My grandparents who only speak German and love

The hot soaking pools, my mother really happy
The high dive off the board, the low dive of my sister
The park with the bridges, the sulfur, the steaming streams
And riding the Screaming Mimi down into the pool

It’s Elitches Gardens, the mecca of all yeows!
The Tilt-a-Whirl, the Calypso, the Wildcat coaster
The Skyride brushing the tree branches, the Tropadero Ballroom,
The ponies, the funhouse mirror, and softie twists

The feel of bare feet on hot asphalt, then on cool grass
The slapping of street in Converse All Stars
Levi jeans, white tee shirt, no wallet
The music box rhapsody of the ice cream truck

Music lifting heavy heads behind window screens
In the parks, in passing cars, on the bed table in the dark,
The handle on the radio and the knobs gleaming fake chrome
A spaceship transporting sounds for dreaming the world

The green glow dashboard of the Plymouth Valiant
Cruising the loop over and over with bench seats filled
The Dairy Queen stop, the lime-aid and Mr. Misty
The young girls untouchable but seeable, giggly and gangly

It’s winding down in the cool basement evening
Watching TV shows before there was irony
Flickering blue plasma lava across whitewashed walls
Shirtless back stuck to the emerald green vinyl sofa

Never end day. Never end night, Never end this.
When sleep finally comes, it comes easy at first graze
Of warm skin on cool cotton, head surrendering to pillow
Dreams no more magical then life, as innocent as mornings

Children of summer, dancing and yard running
We were all awe, we were the sun god revolved ‘round
I could sing you until I couldn’t breathe anymore
Even now, knowing it was never made to last

– by Paul Schmidt

Two Poems by Norm Milliken

Before the Beginning

before the beginning
came forth
from great silence
from great holiness,

God longed in sleep
to know God,
mystery became awareness
of mystery.

thus came
the seas
the land
the birds and fish
and heavy things
on their legs.

though it is told different
light came last.

heavenly host
expression of the awareness
that created itself
from itself,
sudden flood
illuminating creation
complete.

imagine God’s wonder
of all at once.

and imagine that cosmic
loneliness
when, like perfect eyes
God found himself
everywhere,

and yet nowhere.

 
I was a place once

I was a place once,
all songs and light.
choirs that held candles.
faithful midnights,
then out into the snow.

visions were almost free.
I had a handful.
life was a waltz those days.

we drove after service.
my father knew
where the lights
were overdone and gaudy.
my sister made up names
and blinked colors
across her eyes.

brother’s ghost
sat with mother.
my father drifted quietly
in and out of the past.

Old Homestead
Old Homestead

there was a house
with trees full
of ivory stars.

our blue car
collapsed along
towards Christmas.

it always seemed
to be snowing.

– Norm Milliken

Friendship by Richard Rose

 

I passed through a deep crevice at twilight,
And I saw a narrow vista of trees,

Crevice in the Rocks
Crevice in the Rocks

Magical in the mists-
Vocal to the hush of meaning,
Whispering to the wisdom of shades,–
Of degrees,–
Before the backdrop of eternity. . . .
And I had a friend. . .
Whose dust with mine was not the bond,
Whose love with mine was not the bond,
Whose teaching with me was not the bond,
Both of us had been to this same place,
To the twilight in the narrow crevice,
And because of this place, we are eternal.

– Richard Rose