October 29, 2015

old bellow was a poem(please read aloud)

old bellow was a poem on a tombstone leaning in

met a four 
was a three 
wanted one more 
go around 
you see

leather gathers 
iron fasteners and 
slow gasping in
last exhale almost
build and billow 
always having designs 
on, one last time
becoming wanted 
right now 
poem wants to be 
a closing couplet birth
in a previous piece 
I've written 
and immediately 
upon me reading this
aloud, poem bellows back 

"last stanza needs something...
Edward, what does it lack..."

akin to being immersed 
in art as distraction 
turned to attraction 
to something shiny  
poem says, dress the words 
like mannequins 
for storefronts overnight 
while morning light waits 
for shoppers and keepers 
on the things you do consume
in order to stay human...

cobblers and elves 
help us delve 
into being gifts 
we'd give ourselves 
as if we were the magi 
coming home to be 
a parable ending...

and with the way 
the taste of the notes 
of my familiar songs
hold me tight
I'd say poem is 
mostly right...

nearing Halloween...

gloaming begins the pause 
at the seams, sown series 
of demarcated stitches 
thinned willow switches 
tine-d and twined to find 
those places where 
anything remains possible 
by going underground...

attention to 
the moments at 
or before a soul might 
inherit its new bones...

paper bell needs, falling leaves 
outside my windows 
it is raining furiously 
trying to steal into the Sun
on this very odd
warm late October day...

the wind is full of couriers 
and Holly King courtesans 
they rake remnant time 
in fingered patter-pitter down(s) 
they sound of clown-wet bags 
and broken bottoms 
processionals of confessions
waiting to fall through...

it smells of sweet death everywhere 
tannin sugary bleed for bones, alms 
the wretched ring out the dead 
the velvet covered and fire warmed souls 
still clinging to their bones 
drink to make merry and numb 
on the insides of their things 
their houses and rituals 
their witch-pail-fix-it-quick-would-ya-please(s)...

the ease with which we lease today for futures 
depends on how willing we are to feel 
the pain of absence and forms 
before a storm passes us into pleasure...

and I look at my window 
slow lunging the tippled air 
and spy beneath the fallen 
and matted slick ground 
a willing and hungry sort of mud 
waiting for the tight slow lattice of water 
to crown and throne thy womb 
for next Spring will rise 
scented with Persephone's return
liking to be covered 
in all that has grown 
in what we've let go of...



  1. This is incredible! Is there a name for this style of poetry?

    1. Thank you and gosh, that's a good question...this piece was written almost entirely this morning...wouldn't know how to describe a style, don't really think about that much...the process felt, over morning coffee, as if there was this old melody on a warm wind, that wanted me to remember to sing sometimes, a bit of fun into the words...

  2. Replies
    1. Thank You...Autumn in the Northeastern U.S., especially in and around old towns...can bring many reminders of the tides that bind us...

  3. I feel as if words are an inadequate response; I just want to somehow read every one of your poems right this minute, as if they might, in some way, make me whole.

  4. I like these lines:

    one last time
    becoming wanted
    right now
    poem wants to be
    a closing couplet birth
    in a previous piece

    I so love your style of writing. It kind of reminds me of mine.

    Incredible poem my friend. :)

    1. I was thinking the exact same thing ... that his reminded me of yours to a degree.

    2. Thank you and yes ash, I guess, from my perspective, mine mines a similar vein, another gnarled driftwood archetypal foray, with modern parlance of course, code indica soapstone rune stoned somewhere in those lands of nod, macabre and underbelly beauty...

  5. A wonderful walk into this poem makes.. I love how it seems to dig it's way into soil with the hunger of an earth-worm... :-)

    1. That is beautiful of you to say...earth worm chassis, humanity engine...I like it thank you...

  6. I was amused by how poem bellows back at you that the poem needs something, Edward! Quite creative...and meandering...

    1. Gratitude...the first part was a joyful prompt fueled by caffeine and sunlight through bleeding leaves...but it needed something...seemed like it was waiting for me to confess that I rather like to think that old tools or hand made devices begin to take on an emotional intelligence as they weather and age from use and storage to long forgotten, dust covered eureka(s) embedded inside, are you sure the air in this part of the basement is safe to breathe...

  7. This was fun, really trippy. I particularly liked the stanza about mannequins

  8. I like the word play here quite a bit--and yes-read it aloud--it kind of craves that

  9. Consciousness of poetry
    so small.. only now
    reflecting tiny part
    of human sung
    as rhyme meter
    as measure..
    oh.. below..
    and brings
    self back whole..
    ancestors do this
    easy.. work for we..
    as illusions..
    takes within
    away.. yes..
    to come

  10. This is an amazing piece of writing. Well done.

  11. The poem as muse? I found it interesting how you spoke of the poem as a character in your life.

  12. Very auditive poem indeed - as an auditive person, I really appreciate that. And I like the way you talk to yourself in the midst of it.