Copyright 2019 Bruce Jewett
My worn, wilted words
Still hang on a cork board
By an espresso grinder;
Some say a woman came
And with white silken sleeves
Swept away kittens lost
A missing purse, jobs sought
To smile as she read aloud
My dregs stained verse.
If any where, you’re walking
Into the grand stadium of Valhalla.
Crowds cheer, chant, and roar
As if you were a football team
After a last winning goal.
You stride confident and strong
To a raised spot-lit podium
And soon will be ready to start
As hushed thousands await
Your verse to voice their hearts.
Life makes Life a simple gift,
wraps in parable and myth
a thing not so large it cannot
fit into a single lotus seed;
not so small it couldn’t bulge
and expand the cosmos,
not so near it does not shine
on numberless galaxies beyond sight
not so far its breath doesnβt
touch your ear on a warm night
all around and flowing within us
the heartβs blood of waking buddhas
who open their eyes laughing,
having dreamt we are glasses of water
deep in wondrous, rhythmic seas
Window installers tear out
Old window frames with ganas
And the whole day they do that
I lay on a sofa and herd data
Along in the electronic mist.
Their work is warranted for 30 years.
Mine vanishes before it exists.
San Francisco’s best
To be an unclaimed corpse.
Every six months or so
A chartered excursion boat
Sails off with orphans of ash
Waifs of bone, blind and dumb,
To where gulls and buoys peal
Welcome welcome welcome!
Forty years studying bamboo
With brush and sumi ink
And capturing nothing at all;
Not sunlight slanting through
A grove’s greenness
As herd boys return at dusk
Nor choirs of tall stalks
Swaying in a dragon’s song
Of winds and rains.
π±
Just sold my nineteen sixty
Something ragtop, volumes
Of Ferlinghetti and Ginsburg,
An orgasm lamp that painted
Ancient nights crimson,
Posters from Fillmore and Avalon.
What else is there to do
With cats you depend on?
No hooks nor lures
On that shimmering line
Which, fin over fin,
Out of crystal turbulence
They climb to soar
And glide into baskets
Woven of fig bark
And lotus root, happy
In each other’s company.
I’ll never understand the living
Why they run screaming from us
And make god-awful homicidal
No-budget movies depicting us
Mucking about at a menacing
Tortoise’s pace instead of lying
In green long abiding ease
Or sitting on a cool marble slab
Having a smoke and telling jokes
Of who the hell we were.
Karma is a big living room rug
That looks okay, clean enough
Can wait another month or so.
But when you finally vacuum it
The see-through chamber teems
With feral herds of dust bunnies,
An aggregate of one’s thoughts,
Words and deeds. We all wonder
Where does that all come from?
Has it something to do with me?
from dust to atom
and neutron to quark
Life blossoms forth;
karma is the spark
They live in each other’s
warmth, side by side
by a window box,
absorbing sunlight
to share only with themselves.
Can you remember
we were once them?
Guitarist / Songwriter / Blogger
Poetry, Fiction & Photography
New content every Sunday.
Spiritual isn't non-physical, it's an elevation of the physical
Tales from the mouth of a wolf
a collection of words about my average, bog-standard life accompanied by some sub-par illustrations that depict selected moments in said life
Tales of humour, whimsy and courgettes
π³ππππ πππ! π»πππ ππππππ!
Art doesn't have to be worthy to be worth sharing
Domenic Garisto/havau22.com / IF YOU CAN'T BE THE POET, BE THE POEM (David Carradine) LIFE IS NOT A REHERSAL,SO LIVE IT.
One Poet's Writing Practice
My thousand lines..
A Poet's Place | Wolff Poetry Literary Magazine is Publishing Poetry Submitted by Published & Emerging Writers,
..... Just ....... Haiku .....
Non-factional opinion, fiction, poetry and occasional humour
ζ³ε»ε¦ηζ°ζι³ζ₯½ε¦
