I am getting so damn frustrated trying to figure out how to either send Rosie the damn poem, or find out if she got it and just does not have the time to write back to everyone she gets something from. I know things are tough all over, and she has a plateful of things too, but geez. . . . And here I am acting like she has a duty or something.
But really, I just want to know if she liked it.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Monday, April 30, 2007
By the way. . . .
I really hope she reads the preceeding poem. . . Not that I am some dorky fan wannabe or any such nonsense, I like knowing that a poem I wrote is seen by the person I created it for. . . . . It is weird seeing the look in their eyes as they realize it is for and about them. And should I be so lucky, if I get it published, I feel like I have given them the poem all over again. I do not know how I do it. It is not like I can turn it on and off, or even say "today, I am going to write a poem about clouds."
I just let it come to me, like the mother of modern poetry Amy Lowell taught. It is very Buddhist when you think about it. . . .
I just let it come to me, like the mother of modern poetry Amy Lowell taught. It is very Buddhist when you think about it. . . .
Sunday, April 29, 2007
A Poem for Rosie
A LETTER TO ROSIE, TRYING TO SAY THANKS
Dear Rosie: Please don't go.
Please do not let your voice
of simple clear reson
and pure humanity
fade off
like a stagelit sunset
or a Nebraska Winter
that stays past
even a poet's welcome.
Do you know how many lives
you have changed?
Not just these 600,000
(that number constantly juggled
about by both anchormen and pundits,
as if some homeschool equation
will explain away the magic you brought)
extra viewers, but the ones who
were there already?
A few less people think "FREAK"
when they see two women holding hands,
or a couple of men
showing off their two year old son;
and a few more
ask better questions the next time
the powers-that-be say "BOO."
But I do why you are going, Rosie.
Any poet worth his or her merit
in sonnets and metaphor
knows the tug of a four year old
golden-haired girl
can stand up to
any of the who's, where's, problems,
causes, and villians the world over
if she needs to. Four year old
girls have mighty strong magic, you know
and all they really want is their Mamma
(so do 4 year old boys, but sometimes
Daddies tell them, not to say it out loud).
Of all the numbers dancing in bank accounts,
homes in more than one place, people
you have met, and things you have done, THIS
is what I admire most. In the 16 years
I have danced with three capital letters
and a warehouse
of pills, the number of children helping
me make better decisions and reminding me
to laugh has dwindled down to
two elfish boys who may leave a letter or three
out of my name that I see
one holiday a calender year.
But this is your poem, Rosie, enough about me.
Please do not go.
The longer you stay on, the more days
I have left to figure out how
I could see both the legendary lights
of New York and the five
of you wonderful women
the first and only time
for this farmland wordsmith.
But you and I know this is a selfish wish,
which only come true
after a big price is paid,
or you survive some slapstick adventure
complete with laughtrack
and product placement.
Thank you Rosie
Thank you for speaking out
and thanks for all the feathers
you have ruffled.
Thank you for all the laughter
and helping Joy set up the jokes.
I hope that things are well,
and that this storybite fades off
with the dignity it deserves.
Thanks Rosie. Love, Brian
Dear Rosie: Please don't go.
Please do not let your voice
of simple clear reson
and pure humanity
fade off
like a stagelit sunset
or a Nebraska Winter
that stays past
even a poet's welcome.
Do you know how many lives
you have changed?
Not just these 600,000
(that number constantly juggled
about by both anchormen and pundits,
as if some homeschool equation
will explain away the magic you brought)
extra viewers, but the ones who
were there already?
A few less people think "FREAK"
when they see two women holding hands,
or a couple of men
showing off their two year old son;
and a few more
ask better questions the next time
the powers-that-be say "BOO."
But I do why you are going, Rosie.
Any poet worth his or her merit
in sonnets and metaphor
knows the tug of a four year old
golden-haired girl
can stand up to
any of the who's, where's, problems,
causes, and villians the world over
if she needs to. Four year old
girls have mighty strong magic, you know
and all they really want is their Mamma
(so do 4 year old boys, but sometimes
Daddies tell them, not to say it out loud).
Of all the numbers dancing in bank accounts,
homes in more than one place, people
you have met, and things you have done, THIS
is what I admire most. In the 16 years
I have danced with three capital letters
and a warehouse
of pills, the number of children helping
me make better decisions and reminding me
to laugh has dwindled down to
two elfish boys who may leave a letter or three
out of my name that I see
one holiday a calender year.
But this is your poem, Rosie, enough about me.
Please do not go.
The longer you stay on, the more days
I have left to figure out how
I could see both the legendary lights
of New York and the five
of you wonderful women
the first and only time
for this farmland wordsmith.
But you and I know this is a selfish wish,
which only come true
after a big price is paid,
or you survive some slapstick adventure
complete with laughtrack
and product placement.
Thank you Rosie
Thank you for speaking out
and thanks for all the feathers
you have ruffled.
Thank you for all the laughter
and helping Joy set up the jokes.
I hope that things are well,
and that this storybite fades off
with the dignity it deserves.
Thanks Rosie. Love, Brian
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Working Boy
A beat-up Dodge creeps up the corner,
and you think of that guy who just wanted to talk,
and you can't believe he still paid.
You remember the guy who brought you home,
and showed you his Jeff Stryker
after he threw you in the harness.
You think you see the one that just handed you the money,
and pulled your head down in one fell swoop.
You watch the fist-fight two doors down,
and are too tired to guess who did what.
You count the pretty older boys
as they stumble out to the lot.
You slide to the bus depot vending machine,
buy a Baby Ruth with your emergency bus change,
and laugh about a man who gave you an oil massage
wearing rubber gloves and two condoms.
You list the ones that you wish hadn't seen you.
You have your 3 a.m. breakfast with your eyes half-closed.
and you think of that guy who just wanted to talk,
and you can't believe he still paid.
You remember the guy who brought you home,
and showed you his Jeff Stryker
after he threw you in the harness.
You think you see the one that just handed you the money,
and pulled your head down in one fell swoop.
You watch the fist-fight two doors down,
and are too tired to guess who did what.
You count the pretty older boys
as they stumble out to the lot.
You slide to the bus depot vending machine,
buy a Baby Ruth with your emergency bus change,
and laugh about a man who gave you an oil massage
wearing rubber gloves and two condoms.
You list the ones that you wish hadn't seen you.
You have your 3 a.m. breakfast with your eyes half-closed.
T.S.
It's been nearly a decade since
I saw you sniff glue
in your downtown apt.
Nine years to the day
you gave me a bottle of poppers
and told me to
"cum like a madwoman."
Seven years have past,
we all got drunk on New Year's
and you shared me with your lover.
Five years ago,
I was doing you on the stairs
while he was at work.
Sometime last year
they tore down your house.
Yesterday I realized I couldn't remember your face.
I saw you sniff glue
in your downtown apt.
Nine years to the day
you gave me a bottle of poppers
and told me to
"cum like a madwoman."
Seven years have past,
we all got drunk on New Year's
and you shared me with your lover.
Five years ago,
I was doing you on the stairs
while he was at work.
Sometime last year
they tore down your house.
Yesterday I realized I couldn't remember your face.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Get Ready, Gang!
Sometime this coming Monday, I am going to post some of what I consider my "top ten" poems, as I am submitting said poetry for an upcoming book of works by Nebraska authors!
I am also (finally!!!) putting the finishing touches on my second book/manuscript! I am either going to call it POETRY ON THE HALF-SHELL, or EASTERN NEBRASKA SIMILES. . . .
Sorry that it has been so long. . .
I am also (finally!!!) putting the finishing touches on my second book/manuscript! I am either going to call it POETRY ON THE HALF-SHELL, or EASTERN NEBRASKA SIMILES. . . .
Sorry that it has been so long. . .
Sunday, August 13, 2006
"Now where the hell has he been?"
Wow! I have not been on here in a while! Things have been strange, and words and I have not been on the best of terms lately.
In an effort to find a pain management combo that would give me some relief and still allow me to speak full sentences; I have wound up with a killer case of fatigue, hearing and memory loss, and so much did not seem that important, or even that reachable in my muddled state. . .
So I will try to be better. I have already set up Monday nights as my "work nights,' and I still have a book to put together, so things are not THAT bleak.
Thanks for caring, and a big hug for reading,
Brian
In an effort to find a pain management combo that would give me some relief and still allow me to speak full sentences; I have wound up with a killer case of fatigue, hearing and memory loss, and so much did not seem that important, or even that reachable in my muddled state. . .
So I will try to be better. I have already set up Monday nights as my "work nights,' and I still have a book to put together, so things are not THAT bleak.
Thanks for caring, and a big hug for reading,
Brian
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
NEW POEM!! (Yes, I am still around and moving!)
Peeling off the Sheets
When summers in Omaha
can still slap on the heat
to start the day,
I peel off the sheets
and cannot help but think
of new skin and rebirth;
like a struggling poet
scratching at the world
for some symbol wrapped up
in a brand new metaphor,
with that desperate hope
to finally create
one poem
that will keep his name
on every student's lips.
On quiet nights
I think of the stranger
still hiding in my veins,
left on the tips
of all those needles,
and coursing
through the body
of the man
who tainted me.
I catch myself walking
through the streets
with closed eyes,
as if I am still waiting
for him to say something
say anything
from a muttered apology
to just his first name.
When summers in Omaha
can still slap on the heat
to start the day,
I peel off the sheets
and cannot help but think
of new skin and rebirth;
like a struggling poet
scratching at the world
for some symbol wrapped up
in a brand new metaphor,
with that desperate hope
to finally create
one poem
that will keep his name
on every student's lips.
On quiet nights
I think of the stranger
still hiding in my veins,
left on the tips
of all those needles,
and coursing
through the body
of the man
who tainted me.
I catch myself walking
through the streets
with closed eyes,
as if I am still waiting
for him to say something
say anything
from a muttered apology
to just his first name.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
A little gift
A dear artist friend and big fan took his favorite poem from my book, FIRST CHILL, and my picture so he could create this beautiful wallpaper for his computer. I wonder how long it took before he got bored of lookingb at my mug. . . .
Morning Face!
Most of my mornings, I have been waking up like this, looking like I have been making a living drinking at weddings, and emptying kegs for wimps at high school parties!
I have four poems that are in a holding pattern, and as soon as I get my ass in gear, I promise to put them on here. . .
I have four poems that are in a holding pattern, and as soon as I get my ass in gear, I promise to put them on here. . .
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