Upon a Forty-Eighth Birthday
Just another walk in the park
stopping by a wall
covered with a honeysuckle vine.
Sweet cloying fragrance,
Reminiscent of
sweet perfume
of another time, another place.
Pulling one blossom from the vine
removing the stamen
with one precious drop
of seminal honey
designed to attract the bees
designed by unseen forces for regeneration
for rebirth, for re-life.
Looking beyond the delicate flower,
beyond the seductive spring-green
of the leaves,
examining the tenacious vines
the roots
struggling to get moisture
from the stones.
Beyond the vines, a wall
that thing that something doesn't love
a wall
in a state of early decay
where the vines have declared
that their right to live
means the wall
will go away someday
and the vines will reclaim the earth.
There is the sun here,
and the bright, cloudless sky
on a day that seems to echo
man's desire for eternity.
And there is joy in life's
celebration
of one reality
outside the struggle.
But there is more here.
The vine struggles against the wall.
The wall fights to stay alive
The bees and time
move more vines to more walls.
I remember the dewdrop,
and past loves
and sighing without regret
move on.
A Deer Story
Walking, walking, walking
coming to a bend
sharp enough
that the world disappears
around it
suddenly
a dappled doe
frozen in motion
man and beast
staring
I gave her my age
she gave me her youth
together
we rode the myths
of the Egyptians
the Greeks
The Romans
The Norsemen
The Celts
Not looking for
or searching
instead immersing
in heroes
and heroines
thrusting ourselves
upward
beyond
galaxies
riding, riding, riding
exalting
in the cold
of an autumn morning
at last
on earth
she strode into the wood
head held high
both of us
changed forever
A Lingering Evening
candles flicker
a rose stands straight and tall
the scent of lovers
a moment
of completeness
a moment of loneliness
together in the same soul.
A Love Poem
Looking through
poems written and remembered,
poems written and forgotten,
fingering the edges
of this one
with my eyes
of that one
with my mind,
trying out all of the words
that have been,
all the worlds
that have been seen,
looking for a gentle moment
that I can softly caress your hair;
That I can enfold you safely
with the comfort that radiates from within.
They are stale now
in comparison to the way that
you make all things new.
I would remove the scales of old dreams
from your eyes
and give to you the gift of sight
you have bestowed upon me.
Easily, with a quiet passion
no pain
no threat
I would hold you
expecting no more than nearness
requiring no more than love.
Darkly did the shadow cover
and I cowered,
afraid.
I await the peacefullness of the light.
Aidsman
Mr. Man with aids
fucking out his brains
on twisted sheets
giving new meaning to
the dying breed.
April 19th, 1995
I
A Victim
A sweet day in the life
A placing down of the child
A reassuring kiss
On the top of the head
"I'll be right upstairs if you need me"
Smiling, comfortable,
Entering elevators
Entering thought patterns
Combining family and work
Sorting, separating
Suddenly an exclamation
What the fuck was that
Too late to understand
Down
Flattened
Kissing floor
Hearing cries
Unable to move
Lost in the pain
The glass
The smoke
The blood
Returning
Losing consciousness
Returning
Suddenly the urge to flee
Looking for stairs
That cannot carry you to heaven
Lost in survival
And then the memory
The kiss on the hair
Knowing she can't be gone
Knowing she isn't there
Somewhere beyond redemption
A hand grabs, pulls
Unable to see, you move
To an entirely new direction
In your life
There is only terror, only fear
And calling upon god
Seems a little too late
II
The Perpetrators
Time to take a stand
Time to tell the man
Better leave us alone
On a course charted by insanities
Only we can see
These are not children, these
These are not men and women, these.
They are lambs of sacrifice
Begun by Abraham
Begun by Jacob
Perpetuated by Christ
We have liberated them from bondage
And now they have disappeared
Into a better space and time.
They do not matter.
They are nothing
In the scheme
That will return to us
That which we perceive as ours.
And if we're caught
We will die with glory.
III
The Media
Starting as the information givers
Shocked by events
Moving beyond the shock
Into ratings recognition
Nothing is sacred
No one is free
Long past questioning
Continual probe
Past mercy
Past understandiing
Past caring
Feeding on the carrion
As a pack of wolves.
IV
Tomorrow
The world will talk of healing
Anger will intrude
With too much fire
To be sustained.
Burned out
Only resignation
Will remain
Pushed to page two
Page three
Back of section one
Lost in the TV reports
One special
"The Aftermath"
and life and baseball goes on
save one child that says
"Tell me again daddy,
What happened to Mommy?"
As A Child
As a child
we learn that we must
step
before we reach
too far
or we shall fall.
And as a man
they chide us
that no reach can
exceed our grasp
I sit alone and puzzle
while the others pass me
by
but hurrying,
they miss the
colors of twilight
dying,
and the birth
of the rising sun.
Bio
When I was age seven, I lived in a rapidly declining Chicago neighborhood. It
would not have been too big a slur to call it a slum, if you felt inclined to give it a slam.
By age ten I Lived in the wealthiest of Cincinnati Neighborhoods. I had "gone
through" three mothers and two fathers, and still managed to keep myself all in
the family...sort of .
But let me explain like they bang the drum-slowly.
I have often thought that memory can be best compared to a personal slide
show. Randomly accessed, sometimes with control, sometimes without, film like
images pop-up, then recede, replaced by other pop-up images. As some
memory-thoughts fade they seem to dissolve and fade into another , but others
cut away as fast as they appear.
Bittersweet Autumn
Turning, changing direction,
an unexpected gift.
low in the western sky
full melancholy moon
framed by tall trees
paying homage
bright light
unsubdued by early morning dawn
then slipping behind the fog
fading
fading
disappearing
reminiscent
of lost love
of lost lives
bittersweet autumn.
Bluesman
Old black bluesman
Never fretting with the frets
Hoarse hollow bellow
Cigarette ash
Tumbling into the strings
Blood and guts
Forty five
Upside his baby's head
But he wouldna
Done it 'cept for the whiskey
And here comes that first line again
Teeth camel stained
Lips chapped
Almost blue
Moanin' in the weee mornin' hours
Linoleum platform
Bad lightiing
Sparse tables
Surly waitress watered drinks
And still he
Lost in the playin'
Lost in the singin'
"Oh Jesus my baby's on the floor
Oh Jesus my baby's on the floor
Guess she'll stay there forever
Said she didn't love me any more
Worse gun I ever handled was that Smith and Wesson forty five
Worse gun I ever handled was that Smith and Wesson forty five
If I'd used a twenty two
My baby might still be alive
Too late to do something, don't know if I can
Too late to do somethin' don't know if I can
Downstairs neighbor heard the shootin'
And I know she's called the man"
Final verse
Lookin' into the light
Re-orienting to club reality
Getting ready to go home
To fried pork chops and gravy
Hard livin'
Hard dyin'
Breath Feeding
City canyons
concrete and steel
unsteady on the sidewalks
not knowing what you feel
The dance of the homeless man
begging for a dime
The song of the cancer man
who's running out of time
Heading for the country roads
or some isolated shore
where nature plays the giver
who keeps on sharing more
Maybe running is the answer
or maybe standing still
but it's tough to ask the questions
surrounding one's free will
despair and joy
love and hate
sepearate in their differences
but strange how both relate.
Eastern man sits quietly
watching time unfold
western man compresses
for the sake of gold
from where I sit
or where I stand
the view never seems to change
just when I take my life in hand
everything gets strange.
Chasm
standing at the precipice
on the chasm side of the rail
holding on with both hands
and leaning over space: wondering.
What would happen if I ever let
g
Cincinnati Rap
There's a conservatory called the Crohn,
There's a stay-dee-um that the Reds call home,
Wear your shorts and tee-shirts to a party in the park
and head for some jazz clubs when the night gets dark.
There's business men so serious
they eat lunch at their desk
they think the boss will see them
working harder than the rest
But the boss is at the Banker's Club
spending all the comp'ny's money
on pink champagne and caviar
for some short-skirted honey.
He leaves in his Cadillac
and cancels out the phone
then turns to the chippie
and say "do you want a bone?"
There's a man with his hand out
who stands at ninth and Elm
There's a mayor and a council
with no one at the helm
the beggar is arrested
cause he's some kind of jerk
the council just keeps gettin' paid
for not doing any work
The Laurel homes take back their ground
and push the pushers to the side
They've all moved to Roselawn,
a neighborhood with pride.
Downtown's a dusty wasteland
almost every night
the window vigilanties
keep the muggers out of sight
somehow the streets are safest
when they're empty block to block
once there was a better time
but you can't turn back the clock.
The tv and the radio
that's paid to give the news
keeps on showin black men
who murder for some shoes
Way out in the suburbs
where everyone is white
people lock their doors
and still can't sleep at night
And all the schools are cryin'
cause their levy won't get passed
and the mothers all buy olay oil
'cause they got a wrinkle on their ass.
The children are so lonely
that they don't know how to smile
and they think that future money
is what makes life worthwhile
The hard rock negativity
brings their spirit down
they're living in a circus
that doesn't have a clown
The fat man reaches fifty
and he hasn't saved a cent
he hungers for the great times
where his youth was spent.
when rock and roll was acted out
in the backseat of the cars
when GTO's and 409's
were as big as baseball stars
Freedom ain't as simple
as mixing black and white
or rich men helping poor men
or deciding not to fight
This song is all mixed up in knots
that no one can untie
and all the current knowledge says
it's uselessness to try
but one kind word to friend or stranger
when we should chance to meet
can make a day seem easier
and make life a little sweet.
Circus Fantasies
I
Outside the tent
neck thrown back
eyes undressing
an almost undressed
belly-up dancer
on the poster with the green background
She beckons
wearily
through the stains
left by rains
But to the boy who stares
the long gray streaks
have disappeared,
the greasy crease
non-existent.
The side show
is a front show
with a nipple
for his thoughts.
II
Fatima is dancing
for the turbaned prince,
of the oil rich
emirate
and though he shall be prince
of millions
he is timorous
before her.
Her black hair
is the instrument-
is the music
as it slides around her shoulders
like a shawl
then disappears
as if it wasn't there
at all.
Six times; twenty times
it re emerges and
it disappears
mesmerizing beyond purpose
until the prince
shakes his head to break the spell
only to become
captivated
by a single bead of sweat
that forms just below her neck
and begins to roll
slowly
slowly
slowly
pore by pore
moving to the space between her breasts
until he blinks
and she whirls
and turns tantalizingly
to the grand vizier.
The turbaned boy is left alone-
surrounded by broken reverie.
He reaches out to pull her back
but she has stretched her forehead
to the ground
in base obedience
and moved from the room
to the arms
of the Big Bald Nubian Slave.
The emirate sub-potentate
calls for Ka,
slave child of his own
but he cannot savage her
with the dance of the hidden hair
so close to his memory.
III
A fat pock-marked aunt
grabs the small boy by the hand
and jerks him around
His chin shuts
with clicking teeth
and Fatima
becomes the coarse,
flawed, flaked
paper poster
of the current reality.
The sting of tears:
surprise or disappointment?
A moment, a wetness,
to be remembered through the years.
Always is heard
an admonishing word
from the fat assed aunt
impatient
with the suddenly found
lost boy.
She drags him roughly
speaking toughly
about once and future tragedies
of boys
going blind
as bats
and speaking of bats
bats as big as armadillos
biting children who dared to stray-
then she stops,
a sentence caught
in her throat
and with a little mew
she is suddenly possessed by
the image of the
Strongman.
Classic leopardskin
black mustached
shaven head
black dumbbells with shiny black globes
connected with a single rod.
the aunt is struck
dumbly
knees weak
sweat running down her sides
a vague form of
panting
coming from her thick,
mustachioed mouth.
IV
Why was she always in these situations?
Trapped and Strapped?
Held against her will,
chained to the cold, damp, stone walls.
Stripped
of her dignity,
and most of her clothes.
She strains against the chains
her nipples rubbing against the coarse cotton cloth
that barely covered her.
As if the fault were hers.
A born beauty
a born heiress
perfect bait
for sexually deranged kidnappers
demanding ransom
and much more.
And the big one from Moravia
pretending to be gentle
manufacturing sensitivity
from his eyes
while caressing her
oh so slowly, pretending to console.
This then, was to be the moment
The western beauty
ravaged by the Eastern bloc head.
Alone, afraid,
untraded for money or for spies
she awaited her fate
with a terrible expectancy.
The giant metal door
pushed inward
and Dogboneavich
passed through
eyes no longer soft
unashamed and sneering
he stands
with his massive arms
and hands
across his chest-
his legs spread apart.
With the cruel
sneersmile
upon his lips
he raised one arm
to strike.
V
The aunt
could feel
the sticky moisture
in her hand.
An ice cream cone
melted in last straw
white tears,
gluing her fingers together
"Come on nephew, ' she sighed,
We've been here a very long time.
It's time to go home."
City Rain
Rain will not grow
flowers in the gravel
nor wheat in the sidewalk cracks.
The dirty feet of children
slapping against the dirty floor
bringing roars of challenge
from a curler - headed woman
somedays known as mother.
A hungry man
staring mutely through the windows
The water making
patterns on the oil slicked streets.
His children can't eat rainbows.
Cobra Poet
Everyone is a poet
though some
kicking and screaming
deny their spirit
and shout obscene numbers
while they caress their profit reports.
I have been with them
when the first lightray of morning
pierced their pupils,
stimulated their brainpan
and their soul began
a cobra dance
swaying, moving,
ready to strike, but hypnotized
by the early morning flutesong.
Too soon they shook their head free of fancy
and moved into the world of concrete and steel.
Too soon they capped the Cobra basket
and turned away
spurning beggars at their feet
and straightening their already stiff spines
preparing
for the real.
Confession
Peter the Pan
cried yesterday
real tears
(not croc's)
because the world
no longer understood with empathy
but expressed repugnance at the waist.
Not growing Up
a time honored state
has fallen into disrepair
has given way to
unkind despair
and paved a way for loneliness.
Good Time Charlie's got the Blues
so he thinks he'll go and cruise
the drive in restaurant
that once was there
and now is not.
It is a child's toy,
wonder,
and they would take it from me
but I wll not let it go
death grip with a child's pudgy fingers
life grip with a child's fertile mind.
Crime Scene
The couch
The television
empty bags of Frito's
littering the coffee table and the floor
Coke cans
on their sides.
Copyright, Alan McLaughlin, 1995
Liberation
Arms folded
Front foot planted on the heel
toe pointing upward
Blue business suit
tight collared blouse
topped by
a stern countenance
The men stutter and shudder
Fearful of being stung
by a ray
Behind her eyes there is laughter
As she feels the satin slip
caress her thighs.
Copyright Alan McLaughlin 1995
Depression
saturated with lonliness
staring out a gray spotted window
grimed with dirt collected
from the street below.
Looking above the edge of the buildings
staring past the limp flag
strangling itself on an unyielding pole
moving my eye to white puffs of clouds
( view interrupted by a pigeon flock)
beyond to a washed out sky
whose blue battles with the slanted sunlight.
Once I felt the Zen.
When?
Now just incredible emptiness
replaced by incredible emptiness
layered
with unresolved direction.
The artist has layed aside his brushes
and stares unseeing at the forms on his canvas.
The writer shoves his pen in his pocket
and spits on the sidewalk.
The lovers hold out their arms
to the empty air.
Dinosaur
finding the dinosaur graveyard
marveling at the bones of
houses boats cars gods
looking for the right
cleanser
to bleach the bones for public viewing
fossil rex
posing as
a vegetarian
taking a short legged stance
against the horizon
using palm trees for hair
camouflaging
intentions.
Rex Facile
game show host
making his contribution to the dig
spinning the big wheel
oblivious
to the friction of the ratchet,
the fighting of the pegs.
and in the publisher clearing house
weepstakes
so many losers
shrug to hide the pain.
My lottery is over now
no more material gains
no cotton, woolen, rayon gains
no plastic metal composite gains
no gold, silver or platinum gains
just adjust the gain
on the old philco
and marvel at the design.
DNA
Dancing with yourself
at midnight, grabbing your hokey-pokey
with your hands,
Spilling the sacred seed
Despite the castigating priests
hooked into the past, addicted to shame
Christ, the suspense is killing;
where do you go when you die?
But we do not need the seed
beneath the misbegotten moon.
A fleck of skin, a folly of follicles,
an agar dish
resplendent in the grow-as-you-glow light.
In the new resurrection
the sterile field
gives birth.
The new generation pins its hopes
on tight genes.
Dock of the Bay
down to my last time
hands in pockets
chin on chest
kicking pebbles from
the dock of the bay.
Little ripples
in the 3AM
water
deep green Pacific
blue lost in the darkness
just enough moon
to light bubbles
with pastel rainbows.
Behind me
shadows of the early morning
violently punctuated
by insulting neon
catering to appetites
too huge
to be particular,
too unsatisfied
to be discerning.
In front of me
endless ocean
too large for Christ to walk across
time for another miracle
maybe flight
except I'm down
to my last time.
Dragon
A dragon in the bottom of the coffee cup
stained image
left there for only me to see.
you must believe
in dragons
before you can see or be one.
The Drag-in queen
will never see or be as free
as I.
Dragonfly
Sitting, Imperceptively sighing.
Dragonflies tease with color flashes
An acrobatic fish
Full of life
Bursts through the placid pond
The ripples send signals
Is it time to leave
Or time to stay?
A Drive By Seeing
A car
out of place
a mind
out of mind
throat choking loneliness
a priest
in mass confusion
no is a number
Elanor
Sitting straight up on the
Straight backed
Victorian couch
Straight laced
Straight edged
91 years straight
elanor
stares at the picture on the wall
of dead jack
lost jack
strayed jack
once straight then bent worse than an ironwood in the wind jack
Little elanor sits and sings
Quiet, frail voice
Belying strong memories
Of a song she learned
From her children
Her voice peeking out
In the dark-light room
"Do you want to dance
under the moonlight?"
Remembering black jack
And the big dance
The tux dance
The bride dress dance
The all-eyes dance
"Kiss me baby, hold me so tight"
Spinning around the floor
Alone with her lover
The others receding
Relegated to space
Beyond their secret connection
United as one
In a dance as old as time
"Tell me, do you want to dance?"
The last line of the quiet tune
A sigh as her reflection in the picture glass
Shows too much rouge, too much lipstick
Too bright for loneliness.
One tear splashes against the glass
She turns
And climbs the Everest stairs
To an empty room.
Fantail
The wind roaring
The trees still
I am
My mind
Again.
On the fantail
Of the old destroyer
Black water waves
Spray salt
One lone sailor boy
Pays tribute
Shouting with laughter
Sticking out his chest
To the wind and the waves.
On the bridge
The old captain smiles
Remembering.
Farmer
Sitting in the shade
beneath a canopy
of maple leaves
watching heat
rising
wrinkling
the farmer's barn
making the solid real
appear ethereal
but before it flys away
a gust of coolbreeze
flattens out the barnboards.
Dust rising from the hooves
of the old shuffling horse
as he moves to the cooler grass
before flopping down
to watch his mechanical replacement
rent the earth
row upon row.
Farmer
mopping forehead
with blue and white bandana
looking to the sky
enjoying the blue
but praying for gray.
A Fellini Frolic
(A subjective view: Juliet of the Spirits)
A moment to gaze through gauze
before assaulting the color sense.
Delicious hazing of the sacred pyre.
Enough of midnight courier titillation.
Exorcismic exhortation
of a lover long dead,
blindfolded in sleep
to the importance of time.
From floor to ceiling
the groping slides in and out
reflected
into the arms of an almost lover
of an almost death
before awakening to ancient alarum.
(Hobble with me Grandpa, I must walk before I fly)
Hidden senses telling two truths too many
An unexplained twitch
caused by a holy witch
whispering into cauldrons of flesh and fear.
A head full of ears
(no one else hears)
A mind full of eyes
(the past never lies?)
Roman soldiers, Christian Martyrs,
and an old man keeping pace
gracelessly being heard
over protesting twitters of authority
believing that only the truth shall set you free.
A mighty triteful, yet glorious and unrestrained
The critics may be pained
But the undisciplined, untrained boy
writhes in astonishment and wonder.
He phantasizes
sitting by your side
wanting to hide
beside your village idiots
your mad sculptors
your dilletants and delectables
to walk the vessels of your brain
like city streets
and hear the crying that repeats
THE TRUTH SHALL SET YOU FREE!
The Fifties
Everyone urging
a return
to the hidden styles
the plastic smiles
the careful wiles
and meanwhile god was in his heaven
and his heyday
While the rich
with missionary zeal
protected siblings from the heartaches
of the past.
The skirts were long
the lights low
(but nothin" ever happened, you know)
unless the girl was cheap
and that made it alright anyhow
because you never brought her home to mother
who came very expensive.
Instead the cheapie chippie's
name and fame
were whispered to your friends
so when they married
their virgins
would come clean.
For Allen Ginsberg
elevated fire escape
bright sunlight
old, warped gray door
Buddha’s Bamboo!
A small passing cloud
a return to blessed nothingness
two illusions
or
two realities?
Fragile
The package arrived
dented by the cruel pounding
of the FRAGILE stamp,
Torn at the edges
by inquisitive fingers,
controlled by acquisitive minds.
Shaked and baked
inside the box, the bags, the plastic crates
the jeep, the truck, the plane
until
upon my desk
it seemed to seek shelter
looking for a helping hand
or someone to end the misery.
Carefully I moved it from side to side
listening as the inside pieces
played the music of destruction.
More carefully I opened it,
and removed the broken bits of glass,
the twisted metal of the framework,
the shards of plastic,
and rejoiced.
I had a puzzle- the pieces would come together-
the broken would be made whole.
Full Moon Milk
Full moon milk
cascading from the sky
heightening the witch willy in my soul
the black cat
blows the horn in the background
while in the foreground
children play
four square
looking for the perfect set-up.
Somewhere in the distance
black smoke belches
from a new shiny locomotive
and politicians
pontificate
waving wildly
over bunting
sagging into the tracks.
Red, white, and blackandblue
my country
your country
losing sight
of dawns early light
too busy tap, tap, tapping
keyed up at the key bored
singing in a bored key
the song of boardrooms.
looking now for the Zen
way, way to hard
way, way to soft
no baby bear rightness
no fairy tales
just urban legends
dark, stark
and in the net.
For Joe, and the Golden Day
one by one
the men and women
of the golden days
the days when we were each others heroes
each others lovers
each others friends
one by one
the heroes of the golden days
threw their coats
over their shoulders
and just before leaving
turned
and waved good bye
Green
I
When the image is only green
bright green
leaping from a lawn
eyes focusing
zooming in on only green
the mind seeks surety
seeks comfort
that the spring
or summer
is giving back
the life, the rejuvination.
II
Spare me the sermons about the long green
the evil root
the large ones
paid in alleys or to parked cars, still running.
The faded ugly green
the ruining rectangles we weave
by billions
yet most have few
some have none
and others hoard
in square steel silos
unwilling to give others
a grain of truth.
Shaman Surprise
Suddenly I found myself
inside
The Old Gray Tom
Chasing rats down old dead end streets
Frightening dogs and coons
but never children
Using fences for my stage;
setting up all night squalls,
and seeking, finding
friendly femmes...
until the sun,
finding me scarred and torn,
uncovers some cool green lawn
between the cemetery stones,
and I sleep.
Ground Breaking Poetry
Prying the asphalt apart
Renting the street
Earthquake split
Peering over the edge
Pastoral scene
Fruit trees
Rolling meadow
Gold in the rising light
Hayfields and heather
Milkmaid
Fucking with the field hand
Both straining to reach
Beyond the boundary of reason
Into the body spirit pleasure oneness
That or a moment, maybe two
Transcends
Before crashing back to rough barn floor
To sticky semen
Thighs stuck together
Closing up the rent
Smoothing down the asphalt
Returning the street to pristine pristineness
Knowing that
It's the same all over
Hannah
two dormers and three chimneys
standing guard
protecting Hannah
from the outside world
while she sits at the edge of the bed
staring at the threadbare carpet
staring at the dull grey floorboards
trying to see the antiques
in the room below
where aunt margaret
watches television
she cannot hear
with images she no longer understands
but gets up in time
to remove the tea kettle
that calls her by name
and intuition
and old Bud
he just sits on the downtown stoop
in his undershirt;
remembering
Heather the Holy Woman
Heather the holy woman
High on the hill
Sits in lotus
Waiting for the mystic rain
Trying to find her wayward
Brain
Listening to the Native American
Flute-a-toot-toot
And the Brahman Brahms in violin
Brooking no shame from the shaman
Waiting for a car in the transubway station
Where mr. leather jacket boy
Metal stars on shoulder
Metal stud in tongue
Complete with stare and stare and drool
Peers up the mini skirt
Making a mockery of
God is Love.
Herald
Your back is to the inland shore
the speeding, cramped world
of society seeking security
no longer exists.
For these few moments, you are alone.
It is not yet dawn.
Who are you?
The spirit wants to know.
Who are you?
Who are you?
And how do you grow?
You are a creature
that has stumbled
from the sea,
soaked, but refreshed,
akin to the one-celled animals
that began your life-
to the chains of amino acids
that bind together
and create your life
The blood surges
The mind reels
The Spirit feels.
It is not yet dawn.
Who are you?
Who are you?
So speaks the shore.
Who are you?
Who are you?
The question once more.
Alone, you return to the sea
and gently place your
fingertips
into the water,
put them gingerly on your tongue.
The salt is familiar;
too much would kill,
but the right amount
has brought you life.
The life of the eons
written in the ions.
It is not yet dawn.
And soon you remember
that the sea that has
thrust you forward,
the magnificent huge body of water
that once possessed your soul and spirit
is itself a membrane in the universal eye.
Your soul cries out in fear
at its own smallness---
in wonder at the power of your mind
to possess the sea,
to possess the universe.
It is not yet dawn.
Who are you?
Who are you?
Are you ready to tell?
Who are you?
Who are you?
Are you heaven or hell?
Suddenly the fear and wonder are replaced
with a steady sureness
as light begins to replace the darkness.
The sea, meeting with the clouds,
The feel of sand beneath your feet
Your heart catching the rhythm of the waves,
All are given more kindly
with the coming of light.
and the dawn speaks quietly
And you know who you are
And you know who you are
you are one with the sea
that is one with the star
Quite sure by now,
you stand very still
and face the sea
with expectant eyes.
Searching out the pocket of sky
between the clouds,
you await the coming of the sun.
The first red rim begins to speak to you
in silent light
in your mind
blazing trumpets have begun their riff.
As the Arc grows
the spirit speaks louder
with the trumpets of the angels.
Finally at ease with the light
the melody becomes softer, less insistent.
You realize
the night has made love to the earth,
and given birth to the sun.
It is dawn.
Who are you?
Who are you?
The sun wants to know.
I am life
I am living
I am part of the flow.
Hot Blistered Soul
City, kicking itself to wakefulnees
doors in the project’s corridors slamming
people out to work or out of work
anxious to breathe
too anxious to breathe
head for the mountains,
but trip over the bush.
Rough pavement
rough bricks
rougher attitudes
what can I get from you
so fast
you won't even know it's gone.
Down on the sidewalks
down on themselves
copping anger attitude
trusting no one
walking alone
even their shadows
hide in the darkness.
A passer-by's smile
thrown back with a glare
isolated give-me- a-dollar
stare
I pay
But never know his name.
Inside the buildings stuffed shirts
eat stuffed flounder
and drink their Perrier
putting on airiers.
Inside their insides
they are the ones
who are afraid.
In the Background
In the background
a horn player
paying tribute
soulful sound
In the foreground
a small boy
searching to tell his father
of the day at school
thank him for
the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
hold his hand
and hear him say
"I love you little boy"
soulful sound
In the Chakra of the heart
fullness comes with lonliness
a roaring silence
fills the early morning meditation
the quiet place
particularly filled
the body
particularly present
the mind stilled
soulful silence
A maiden fair
hair golden
head thrown back
in gay challenge
quietly, gently
mocking the seriousness
of the moment
masking all
with no intention
but roaring into passion
unfettered by constraints
until
the passion subsides
and fear reigns
sounds without soul
mind sounds
with control
written on the wind.
In the Crevice of Misery
In the crevice of misery the cages swim
While outside
Sharks
Poke powerful noses
Attempting to gash
Intruding
Upon the solitude.
In the First Light of Morning
In the first light of morning,
Turning around a bend,
A breath stopping sight
Bright full descending autumn moon
Framed by tall trees
Bending slightly in homage.
A few minutes more
Falling moon, inconstant moon
Slipping behind a fog bank
Fading,
Fading,
Disappearing.
I thought of the love we shared.
Bittersweet autumn.
Yesterday was the fifth anniversary of my father's death.
You comforted me.
I will always be grateful.
Please forgive me this one communication.
In the Hustle and the Bustle
In the hustle and the bustle
of the downtown tussle
with the ravings and the cravings
and the daylight savings
sore feet
dirty street
meet and greet
there is that moment when the words
don't have to rhyme
when comfort
surrounds your spirit
and you wear it like a pair of old jeans
that time when shoulders
release their tension
and the neck feels free.
Walking then, along the riverbank
holding hands
feeding ducks
laughing at an old joke
I see you there
with me
Indian Wedding
Winnebago, Omaha, Cherokee,
Little children tugging on the hemline of the past
Speaking sound and words
foreign
to tribal memory
losing
elemental sureness
trading for
penthouse,
not tent house.
A woman and a boy
removed
from the culture strain
marvel
at the
consequences,
and are mystified
at the mysticism,
caught up in Merlin
Magic,
Aroused by cedar
Incense
Caressed by chants,
Consumed with curiosity,
Forever changed
By a culture
Forever Changed
Too many braves
Are at the trading post
Too many trades
That are bad for the blood.
One small ceremony
in the wilderness
keeping the past
and the future
alive.
Copyright 1995 Alan McLaughlin
It is Not the Grand Piano Deaths
It is not the grand piano deaths
The ham handed
pounding of a non-virtuoso
belying Bach
or troubling with tschaikovsky
It is not the grand scale architecture deaths
of flying buttresses
of concrete and steel
imprisoning souls
that must be free
it is the little deaths
the nodding of hello to a neighbor
and receiving no response
the seeing of a ragged child
and passing by unmoved
the concentration on a false goal
and refusing
to look toward the light.
These are the deaths
that mount daily
in the souls of men
and make them unfit for the kingdom of peace
The story has been told
ten thousand times
egyptian, roman, greek
judaic, christian,moslem
death and resurrection
on the grandest scale
promises of light
and understanding
promises of painless eternities
where sure winged angels
do nothing but praise and praise the days
it is not the grand deaths
but the small ones
that we earthbound creatures
must endure
must survive
must puzzle
and solve
before we know
the coming of the light
Ivory Soap
I have tried to find the rolling hills
where the hares and the horses run free
Where the only smoke
is fog
and the only sound
is birdsong
But I return to the slap of soles
on city sidewalks
Where jarring sirens
captivate the spirit with their fear.
When will they come for me?
Blessed haystacks
with scent fresh as
wind-blown honeysuckle.
Two story farm homes
with kitchen tables filled with talk
and memories of new born calfs,
songs of generations
played at every meal.
Am I seeking the dead dream?
Sattelite dishes serve up the violence
where once blessed silence
reigned
and meditation
had no name, only substance.
Purity died with Ivory Soap,
floated down the drains
where once there was certainty,
now only hope remains.
Copyright 1995 McLaughlin
Jack, the Down-Boy
Jack
the down-boy
died last week
(or was it two weeks ago?)
from nose poisoning.
No not nose candy
or sticking it where it didn’t belong,
but he died in praise of the beautiful sun
and gorgeous days
the sun, it seems, got under his skin
right at the bridge of his schnoz
and ungrateful for his gratitude
made it impossible for him to blow
and carried him away to a place
where the only trumpeting
is from the angels.
Jade Green
Sampans writing their silhouettes against a skyline.
Hazy Hong Kong teams against the twilight
Dressed in white suits and rickshaw.
Your eyes are deeply set.
We are in love.
The hot iron sun
caresses the copper from your hair.
These are the moments we rush through life for.
These are the moments that go by too fast.
On the hillside
a white-robed mandarin
plays melodies on a flute.
The stars alone hear his music
as he plays with the rhythm of the wind.
Copyright Alan G. McLaughlin 1996
January, 1993
Wings of the moment,
flying into torment,
So much space to fill with imaginings-
not ready to deal
with the realities.
She has taken care of me
as her man-child
in no promised land
but a land of
broken promises.
I am not a dust bowl Guthrie
no excuse for blues
or hard times
except the seeing
of what I see when I am hang gliding
alone.
I am rolling, shivering
out in the street
in, in the room
speaking in tongues stuck
to cold metal,
Speaking in explosions
Ready to revel in Mardis Gras
anonymity
but the crowds are gone
melted into one being
surging to the one white house
at the end of Bourbon Street
its columns blazing
but never burning
calling out to the rag children
with their rag dolls
telling them of the American Dream
traditional style
only too bad,
they're in the wrong tradition
because they're in the raw tradition
unfinished
untamed
unsuited
but never unblamed.
Jazzman
Jasmine
Jade
In the background
Here's That Rainy Day
In the foreground, memory.
I guess I should have saved
The brain snapshots
of a barechested boy/man
dissipated
squinting through brainfog
at sunlit streets
anticipating
nothing
waiting
for anything
moving
with life waves.
Jump Off
There is no jumping off point here,
no smooth and slick transition
just an openness for an audience
and a special sense of awe
that I am an inherent elephant
irrelevant enough to matter
if only for a moment.
I am taking you with me now
when I walk out the door-
the readers, the listeners,
all of us who have thrown our minds
into the streams of the collective conscious
For those who push against the stream,
a gracious nod and thankful sigh
an appreciation of opposition
that quickens the blood and sharpens the wit.
For those in the flow
a sense of
kinship
a sense of
sharing
hearing the sounds of blaring trumpets
that promise
a New Egypt
another Golden Greece
a magnificent
Roman Renaissance.
Let's slip around, now, in this stream of anxiousness
let's wind down the stanza
Let's sing a paragraph of relaxation
and call to the end of weariness and frustration.
Just So
Stories from a long and distant past
Grottos with grey statues
Crushed two-day old flower petals
Beneath the feet of an expectant penitent
Waiting for remission
In a cancerous soul
Musty corners in the old church
darkness hides the dirt
Brightness
of the candles
captivates the eye
while tears come
forming stars around the wick.
O lord I am not worthy
but humbled
I hide naked and afraid
That thou shouldst come to me
Leaving me instead
to stand alone
against a furious host
But say the words of comfort
Magic words
Spawned of Wizards
long considered dead but still alive
and my spirit healed shall be
On my knees
throwing dice with the corner boys
praying and prattling for a new pair of shoes.
The nurse
all dressed in white and wonder
has wheeled my chair
to the solarium.
The warm rays make me smile
until i begin to sweat.
Juxtaposition
Just a position,
that's all
A stance, a take,
Not one more
"it really doesn't affect me
so why worry"
Against it,
for it,
rising, falling-
some sort of motion
or am I being redundant
and does it matter?
Could you repeat that?
Kingdom of Peace
Up in the morning
washing off yesterday's dirt
preparing the sacred temple
for new, unadulterated mud
crinkley but never wrinkley
white shirt
wrapping a snake around the neck
as if there weren't enough constrictions
already.
50,60,70 miles an hour
passing for a sane man
fooling only the announcer
on the radio.
Sitting in the pit
of a rolling arm chair
swiveling so fast
neck muscles
act insulted.
By will of brute force
staying in this
reality.
Cry the beloved countryside
men are leaving
looking for a place
where there is no grass to be greener
just twisted ankles
slipping from the curb
twisted minds
battling each other for a nonexistent
edge.
Blessed is the man
who holds his head up high
and walks away.
His is the kingdom of peace.
King Henry the Weird
King Henry the Weird
lives at the top of our street
tops the scales at one hundred over what it should be;
leans out the third floor window
with no shirt.
Beads of sweat
catch the dust
and leave black ski trails
across his chest,
a little jump
over his left nipple.
Rotted teeth
prepare a space for
projectile spitting
and what doesn't spit
drools.
I always try
passing his building
quietly
to sneak by
instead of being disgusted-
or is it
afraid?
But Henry Parsons always sees
always knows
about the passing of the boy
and says to me
"(spit) well ain't you (spit)
the pretty-ass (spit) boy now. (spit)"
And every time I look away
suspecting
somehow
that I am
unclean.
Knits
She sits
and knits
and clicks
a one note samba
But her furious brow
and silently working mouth
spew Wagner across the room.
Copyright, Alan McLaughlin 1995
Lanquid
"and there's something in a Sunday
that makes a body feel alone"
Languid feelings
wishing to be holding you
rain, ever sensitive rain,
making soothing sounds
that we could share.
"and there's nothin' short of dying
quite as lonesome as the sound"
you awakening, slowly, with sleep in your sighs
eyes staying closed
while i gently place a kiss
in the crook of your neck
your legs move and stir
in a sense of warm anticipation
firmer kisses now
on your cheek
on your lips
you put your arms around me...
"as the sleepy city sidewalks
and sunday morning coming down."
Linda Ray # 1
Standing on the edge
looking deep
within the pond
beneath the autumn leaves
beneath the wind formed ripples
far beneath her own reflection
seeking to understand the space
between the surface of the pond
and the surface of the bottom
that space
between
where floating free
means peace
and not
anxiety.
Salt Free
The boy harkened from
a long line of sailors,
Explorers, Navy men.
Salt was in his veins,
the sound of the sea was a lullaby
that carried him into sleep.
But day after day
he would watch the ships
head for the horizon
growing smaller and smaller,
until they were no longer visible.
"Why should I grow up", he thought,
"Only to disappear?"
Copyright 1995 McLaughlin
Poem for a Lost Boy
Tie knotted properly
Briefcase firmly in the hand
"The Music of your Life"
third button on the FM band,
and until the client speaks
Lost Time
at the root of it
is lost time
never to be regained
all the wars
all the triumphal marches
all the depressed defeated
were squeezed into a ball,
dropped into a river
and being very dense
sank into oblivion;
too heavy to be carried
by current
events.
Lunch Note
The tastes linger.
The physical fullness
is diminished
only by the
fullness of the spirit.
It was a complete lunch.
Thank you.
Mean Momma Blues
Lost in the library
lost in the hall
ain't gonna do you
no good at all
you're a mean woman momma
and you're gonna give me
that mean momma blues.
walkin' down the sidewalk
the men all turn to look
they know my lovin' momma
sure knows how to cook
you're a mean woman momma
and you're gonna give me
the mean momma blues
she tosses her head sideways
and gives them all a glance
but before they know what's happenin"
she's got the wallet from their pants
you're a mean woman momma
and you're gonna give me
the mean momma blues
she gives a little smile
and really knocks 'em dead
but when they get too close
she knocks em' on the head
you're a mean woman momma
and you're gonna give me
those dragged out killer
mean momma blues
Mom
I
Sitting there at the table
in her hot wheels
shiny chrome
rubber edges
for a moment she is young again
riding in a rag top
along some shore
somewhere
hair blowing in the breeze
her lover driving
into a
secret week-end
into
a secret spot
into
a memory burned forever in her brain.
She looks up from her toast and jam
With a coy smile
to remind her lover husband
of the secret time
and sees the empty chair
and speaks to the empty air
and one solitary tear
becomes a prism on her cheek
and one solitary chair
becomes a prison
instead of a sun drenched chariot.
II
If just one moment in a day
Would remind her of the lifetime
Then the day could be tolerated;
But a glance at a drinking glass
The touch of a piece of furniture
The scent of soap in the shower
A pair of manicuring scissors
All reminding her
Of her friend
Of her confidant
Of her lover.
Over and over
in rapid succession
the images
the imagining
seeking the warmth
touching only the cold.
III
Her life poem
Is now
The struggle against
pointlessness
against
hopelessness
and while others admonish
with plattitudes
and attitudes
of condescension
she falls victim to reality
she falls
she
is disappearing
little by little
a holographic reference to herself
a memory image
seen only when
interpreted
from a certain angle.
IV
Shimmering silks
Satins
French Hair-dos
Jewels
Shamed by
Glowing, expectant eyes
Evening revelry
followed by
the release of flesh
from girdles and high heels
the release of tension
with quiet conversation
and rejuvinating sleep.
But now the wind howls through her mind
now clouds cover the horizon
now cold, stinging rain stabs the moors.
She cannot remove her girdled brain
squeezed by time restraints.
New sleep means only wakefulness
And wakefulness the end of dreams.
Mom Dad Time
Jack McLaughlin 1910-1993
Thelma McLaughlin 1910-1994
TIME
All things get better with age
until,
quite suddenly,
they don't.
Mom Sick
Dancing with death,
changing partners for the next song,
then death again.
Looking in his eyes
she is young again
seduced and willing
returning earnest, piercing stares
with approving silence
prepared to
go home
and sleep
in
his single bed.
Mom Death
I didn't see her
die
I didn't touch
Her body
and now, inside a plastic bag
inside a plastic box
inside a cardboard mailer
she resides
hauntingly
reaching out with arms
surreal
but instead of carressing
a finger points
and shrieks
of disrespect
surround the very air
she doesn't breathe.
My Mark
Absolute Power corrupts absolutely
Great Men have Great Flaws
Yesterday I stood in the forest
light slanting obliquely,
mottling the ground.
Alone, I pissed away some fluids
aiming at a tree base, creating an erosion hole
in the soft, loose earth.
I have made my mark
upon the world.
With nothing to prove,
all that's left
is freedom.
My Old Man
I
My old man
kept falling now and then
and then
now and more and more
That son of a bitch
death
kept tripping him
and though at first he bobbed up
like a buoy
later he lingered
and caressed the carpeted floor
feeling the cool fibers against his leatherskin.
II
He's not supposed to be here
having slipped by the passage
more than once,
sticking his head in, and realizing where he was
pulling it out again
before the door slammed shut.
Agile, he has tricked death,
or is it really
that life has tricked him?
III
No smiles, get the picture?
Only harder work than digging post holes
to sit up on the side of the bed.
More effort than a heavyweight ten rounder
to sip the broth, to nibble at the edges
of tasteless favorites from the past.
While some impatient mindless moron
anxious to prop her feet up at the nurses station
scolds soundly, loudly with his best interest at heart.
"Come, now, you've got to eat, you know."
And he moans at the enormity
of building his Great Wall every day.
IV
Let me take your hammer, father.
Let me hang it by the workbench
between the two nails you put in place.
Gaze serenely at your workmanship.
Be satisfied.
And sleep.
Copyright Alan McLaughlin 1995
Night
Night
never falls
it creeps up
on the light
enfolds it softly
allows it to rest
to revitalize.
Night is for the lovers
loving through the solitude
grasping at each other
trying to fill
voids
mysterious voids
wearing masks
of Egyptian gods
pirouetting
in the pyramids
amidst the icy stare
of the sphinx
that knows too much
that has known the answer
to the riddle
for so long
he has forgotten the question.
Ahmed Ra
Osiris
Sun gods
never needing a tanning bed
consorting on high
with Zeus, with Thor,
with Apollo
with Elvis
and old Hank Williams.
"Never felt more like singin' the blues
cuz I never thought
that I'd ever lose..."
Losing it
staring at the mayonnaise
poking through the pourous bread
seeking enlightenment
or is it enwhitenment
with apologies to Elmer Fudd.
No Comment
They are questioning again
The wise man's wisdom
The acute man's acuity
The strong man's strength
All will be made low
by the doubters
While they
Slog through the sidewalks
walking
as if their legs
were moving through
a sucking swamp
Tangled vines of negativity
creep up their anatomy
until, stultified,
they freeze
staring straight
seeing nothing
being nothing
waiting for the birth of Christ
to take them to a better place.
Well Jesus Christ!
Don't they know
he has better things to do?
No Mustard
Just a note to tell you I enjoyed talking to you today.
Wish I was one of your students, sitting at the master's feet.
I could give a speech, or two, I imagine.
Probably wouldn't be in the correct format, though.
We don't see too many formats
pushin' our shopping carts
on the streets
sleepin' on the grates in the winter
rubbin' our hands on rough whiskers
to make sure the hands
and the whiskers are still there.
I was sayin' to my friend Molly yesterday,
(Molly's got the bench downtown at seventh and race)
that times must be gettin' harder.
Not nearly so many newspapers
flyin' around the street
t' put in our shoes.
No good garbage at the rear of the restaurants
all them waiters and waitresses takin' it home
as if they didn't make plenty of money
with them big tips
probly most of 'em able to live high on the hog
in Norwood
or Evanston,
or Madisonville.
Yesterday Freddy was cryin' cuz he almost remembered somethin'
then lost it.
But when he almost had it
it was a warm thought
fuzzy warm
like the footed jammies he wore as a chile
but when he thought it
it made him wander our into the street
and the screechin brakes of some bastard's BMW
tore it right out of his mind.
He's sittin' on a stoop now outside the soup kitchen
toothin'on a heel of rye bread
with no mustard.
Guess I'll just take a walk over t' Court street now
nothin' better t' do than stare in some windas
watchin' people eat
in places where there's always plenty
of mustard.
The Old Church: A Prayer
Empty now, of Breath and Being
Save one traveler
tired from a walk,
a journey,
a mind move into the past.
The very light is consecrated-
blessed by stained glass-
it caresses thought
in vibrant shades of red, purple, and gold.
Jesus and his cross
stationed around the walls His scarred, stained face
asking the question
How will you treat me?
How will you treat me?
Will you eat me?
The air is thick and heavy
with incense memory
and I am small again
and I am small again
fighting against incensual nausea
remaining in place to hear
the wonder of the choir
the splendor of the priest
and for a time
I neglect the beast
For a time I reach into the spirit
with a feeling so loud
everyone must hear it.
But they sit and stare
afraid to share
a smile,
a touch,
afraid so much of being disrespectful.
Regretfully pained
I turn turn turn again
to the thoughts of pain
of Calvary
of thunderstorm
of rain
of the renting of the earth
as one lone man cries out in secret sequence
"Let this cup"
"Thy will"
"Forgive them"
On This Quiet, Gray Day
On this quiet, gray day
When the soul does not leap or twirl
But rather
Looks to itself
In solitude
A neighbor rakes the leaves in slow, even strokes
And contemplates
Small swirls of smoke
As the leaves burn in the air
And in my memory.
Pass Words
The potatoes,
the bread,
the football,
on the traditions,
key,
on that,
over,
on.
Pastime
For so many years
death was a pastime
a conversation
a lark
and now
he's all around me.
So much to do
and it's past time.
copyright 1995 McLaughlin
Patrick
Patrick is a fine boy,
he's fine as he can be
but when he starts to sneeze
he really sets it free
Phineus T. Bluster
the lineage begins
of course
with cave drawings
flickering shadows
hunts past
hunts to come
survival
depending upon the story
no mere nursery tales
of ghouls
and witches
but life, the essence,
caught up in the tale
lumbering lummoxmammoth
trapped in a pit
speared through the heart
today we listen
to the babblemouths
blending perfect r's and a's
and we are driven into fear
one lone story teller
walking through the forest
gathering wood
building fires
of the spirit
fires
of survival.
Pinball Poetry
Sitting at the keyboard
fingers poised
waiting for the pin ball
to drop down the shoot
electric bumpers rejecting rapidly
lights flashing
with disturbing epileptic consequences
bells ringing in praise
of Saint Tintinitus
I am comforted
by escape.
And time
all man's mortal enemy
stands still
while moving.
There was a time of symbiosis
between the fingers and the brain
sometimes a gentle cradling
sometimes
a fierce death grip
when the brain responded with
flowing lines
or fitsandstarts
recalling vividly what eyes had never seen
and the fingers did ballet or bugaloo
attached to umbilicals of the past
or searching out the future.
But now the tapdancer is the king
looking for the key (stroke) that unlocks
endorphins
and endolphins
hoping not to be mistaken for tuna.
Flat plastic
celebrating Dustin Hoffman
as we graduate to instancy
to instant change
to modify and codify
faster than a breath.
And time
All man's mortal Enemy
but only source of change
keeps standing still
while moving.
I would spread a blanket on a grassy hillside
surrounded by much maligned dandelions
and stare a poem
into the shape-shifting clouds.
I would bare my breast on an overlook
and shout a poem
into the rocks and rivers.
But I sit (clack)
and sit (click)
and become one with my tool
mesmerized by moving lines.
And time
The only friend of man
moves
as though
it's standing still.
Poem for my Father
It is my blood that wants to be him.
He knocks upon my door at midnight
And bids me walk with him
Through streets with locked doors
Shuttered windows
He speaks to me with silence
Profound
I listen
With the throbbing vessels in my brain.
Sweet legacies of warmth and childhood understanding.
Fearsome heirlooms of abandonment and anger.
A mixing of the oil colors
Swirling together
Across an ever changing canvas.
The spirit of your songs calls loudly
I sing with the music
Sad songs to praise your troubled soul
Glad songs to celebrate my freedom.
Pulling out in time
Do we go up
Or do we go down
In the meditative
State?
Inside or outside?
Does it matter.
Queen of Swords
He knows, he knows, he knows
that while the music never died
it lies
it lies
at his feet
rising
becoming shackles around his feet
forcing him to shuffle
bowed head
prisoner of promises
promises
of love and golden crowns
promises of forever
that pass
in one endless weeping
sleepless night
old songs
of desire
and fire
being smothered
by blanket statements
of desired control
and finally,
alone
he does his space staring
friends fear for
the sanity
he never had
and in one long, long moment
he realizes
the only music
he ever should have listened to
is the blues.
Ragpicker
rain today
falling like the notes
from errol garner's keyboard
someone to watch over me
someone to guide
someone to let me hide
the overcast sky
puts a ceiling on my hang gliding
takes me to
the alleyways
and the old ragpicker's horse cart.
Smudged and dirty
did he go home
to an empty heart
or was he loved?
Raindrops
Raindrops
slanting sideways
landing
like miniature space capsules
hitting
breaking apart
rolling down
black shingles
giving the roof
a life
of its own
Rainy Afternoon
Rainy afternoon
gazing through windows
watching tree limbs bob
coming alive
singing in the pale gray
stories of the spirit
falling like the raindrops
showering down memories
a moments kindness
a touch
a smile
a laugh or two
one last kiss
oh baby
the rain ends
the memories replaced by the present
the stories remaining
the spirit
refreshed and waiting.
Rat Eyes
Life Is But A Dream, Sweetheart
All I remember are red rat eyes
Pulsating in time with his quivering body.
Choosing to snap, or choosing to leave
a piece of fresh, smooth, silken swiss
baited, enticing,
ready for the rat
waiting for the rat.
The choice is made
the heavy metal bar
sliding swiftly
in its arc
and blood vomits mightily.
Copyright 1995 McLaughlin
Red Reflections
Red reflections just because
an uneasy stroke we remit to fate
added color
when really, now, the reflections should have been silver and gold.
A red one
moving out of love passion
Anger/hate
or anger/love/passion
using slashes that tear across the paper
but mean nothing to the reader.
(what's that you read, dear?)
Juxtaposing love over anger
passion over reason
remembering for one moment
that we are not machines
to serve our cars
our television set
our computers
Unfortunately too often love words are spoken with the gun
passion bleeds red with knife slashes
but the real men, respected and true,
return home with vacant, empty eyes.
Rolling Pete
Thousand year spirit
playing through the sixteen year old boy
hands guided by a love of life
fingers untirin
moved by passion
a boogie-woogie boy
with life and the world ahead
he is living
with his god.
They have made a pact
signed with soothing celestial fire
that never burns
but warms and comforts the soul.
Rolling Pete rolls through the crowd
with ease
controlling
tapping feet,
nodding heads.
July heat
dissipated
the life force cools.
crystal light bursts
play upon the brain
enriching all
who choose to hear.
But on the side bar
hearing notes unplayed
an afflicted one
not annointed by god
to share his spirit with the crowd
struggles to walk through
his gait marred
by twist of sinew
twist of fate.
Pete Rolls through him
helping him roll with life
he is the most blessed spirit
courage tested every day
meeting the test
without a pact
from god
Scanner Eyes
When the downtown hustle
splits in half,
I ride the shoulders of the noontime crowd-
Shooting laser lines
from my eyes
scanning oncomers
who keep on coming,
for a fateful glance.
No longer waiting for past troubadors
who stumble out their troubled doors
on the way to wine and waste
I scan, because I can,
searching for the eyes that look
and understand.
Inside the apple rots.
The worm that would be free
eats,
but never catches light of day.
My sinuses are filled with words.
A poem clogs my mind.
Breathing was an easier thing to do
another day.
Sheherazade 2000
just inside my mind
on the edge of it, almost there to be seen
you rest with me
i feel
your kindness
sense your warmth
understand
the vulnerability
you think you've lost.
Sweet lady
filling up your days and ways
with passion for your students
the light in your eyes
giving grace
to those around you.
you touch me
in a thousand places
and put
Scheherazade
to shame
with tales of real living
with living real life.
Shadows
Surface shadows
cavort,
s t r e t c h i n g
or shrinking,
playing in the sunlight;
entertaining mimes
mocking the puffery
of staid reality.
But beneath the surface
sharper shadows
edge their way
through crust
to core
where molten bubbles
grow and break
gasping, steaming,
in a place
where fire
gives no light.
Heaven and light and peace
will hold no dominion
until the earth rents
and the shadows are set free.
Shattered Light
Shattered kindness;
It was not real.
Tied to pity,
I knew the truth one fall day
When an obstinate sun
outlasted the rain.
The balance was broken,
but the warmth cooled my feeling
and the light
drove us inside our minds.
Sinbad
Sinbad
is just one of the sailors
taking to the sea
not knowing
if he is looking ahead,
or just leaving behind, behind.
Straining eyes
peering from the bow
looking for new lands
new adventures
but first
riding the intermnable
ebb and flow of the waves
feeling the full masted sails
pulling
the bob of the ship
sending the mind upward
pulling the body downward
locking both
in a struggle for control.
"That way be Dragons"
claims the blind fortune teller
who sees only the future
spending too much time crying
to predict.
Sitting Around the Campfire
Sitting around the campfire
just before the sun
competes with the flames
dusky early morning
mist more than clouds
it is a small child day
of not too distant memory
when the mind
is open
receptive
forgetting how to block,
to protect
and the rush of nothingness
the loud quiet
comforts
the return to peace,
a child's peace,
the understanding
that all
here in this place
is complete
Sitting with the Interior
Sitting with the interior
gentle, insistent rain
not so much falling
as carressing
earth once hard
yielding
softening
responding to gentleness
with gentleness
kind spirits abound
brightening the gray, sober day
the rain refreshes
skin
it is time to breathe
again
and let old love songs
revive
the days of youth
Six Minutes 1
Six minutes
either side of midnight
old day, old ways
new day, new ways
charting paths
with maps of memory
but calling forth new spirits
new magic
learning to follow the lead
of intuition and light
finding castles
half in the air
half on the ground.
Six Minutes 2
six minutes on either side of midnight
sleepy black crows
awake
at the stirring wind
eyes reflecting
past
predicting
future
calling from the Merlin cave
fire
ice
mixing in great torment
time slowing
time racing
a great dance
begins
with multitudes
responding
to new life rhythms
trying to understand
with crystal clarity
confused
by crystal facets
shooting light off into the darkness
to disappear
never to be recaptured.
One fine day
gawain
mounted his huge black steed
left camelot
and defiled
a virgin god.
He laughed out loud
captured by robust energy
and rode still laughing
into the teeth of the freezing rain
breathing steam
to his encrusted beard.
But a jump
into a whirlpool
became his undoing
and he sits
at the bottom of the sea
and cries.
Sleep Death
I shall wrap myself
tightly-
in the flight of night
we know as sleep
So noisily shall my
Silence prey upon
the nether world
That there will be moved mourning
complete with water
flushed from the soul
and dribbling frome the eyes.
There will be, at the funeral
an old aunt Harriet
Shouting why, and why, and why?
turning to the
priest
as if he were a comfort station-
and the priest shuffles feet and
bows his head
Knowing that he should
comfort,
but in living, mortal fear
of his own vague doubts.
And the friends,
priding themselves at their grand expressions
of grief-
will have words for one another
"I don't understand"
"Ijust saw him last week"
"He was just beginning to understand"
I pray there may be one
brave soul
with widened eyes
and frightful
to slam shut my lid-
and say
"stick him in the ground,
he is dead!"
and storming from the room
mutters one breath of word
and storming from the room
mutters one breath of word
"Thank God I'm alive."
Smudgework
One knee at the purple starting line
Ass in air
Ready to run
The smudge race
Famous for knee cams
Along the route
Looking for the smudge
That resembles
A purple Jesus
Bleeding heart
Liberal
Running the race for charity
Endolphins leaping
Bringing clarity
The breakthrough point
Winning another medal
For the breakfront
Realizing after the cramps
The dehydration
The chapped lips
Sore hips
Bone chips
That it’s time
To put on the brakes.
Solitude
On this quiet, gray day
When the soul does not leap or twirl
But rather
Looks to itself
In solitude
A neighbor rakes the leaves in slow, even strokes
And contemplates
Small swirls of smoke
As the leaves burn in the air
And in my memory.
The Song of the Family
shakalaka
shakalaka
boom boom boom
You don't get dessert
until you clean up your room
Dobidunga
dobidunga
scree scree scree
What makes you think
you can yell at me
Solacasta, solacasta
ring, rang, rung
Shut up your mouth
and keep a civil tongue
knockadinka, knockadinka
Shoam shoam shoam
How come you're leavin'
and you never stay at home?
Spin
Spin
Spin
Spin
Sputter, stop
Blistered soul
Tired from walking
too far
from its origin.
Spanish leather soul boots
cramped
no flamenco
no fandango
Just playing bingo
with the old folks
who turn out to be me.
liver spots
looking for a tie rail
in the livery
who said
don't horse around with poetry?
Spring Snow
Rather than a hum of discontent
We should have seen,
Should have realized that the spirit of the final snow
was life itself.
That white velvet cannonball
of snowfall fairly coaxed the spring bent branch
into releasing earth
from bondage tantamount to terrorism.
Now the buds
have fully explained themselves
in fragrances
and sonnets born of color.
Mythical in tone
with eye reacting certainty
they proclain they proclaim
IT IS TIME FOR FREEDOM
Ride with the rapid rivers
breathe on under
the bright gift of an April sky
and fly into the sorcerer's mind
where man and God and magic
Create the fullness of the spring.
St. Jack
St. Jack
Complete with loincloth
Jaw set
Eyes looking somewhere
Above? Below? Into the future?
Re-Living the past?
The only agitation-
working hard one last time
to let go
or to hold on
or something.
Surrounded by personal history
and prayerful would-be virgins
Sunrise
bend in the river
one small boat
leaving a curtained wake
endless crows above
cawing in a curious cacophony
flying for the grace of flight
at the horizon
main attraction
small cloud bank
becoming molten red
cold lava comfort
for the soul
Surf Fishing
Just before dawnbreak
an old woman,
barefoot, jeans rolled to her knees,
lashing at the sea
beating back the waves
trying to prevent
the coming of another day.
Swing Music
Old man
run to fat
three legged
metal caned
suffering,
slow dancing
on the sidewalk
reaching the back porch
sitting on the old porch swing
a child
takes his place
nodding
swinging
simmering
in a thousand summers
waiting for his mother
to ask
"you want somethin' cold to drink,
Billy?"
A nodding moment
chin on chest
past summer screen doors
closing
banging
loudly
head up
eyes alert
peering
into the future
sensing
broken dreams
in an unbroken line.
Teacher Child
How quickly the student creeps up on the teacher.
How willing the teacher to learn from his child.
How soon the children grow
and go.
The Constant Roaring of the Jet Planes
The constant roaring of the jet planes
deep inside my mind
fighter jets in boxer shorts
jumbo jets with elephantine trunks flailing about in the upper
stratosphere
Concordes with grapes spilling out the nose
The airport
becomes the circus
with the tumblers and the clowns
revving up their engines
down interior runways
not quite cleared
for flight.
Straight jacketed attendants
treat the inmates with solicitude
asylums in San Francisco
in New York
In Seattle
In Boise
Opening themselves to the best stressed GQ men
The sky embracing all
white cloud story-tellers
writing history
every moment
Sun sets
sunrise
delivering or saving
man
to or from the darkness.
One man stands alone
watching
dressed in old jeans
denim shirt
prison garb
of his own making.
The Holy Lady
The holy lady
Dancing with the devil
In the night
lighted by the
Glowing coals of his eyes.
A chance meeting
By chance
A raffle
At the soufflé brunch
He smiled at her graciously,
And quietly said
You have spinach on your teeth
And gratefully she ran her tongue
Around the track
And smiled back
The devil smiled again
To himself
Shook his own hand
In self congratulation.
"Are you better now? More oriented?
Ready to take on the sun dress crowd?"
Spinachless, spineless
The melting holy lady
Puddled around
And roundly replied
"If I said I didn’t love you then I lied."
As the devil intensely focused his stare at her
Her eyes swallowed his sparks
became caught in her brain
and forced a mind cough
resulting in rising nipples
and a teasing liquid between her legs.
The Stream
The stream
cut a black path
through the white and snow banked hills;
Booted and muffled
I stared
Through the glare
Chasing the stream
with my eyes
As it wound around
the hills
it was eating by degrees.
While prophets and poets
talked of Baptism
While Kings and Cardinals
dreamed of coronations,
I listened to the rushing of the stream
and wondered.
The Woman in the Attic
behind the dress forms
behind the steamer trunks with pastel blankets
and mothball perfume
behind the cardboard castle
keeps the woman
protected, peering
and manfred manboy
aware and unaware
of the strange peerage
stirs the marbles
in an old wooden bucket
and among the unfresh
but wonderful smell of mildew
that took him to a thousand summer cottages
and an old dark crawl space
manboy ignored the dust and the spiders
and held a cat’s eye up to the bare light bulb
refracted color suffused his spirit
and he soared to unknown memory
where dress forms
held new hope
and blankets
held lovers in front of a warm winter fire.
The peering woman
watched in wonder
until manboy
returned the cat’s eye
to the bucket
and looking around sadly
turned out the light
and roared downstairs.
Three on a Match
The night has fixed
the deep blue forest
with a stillness
born of wonder,
born of fear.
We walk, and whisper,
almost talk
until
the love between us
splits
turns inward,
then side by side
alone
our thoughts rage
into the
silent branches
smothered
before they can escape
into the air.
Soon the silence
shatters
giving way
to the long
and woeful
cry;
Wolf's about -
His single, horrifying note
only saddens me.
He and you
and I
are three apart
each-
alone.
Thunder Rails
Sitting beneath a tressle
in the auto mobile
mind on auto pilot
waiting for some slow fast food
when a grumbling starts
against the quiet gray afternoon sky.
Soon the grumble grows
manifesting itself
in a rumble
and the auto starts shaking
from side to side
while the quiet gray afternoon sky
is blocked from view
by a rejuvinated old behemoth
that almost seems to fly
across rails rusted by disuse.
Time Zone
hip hopping
hop scotching
rumbling around
time zones
past the boulevards of naked ladies
into the soda shops
and ma an pa stores
with sweet and biting nikl nips
riding bicycles at two hundred miles a memory
parking on the gravel road
drinking in
the full moon milk
a catch in the throat
at alabaster breasts exposed
beauty beyond the ancients.
Childlike, walking on three legs
riddling the home with questions
about vegetables
toothless
bubble gum
sticking to hair
absorbed in crawling and drooling
adding dimensionality
to frustration
and absorbing rays
through windexed windows
reading books from indexed libraries
a rat-a-tat, Kurt;
I am no willing Pilgrim.
Trendy stuff
blue and white plastic dishes
unisex pink and green polo shirts
where is black beauty
and Hi-yo Silver
and when will they ever mate
so we all can bleed together
into a universal healing pool?
Jasmine plays in the shade
and the grown children watch him
while childish adults
gut the structure for the profit
that is out of predictions
about the climate.
Two Children
Two children
caught in a sudden summer storm
refuge in an old shack
laying on their stomachs
heads in their hands
watching the rain
swaying their heads and upper torsos
with the movement of the wind blown trees
one turning to the other
and saying
"this is great
I wonder if life will always be
just like this?"
Clouds parting
the sun returns
almost sadly
they feel its
warmth
knowing they must leave
together they walk
until they reach the fork
where they must part
each to his own home
each to his own life.
Victorian Spirit
In the rest of the house
The children bobbed their ballet
(Step two three, plop)
Or roundly wrought out Ravel
on Ivory better left to elephants.
The cook stirred the pot
while the Mrs. held court
over silver tea cups-immune to the bedlam
that caused the neighbor women
to spill their tea.
All was action with the dog and cat-
when father, puffing on a panatela
stormed through the door
complaining of the gathering gray.
"a storm before the night is out
and a cold one, too,
so my bones are telling me."
Shouted in his best pirate gravel throated dialect,
warning his mates to prepare for the worst.
"Oh, sorry Bess, didn't know you had company."
Then on to the kitchen for three fingers
to ward off impending colds.
But up in the turret room, guarded against the gloom
by an impenetrable exterior
eighty year Aunt Penelope
Paints colors on canvas
with her eyes.
Bursts of red air passion flames,
Blue black squares of aching loneliness
Green interlacing all,
collecting it
giving it shape
A trace or two of yellow sun
A loaf of french bread, some wine and cheese,
all dressed in wicker.
She is tired now,
the brushes wiped clean with knobby fingers
the painting complete
self portrait
from memory.
Wavelength
The wind roaring
The trees still
I am
My mind
Again.
On the fantail
Of the old destroyer
Black water waves
Spray salt
One lone sailor boy
Pays tribute
Shouting with laughter
Sticking out his chest
To the wind and the waves.
On the bridge
The old captain smiles
Remembering.
Who Knows a Title
And so
another winter passes
the sled
in its pegboard place
hats and coats
hibernating in cardboard caves
and glass gives way to mesh.
no more the harsh reality
riding on the wind
beckoning blood filled cheeks
billowing smoke
in puff balls
creating ice spores
building crystal castles
against the pane
against the pain.
The eyes always forget
and take too much time to adjust
so warm water
flows from eye to chin
making it easier to pretend
that it’s just another day..
And now spring
green’s hope
brings the daffa disappearing dills
and like their guiless gaity
bestows only a memory.
Wind Blows
The wind blows up the road
a lonesome cold
gray blanket pulled tight against the sky
flat light
inspiring
memories of concecration
and desolation
joined together
in pursuit
of fullness, of emptiness
The glow within
is just an ember now
When was it a flame?
Will it be again?
Three horsemen ride in the distance
divirging
against the horizon
at first all three tracks so easy to follow
but then...
Old Frosty had it easy
just two paths.
It is time now
to take the right road
or is it left?
The Witch and the Warlock
I
The Witch
Belying the standard black
no pointed hat or head
no wart
no hooked proboscis
to interfere
with another’s kiss.
See the girl
with the red dress on
longlegged
patterned navy stockings
and heels so thin, so delicate,
she seems to walk on air.
Working for the man
who seems troubled
by his own success,
seems prone to excess,
seems his mind is in distress
as one time only
he notices elliptic pupils
and marvels at her
deep emerald eyes.
She has set five chairs
for the board meeting
on the points
of a star.
II
The Warlock
Burgeoning biceps
peerless pects
and tight, tight,glutius
responding to the exercise
with sweat
so apparently normal
that only he knows it is
ice cold.
Plenty of zest
a lust for living
building everyday
a stronger frame, and stronger.
A 3000 year old spirit
that balanced stonehenge on one finger,
encased Merlin in ice-stone,
and watched Camelot
unravel.
Today the new disguise,
preparing to
unseat the old dimension,
flint shard eyes
set deep,
lost in introspection,
preparing for the incantation
spelling out the time
with active meditation;
getting ready for boardroom
with the five pointed star.
III
Lovers Unleashed
At last the waiting over
the control established firmly
The successful unsuccessful
At the hands of secret spell.
Round bed, center ring,
round and round the bed they go
now floating feet above the floor
now toes grazing rug
each afraid of the other
each afraid of the spells
unleashed by passion.
Crashing together
in the center of the bed
vague lightning flash
odor of burnt umber
in a moment
a huge panther cat
covers her
paws on buttocks
huge sandpaper tongue
covering her back.
Her finger spasms,
crooks, and fires,
and suddenly a crow
is on the panthers neck
beak pleasantly pecking
in the catear canal,
talons kneading, cajoling,
stirring up a throaty roar
stopped in mid-air
as the crow glares
at the spinning shell
of a snapping turtle, inserts its beak
into the crevice
and is pulled inexorably downward
into a large black hole
A shake of the tail feather, baby,
and queen cobra slithers through a leg opening,
free to dance and trance
sending tabla rythyms into
the electric air.
The tortoise thus enticed
neck springing from protection
the cobra sizzles
fangs embedded
another lightning flash
two human forms
drenched and dumb
lie silently
exhausted
unfufillled.
Worry Lines
I
All hail to the new Miss America
With Tantalum hips and Bionic Lips
for mouthing platitudes
she mistakes for attitudes
and says "Oh, what a good girl am I!"
Back at the luncheon,
The ghosts of Miss America's Past
feast on chicken breast
while having their own tit-a-tit
with conversation bent
excusing the present
and glorifying the past.
They know about the new Miss America.
How she will kneel at an altar rail
made from contracts suitable
for recycling in future altarcations
that will be marked by alterations
resulting in lonely people
filling up their evenings
with protestations, invitations, registrations, and intimations
that fade into wistful recreations.
She will have rythym and dance
in the dark
guided by the reflection of teeth in Burt Parkes
open mouth.
We will take her into living rooms
and see her toes tapping
atop the six pack, pop-top, flip flop
spirits for the already dis-spirited.
Alone at night, in front of a mirror
She will remove her dress
and giggle with her gaggle of Gleaming teeth
to know that she is the pick of the American Litter
She is the Breck girl, the Coca-Cola Creme Rinse mistress
of Mass Media Mind.
Gazing at her reflection
almost wistfully
She is perfect,
She is Free,
Tomorrow Miss Universe
By Galactic Decree.
II
A year and a day will pass away
and she can shake her hair free
from plaster of Proctor and Gamble
And slouch on a couch
with her feet propped on a coffee table
at a driends apartment in the Bronx;
Trying to sort out her life,
to understand the spokes of the wheel
and the spooks of the past.
Alone, she will seek the kindness of the darkness
and hide from the reflections of the past, the reflection in the mirror.
Alone, trembling,
She will seek the childhood memories
and be fetal
and sleep.