30 Poems In 30 Days: What I Learned

So here I am on day 30, reflecting on the endeavor. What have I learned?

When we are forced to find inspiration, where do we find it? When we are allowed to let all the “floaters” (as I call them) – ideas that stream past us constantly - to get pulled into our field of vision, inspiration seems to come out of thin air. It’s nothing short of miraculous.

Perhaps “writers block” or the inability to be creative is nothing more than our inability to be fully present.

Someone once described the creative process as being like a radio receiver, plucking out ideas like radio waves of thin air. This experience has reinforced this idea for me.

As to whether any of these poems are “worth” anything, that is not my job to perform. In fact, that was not really the intent of the exercise. The path is the process.

This exercise has shown me everything begins in observation and this must be done alone, and finally in silence. For this gift of silence, I am eternally grateful.

Michael

November 30: Warrior Code

We must establish brand new homes
that have no geography at all -
As fresh as any coinage minted
With such great, relucent light,
Right for the hot, fresh blood of the young,
Rife for all thickly muscled laborers in the garden,
Unaware of all the years left to be worked.

Our grand future incubates in what is unspoken
By clumsy tongues unfamiliar with the poetry
that is our birthright, that bubbles up
around and in every one of us.

Where do we find the courage
To mine all the riches that lie buried,
Trapped so deep within our hearts discordant?
What nourishment must we take to find such strength?

As for me, I choose
To cradle dreams like heartfelt thanks.
I choose to nurse all the dying parts
Back to full strength.

We will train to become
The warriors this world needs
And we will deal every minute,
In every way, in every flavor of forgiveness.

November 29: Blame The Dreamers

Blame the dreamers for the puddle of color
In the west every evening,
For the delusional crackpot
Who seems to perform on the subways
Speaking to friends no one else can see.

Blame the dreamers for the delicate clouds
you see overhead,
Those fingerprints of the ones gone on before us,
Leaning lacy against a cornflower
Field of blue on any afternoon sky.

Blame the dreamers for the music that strengthens us,
Spirit-like, carried by notes, thin and as light as air.

Blame the dreamers for the wall paintings of Lascaux,
In the damp, dark caves, under flickering torchlight,
Dreaming the bison in such vast numbers,
Thundering across their hearts
To stave off their fear and hunger -

Blame the dreamers for love
Which has no other function than to lift
The soul so close to the galaxy's center.

Blame the dreamers for those other places
Where we may also thrive,
Places not as pinched and cruel as this one,
Where the empty parts of us feel easy,
What dark matter calls "home",
Full of what was left behind at our birth
When our bodies and souls merged,
Forcing their way into this strange world.

November 28: The Spelunker

The spelunker died just meters below
A surface that crawled with loved ones and news
Media, never quite aware of how
Close he'd really been to cool air and a
Graceful blue sky before anoxia
Took hold,generously providing the
Visions that led him deeper by hand to
His eventual demise.
                                             Exploring
The darkest places is never without
Risk,chasing shadows like tornados is
The edgy stuff obsessive thrill seekers
Are made of. He left family above
As deep in grief as he was beneath tons
Of rock, and just as inextricable.
Held firm by stone that claimed him for its own,
In lightless rooms too small for eulogies,
Or tears and rites that were foreign to him
In the dark, he sought purpose - fought for it,
In this, his final stand to claim his space,
In this, his all-consuming resting place.

November 27: Praise

Praise to dark November sky
To morning in its infancy.
Praise to the gray overhead
And the trees, naked and shy.
Praise to silent words
Coaxed from being alone.
Praise to the rain and wind that blows,
Praise to snow and angry hail,
To the warmth of my bed and the
Luxury of late mornings.
Praise to breakfast of warmed over pie,
For leftovers the rest
Of a day that refuses to rise
And brush her teeth,
Or bother to get dressed at all.
Praise to pajamas
And to coffee and tea
Fresh brewed and steaming,
Praise for this tiny house that cradles us,
Warm and fed
On the bread of love.

November 26: November Tale

The farmer walks around his field in muck boots
So slowly, his lumbering gait betrays him deep in thought.
He has worked the land and it has worked him
For generations, as far back as he can recall.
Even his childhood memories are built upon
Thanksgiving walks around these same fields with his Dad
Silent as monks, the two of them.
He is remembering his wife, now gone ten years
In the blink of an eye that to this day
He recalls like a punch in the stomach,
How it made him weak in the knees,
How even today, he cannot conceive of
Mornings without her.
He recalls the birth of each sheep and cow and horse
With as much clarity as every one of his children.
The panic and exhilaration that eventually gives way
To the boredom and fear that is raising a family.
He learned the hard work of farming,
Not believing there was any better way to make a living.
The thought of simpler ways of doing things,
Of not having to get up so early,
To always reek of manure and earth,
Of worrying about money and doing
The precarious dance of getting
Food on the table, and the kids dressed
In respectable clothing and sent to school.

He feels the mud give way beneath his feet –
It is a cool November, and this Thanksgiving
Morning is as raw as his heart as he
Remembers, he observes the sadness
Of his farm just before the winter comes –
He was used to cycles, so he understands
How it is that his farm looks so
Lackluster to him – it happens every year.

He turns down roads scarred by large tractor
Tires that leave criss-cross treads
Resembling spider webs deep in the mud.

Down wind, he can smell the turkey
Already cleaned and stuffed and cooking.
There would be the turnips to boil and mash,
Potatoes to clean, string beans to slice.
There will be pies to warm over eventual sliding
Mounds of ice cream later – the pungent odor
Of cooking fruit would tease him all day.
There would be the alchemy that coaxes the
Smooth comfort flavors of gravey from turkey fat
Gravy that he will pour liberally over
All the other side dishes as well as the meat.
It is his wife’s recipe and he smiles
Remembering that fact. The scent like loving arms will
Overpower everyone in the kitchen in
Just a few hours, when his kids and he
Will sit around his long marked up
Table just to say thanks.

He is tired, but his body is made of the clay of earth.
It all from the deepest parts of him - the loss and pain,
The love he knew and his kinship to death,
The hurt and the hope for all his children.

It is the greatest thing a man can do
To be something solid, like rock, something
That life can stand on, make claim and go forward.

November 25: One Thousand Little Hiroshimas

Every time we cross paths
Worlds collide –
Matter and anti-matter clash
And it makes such a mess

Everything we do is like
One thousand little Hiroshimas,
Living in the shade of the multitude
Of mushroom clouds scattered about.

Everyone tells us to use
A big stick to correct our neighbors
Faulty way of thinking,
When all we really want to do is to
Vaporize everything around us.
With such righteous heat
As to leave just their shadows burned
into the concrete.

I cannot imagine this sort of loneliess
To be the one left standing
In such a world.

November 24: What We Need

Just more softening
A little more space
Some blurred edges,
Filed dull and round,
Not quite so sharp.

Some quiet discourse
Or maybe a touch without any words.

Show them the hurt
If they lack the imagination –

Less victory, fewer champions
And more conversion, more of
A seasonal heart that melts
From ice into water.

Just more charity
And the simple wish
Of a tasty dinner
In secure and loving arms.