Window Wondering

First a burst - fire when ready
you were always ready
No violence please - just ideas
in any form - hairy scary winter airy
shivers on the spine - tingles
they touch you when you speak
without thinking
pulses from beyond
you know the things you used
to call the collective insane
that unspeakable place inhabited
by detatched thoughts no longer claimed
by you or anyone else, remainders
not carried over to the next  . . . whatever
Just sitting, idle in my time, window watching
waiting for an idea or two - a string of intent 
to connect them - You used to be good at that
Just saying things and wham - great idea or two
would come storming up in my noodle grey brain
Nothing much appears before me
both inside and out - the window is clear
but my mind is in doubt
Yesterday is done - today you are gone
Wondering why

©Frank Coughlin 2011 july 

The Medicine of This Moment

I am for this moment of healing

calm – balm for my frenzied soul 

manifests in the the form of

sitting lightly, palms upward religiously

wondering where this gossamer feeling will lead

First) a foreword before we go backward:

to the Christian, of once I was,

it is prayer, a connection to something Greater,

to the Taoist, it is a search

for the possible Possible.

Etheric yet tenuously tangible –

a sacred something I can use.

Now the leap of blind faith takes place

to where Connection had taken place before,

gone but not forgotten and the question is:

Have we forgotten the Way ?

And more importantly:

Have I become too cluttered and clogged ?

Too blessed with everyday chores and whatnot ?

Has my Sunday become the Twelfth of Never ?

A manana mantra of missed Connection ?

An anxious answer this way comes:

One cannot lose what one existentially is,

The pretense is revealed as such:

All but the Way is acting:

A sort of self-imposed exile from ectasy:

To cease this nonsense, I must be committed

away from all routines which cement my wings.

©Frank Coughlin June 2011

You Could

Imagine following a dozen dancers as they enter the ballroom
Standing, you do nothing, lying still until someone notices
Things just don't match up with the way someone said it was supposed to be
Then of course you laugh, and act as if this was planned, this chaos,
this rumbling of motion with you somehow its paradox due simply to your lack of motion
This is what you intended all along. And if they persist in their assumption that the beauty
of this moment is nothing but a fraud then you bring out the heavy hitters
who carry the big guns - they call the crowd a bunch of idiots simply because
there is difference to their point of view. Of course this is just another piece of nonsense
in your stream of consciousness, so what else is new ? They have already made their thoughts
of your exploits known long before you arrived - some agree and some disagree - the ones who are your true friends of course. Now ball all of this wax, paper it up and down, there is television but that counts
for nothing - And in the end, when all is revealed, you will have the last laugh, for no other reason than you are the last man standing - unless of course you are not - either standing (for lord knows there is a lot that
you cannot stand for and up to) or a woman in which case everything I said changes depending upon whether or not you are considered either 'In' or good looking or both (so very rare but you could be the one in a million that brakes the mold, smashes all sense of norm, and dances as immortal simply because then you must be a goddess - in which case it does not matter if you enter with a dozen gay dancers all lithe and smooth in graceful steps - they do not hold a candle to you. But you could.
And that is all that matters.
In the long run.
In the end.
 
©Frank Coughlin June 2011

Questions I Have Answered Wrongly (Knowing the Truth)

Under the Whys, I place the following:
When parents fight, is it always hidden
hoping the children will not see or hear
Just pretend and go on wondering, where
the money goes - it flies off fancifully into
landscapes they cannot attend - No, bother
but mother does and is - she wants more when
there is no more - when he is not willing to give.
When fathers stray, does the battleground have to
be on children's sakes, whether they care or not
to be included - who wishes themselves to be
landing ground for verbal jousts and missiles hurled
in general directions of what used to be a partner -
these scars heal they say with time and temperance
but children know better. They learn to lie in just the same way.
Lastly, does silence ever speak - does the mute answer
say anything except the obvious - do the creators of turmoil
believe it is over when it no longer affects them ?
When I have tackled these queries, I have not told the truth
Not even to myself.

Late One Misty Evening

Listen for the water
sounds so subtle
trickling deep, drop after drop
Quiet your breath
close your eyes
it does not matter
you will not see them
anyway. Fairies pick an' choose
what flower needs, what flower does not.
They make no sound, none you can hear
there is only the feel of loving care
that you can tell they were there.
When you begin to feel their tiny feet
upon your arm it is too late,
their dance is unnoted - you are asleep.

©Frank Coughlin June 2011

Beneath the Sky, Above the Clouds

Heaven we are told, is there
way up in the sky above the clouds
But having flown high in a jet plane,
way above the clouds, my eye
never fixed upon God in his throne,
not once did I see angels by his side,
nor did I cast upon my dead relatives,
not even the saintly ones.
When I was in small school,
the school small children go to,
we were told, one and all, that
God was everywhere, an all knowing Dude.
He was Big Brother, before George O. let me know
that such a thing was pure evil.
Somewhere between the words of wise and wacky,
I figured it out - no one really knew -
the sky was metaphor - code for above us,
which was code for better than us, which was code
for a lever with which to control,
for what better way to do this
than to say God told you so.
Now I sit beneath the sky, yet my mind is beyond the clouds,
or so I am told - I see God not in the judge's chair
nor do I see God in the jailhouse floors,
I see God in the mirror smiling back at me.

©Frank Coughlin June 2011

Cold Wind, Kind Wind

Amid the morning sunshine,
a cloud appears and as it blocks the loving rays
of Sol, its brother, the western wind comes
to me, brushing my shoulders in cattail sensation,
it gives me bumps, such is the eerie feeling,
of being touched by non-human hands.
He is the friend I have made in the wilderness,
he has come to teach me his ways,  he says,
in the words of the breeze, his touch is chilling
not in winter icy type but rather in summer hot relief.
I welcome him in terms of my soul's smile
and I listen this day.

©Frank Coughlin May 2011

This Storm Won't Pass

Getting her words worth, she spins the volume button
till insanely loud becomes the norm, she figures now you will listen
And even better than listening - her desired action - you doing the action part
she doing the resultant 'humph' which suffices for thank you
such that it is - a vast relief - flash floods its silence over all the premises
The howling wind signals her departure by slamming the door
Like bombing victims, we emerge from our fox hole
examine the surrounding damage from kicks and fists
Verbs leave deeper scars than can be immediately seen, don't you know
The walls have survived, changed forever by lashes of tongue and anger
She is gone for now - we laugh and analyze - maybe the result of too much sugar
Or too much indulgence by others - we all know what we know
 What we do not know is what to do with this knowing - we are blind towards action
We throw out 'shoulds' as in she should, they should, we should - into the air
We watch our ideas to see what floats and what does not
Certain in only one thing - we have not seen the end yet
the golden light of realization has not broken through these storm clouds
She does not get 'it' - she does not see - she only knows this way to be

©Frank Coughlin May 2011

Almost

Funny you didn't call back.
I almost didn't want you to.
Almost, like that moment
in the front seat of the roller coaster
when the rest of the train
is still climbing
but you have crossed the top,
have begun to descend
in a still state,
and for that split second
before it becomes exhilarating-
you want it back-
you want off the ride.

© Joseph Brunary May 2011

FuzzY Goddess Riding a Tiger With Too Many Hands

She is a fuzzy Goddess riding a tiger
She has too many hands
I cannot begin to tell you all that is
wrong with this picture
This tiger does not seem happy
For tigers do not carry women
especially ones with too many hands
She must be a Goddess
for I am attracted to her
I wonder what those hands could do
I wonder how she got on the tiger
Mounting seems out of the question
Probably floated down from heaven
Then Tiger looked back and said Oh no not you
not the one with too many hands, oh why me and
why do you have to be on me
Yet if it was me and not the tiger
I would say 'oh yay, she rides me today'
I would hope she did not have a whip
because On my back is where I want her to stay.
Poor Tiger seems in pain, most likely from the strain
Of an eight armed woman riding him in the rain
and thinking come tomorrow, she'll be riding him again
She the glowing Goddess with eight busy hands and nothing to say
He the poor tiger and me the one who happened to be in the way

© Frank Coughlin May 2011

Woodland Dream

Wind gentles its way around
quiet interrupted by the moon
light dancing on the forest floor
of the things that come out in the night
I am one of them. Moonlight reveals me
even in these woods, thick and tall.
I, who is waiting, sit cross-legged in front
of the long dead fire. There is crackle and crunch -
leaves and twigs singing, the song of the approaching one.
Then she is there, besides me, stroking my hair,
whispering in my ear. I have waited for her,
but I do not give in to her charms - she cannot sway me
we both know that, yet she plays her game to the end move
A lesser man would go mad with desire, charmed by fairy magic
to his mortal end - this fate is not mine nor will it ever be.
She comes when I come - to the forest where we meet -
the crossroads of worlds, hers and mine - was here
we once merged, our hearts joined and magic was made,
was here she found her match in the mortal frame
was here she found her twin flame.
She has finished her dance of allure, her wordless speech,
showing me all I could have and would have if only . . .
But it is not today that we will end together, she knows that
but she is elemental, fairy and musk, she has to dance this dance
she has to present her gifts, raw and naked that they be
she has no choice but to do her best.
At last, she ends and sits across from me - meeting my eyes and knowing
that I sit here once again to remind myself of her even if today is not
the day of my going. I kiss her with my eyes and then I rise
with heart filled by seeing this joyful and mysterious one.
The wind lifts up and fly I must back to bed where my body rests.

My Zen World

A day like any other day
a day to start me on my way
another step in an eternal path
Being is the hardest thing,
a choice wrapped in responsibility,
do I swear, do I smile, do I enjoy
the rose is either too red or too pink
That is what I think, that is my world
What I feel, what I know, my creation
my attitude - it is always with me
coloring perception, dyeing my view
It is the only thing I really do

Base Nothing

Tao tells me quite the clearly way

Blank slate is what you were way back when

the day you were born for the first time

when time was a twinkle in God's eye

growing is what we do - now and then

adding to the nothing we once were - until the day

we learn that nothing is better than something

©Frank Coughlin May 2011

The Science of Forgetting

Let us all be business-like cold and calculating, precise and prompt
We know what we want
we know how to get it
there is merely three steps to be taken
in due time, one after the other.
Time tested and well worn, the formula is familiar
Isolate the problem - tell her you need space
time to think things out, that sort of thing
Apply the Anti-dote - give her freedom for
some new things, sky is the limit, as long as they don't involve you
You are too busy bustling, picking up prospects and testing
Above all testing, for this is the solution
finding the right formula, finding the right one
Somebody who will give you all those things that are overdue
(you know what they are -  things she will never do)
the things that drive you crazy - the things that make you ache
Step three, the step that comes so easily to some, so hard to you
because you are sensitive to others, empatheticly pathetic
this is the step of all steps - you must put your foot down
Now pretend -
Nothing ever happen
Two souls destined to be entwined forever
Never did.
She touched your soul and made you think of heaven - NOT
No way, never met you, never did those things so deep
never ever sat down by your grave - never did weep.
Fake It Till You Make It and wipe it all away
Time takes everyone, bleaches their stains
leaves nothing but ash then wind takes that too.
Now it is done - we has become I - the only one.
 © Frank Coughlin May 2011

After the Dance

After the dance is done
she lingers, casually flitting
her feet defy the convention
that home is now the place to be

They, those that made the music
pack up lightly talking amongst themselves
scarcely noticing the waif waiting just beyond
their reach - it is because she allows them room

busy packing, making and taking inventory, does it all fit
She does not notice their wives - waiting, drinking, smoking without smoke
unlit cigarettes twirling - she does not care
It is not them she is in love with - it is the magic they bring
with instruments and voice - the movement of her being
the energy of flow, floating up and down and around
Rhythm, just rhythm - no blues - blues got left standing by the wall

She does not know it - she does not care
she is seduced by the spell that was here tonight
special magic made by men, machines and angels
there had to be angels for sound so rare
Her feet are dancing, even as the floor becomes bare
Solo, she is the last one there

One Night

Moonlight on foreheads
still wet from rolling in the grass
the air is chilling ever so slightly now
an excuse to share the warmth of each other
Don't even bother thinking of tomorrow - your hands are wrapped up in her today
Her eyes are forever, pulling you closer, her lips meet you half-way
there is a melting of form or at least how you used to define yourselves
you ended at your fingertips, you ended at your toes
but no more - your limits have opened and you feel one
together, a merger not a take-over,  a link with eternity as in no boundaries
you two feel and are part of the same - union
the buzz is electric - it is as if you are insanely huge - you swear you can touch the sky
and it touches back - whoa boy, whoa girl - what have you done - magic I am sure

A New Day, An Ordinary Day

Nothing strikes you quite as hard as Ordinary
The word has a sting all its own
similar to but not quite the same
as Royalty looking down their noses
pointing in utter repulsion - Common
is what they label what does not fit
their rarefied elitist views of what is proper
yet what is common to me
is supernatural to you
what is common to you
is awesome to me
Nothing out of the Ordinary
I say then proceed on my way
My Sun is rising - another new day
My Ordinary is calling
 in an extraordinary way

Flowering Madness . . .

Flowering Madness
manifesting a-bun-Dance of fireflies flickering in broad daylight
High noon pestils pontificating powdery dreams swept upon wild winds
while we watch wistfully waiting for our turn
Tu-Lips place themselves one upon another sharing the moment and what cares they find there
Pet-tun-E-ah particulates perfume moodiness modulating between nothing and not
Puppy rambles out of sight - it is time for chasing - cat-ch ME(ow) if you can
Fortune calls right around the corner but not quite in site, out of stock(ing), pillow casing
the view ---->>> Rarify this feeling and distillate the ground - nothing holds me down
and off
I go

Not So Plain Plein-Air Outing

purple petunia bedecked

in royal gown with lacy hem

tiny dark veins embroider

the soft lavender petal

a painter’s delight, indeed

yet, I’m deterred from

my mission as

whirlybirds swirl, landing

in my hair soon joined by ants

who crawl up my legs

in steady formation.

bug species unidentified

saunter bravely on my paper

adding signature text to wet

paint, becoming martyrs

to my process

of painting outdoors.

        By Beverly Bronson copyright May 2011

You Wrote That

You wrote that
you were lonely that
she was gone that
time was dragging that
meant you were bored that
sometimes you think she should have stayed over that
night but of course she came to her senses when she saw that
your attention was divided (like a ready to serve apple pie that
is cut in six pieces) between her girlfriend that
should not have been there, but there she was over in that
corner, sipping a beer, looking perky and how could you resist that
temptation, even if it is only in the mind - that
should not have come between you two because that
was a secret that
you would never tell her because that
would be too cruel a betrayal, especially when you consider all that
you two have been through. But enough of all that
you were just hoping that
she would see your note posted or get your email or listen to the voice that
you left on her phone. You want her back because she is all that.

Bad Poetry - a bad poem about Poetry

This is a poem as simple as can be

This a poem about poetry

When something needs to said

tactfully please - we use poetry instead

Poetry is a place tranquil and serene

yet also dangerous and mean

In poetry, we say what we mean meant

allusion, metaphor, and language disguise intent

We rhyme because we think it is easy

like riding a roller coaster and getting queasy

Poetry is the stuff of song

lyrics and chorus stuck in our head all day long

Poetry is tedious and precise

meter and feet and checking it twice

Poetry is rant and rave

confessional - things we should have kept silent to the grave

Poetry is political and fiery and fierce

Spoken from the mountain top - at hearts to pierce

Poetry is personal, tender and dear

kept private to keep from thinking your queer

Your poetry is yours, your way is the right way

That is unless you want your poems to earn their pay

then you have to do them their way - the publishers that is

which is the subject of whole 'nother thesis

AfterShocks

It is never enough to be rocked
so hard the ground beneath you seems unstable
like standing on a funhouse floor at the carnival
Your life feels all out of place, around you
everything has been shifted into an uncomfortable change
The porcelain elephants you so meticulously collected
from seventeen different countries and thirteen states
have jumped from their perch on the southeast wall
the place where they could be seen the easiest and best
Seven of them did not survive. They cannot be replaced -
as there is no going back in time (not yet anyway) .
It is like this in every room of which I have called my home.
 The feeling of surety has been shaken loose
as if it were only something I had tacked on to cover up
reality. Is there a point to putting back everything to
the way it was? The elephants are my answer, I re-place them again
in their special nook and I wait.
For the earth's answer - which I know will come.

©Frank Coughlin May 2011

Always, You Linger Near

I am painting daisies today, one
petal at a time, and thoughts of you
linger between each brushstroke,
I hope heaven is treating
you well. Tiny white flowers swirl
from the trees, like snowflakes or
parachutes, landing on
me, caressing me with softness and
each one holds your likeness.
The windchimes start singing and
your voice, in soprano, joins in.
Perhaps it is real, maybe imagined,
but I am reassured nevertheless. 
Messages all around me somehow
lessen the emptiness and ease
the pain, yes, you are doing just fine
watching
from above, smiling down, happy
that my heart is now open and the
bliss is erasing the ache.
 
©Beverly Bronson May 2011

Poetry 367: While Waiting for Thunder

Poetry 367: While Waiting for Thunder: "Sitting in exile, looking in the mirror in the next room, she lies to me, I want to see sunshine I want to feel rain but all I see is sh..."

While Waiting for Thunder

Sitting in exile, looking in the mirror

in the next room, she lies
to me, I want to see sunshine
I want to feel rain
but all I see is shadows
and mud
Speaking with angels can be a lonely pursuit
First there is the finding of them
then there is the translation to
here and now, that place I am
Then I go back to her
and tell her what I see
there is, in her eyes a fog
and that fog is me
Perhaps today that cloud will angry up itself
Grow dark with moisture
and flash
so brightly that everyone will see
remarking at its brilliance
they will hold ears ready
for what boom may be
She says
you are my sunshine, you are my rain
nothing more, nothing else
will be

©Frank Coughlin May 2011

Mysterious Woman

Magic in her fingertips, tiger by the tail
Wind whispers her desire - softly like cat fur
against your skin - and she waits
Flowing dreamlike on the edge of your perception
Is she there when you look or is it just a trick
An illusion of the ether - look again
and you see a trailing vapor - she is smoke
caught in the wind and  you feel her
on the back of your ear - feather touch
silken flower falls petal soft past your eyes
you feel for her - like a blind man
but it is she who has chosen you
that much you know, your flesh trembles
goose bumping its tingle and flash forward
up and down your entire being and you look
in the corner - no not there - where
and you feel the wind of her breath on your other ear
She is there within your soul, she has caught you
And she is not letting go. Her kiss is on your cheek
You feel her passion rising - she will give you what you want
But first you must do her bidding.

Dreamcatcher

she sees dreams behind her smokey,
black-rimmed eyes
red lipsticked mouth belies her inner spirit
wild hair uncombed, now why she forsakes
taming it when she primps and fusses with
her face is perplexing.
Perhaps she is still holding onto material
things seeking temporary pleasure
it is all fleeting, really,
dive deep, where the dreams reside
She touches the dreamcatcher threads,
feeling its magic
while the spider winks one glowing eye.
       By Beverly Bronson  ©May 2011

Oh Baby, Oh Baby Oh

Your eyes are like marbles, you know the kind everyone likes to trade
Their sockets appear worn, from overuse or abuse, who would know
You make Zombies look good but as long as there is whiskey
I am not going anywhere.
What is that smell - did something die
The mess on the floor covers the mess within
the wall. Did you forget to clean for about a year?
Now things are getting serious - we open the last
fifth of Jack or was it Jim, Johnny Walker is lying empty on the floor.
I think I have succeeded in forgetting whatever I was trying to forget
What was your name again ? Strange the refuge, we take in emotional storms.
I lie with you, telling you you are not so bad
That your hair looks good for being a bunch of snakes,
Is something living there amongst them ? No. it is
not living anymore. You have a face that turns men to stone but
I have no worries - I have stopped being a man a long time ago.

©Frank Coughlin May 2011

The Dark Side

Do you really want to be the one
left on the safe shore,
Do you really want to be the one
left behind.
We are moving to experimental phase,
exploring new worlds of the mind,
We are moving to places unexplored
talking powders with the best of them.
Everything you have known,
we are letting go of,
Everything you have been taught
we are rejecting.
Then we go off the cliff,
knowing we cannot fall
Then we go off on our merry way,
knowing nothing at all.
When the smoke cleared,
our eyes opened,
When the smoke yielded answers,
our eyes would not focus.
There is no way knowing
what lies on the dark side.
There is no way you are coming
back from the dark side.
Without losing,
Without gaining.
 Do you really want to be the one going ?
Do you really want to be the one staying ?

©Frank Coughlin May 2011

Siren (Ullysses’ Excuse)

Sultry girl promenades ‘round the room
She wants to hook you - she wants your eyes
Talking like she’s a big shot
like her words mean anything to you
you have your problems of your own
It ain’t easy to keep this ship on course
but ya gotta if ya wanna
get back to the wife and the life
you left behind.
Next thing, you know she’s there - this goddess - next to you
across the table with a bottle, and then there’s glasses
held high, to queen and country, and her eyes
so blue, so deep, so watery liquid - they take you down
and you can taste them as they strip you naked,
meanwhile you hear some sort scraping noise
like rocks against wood and you realize
it is already to late - you have seen too much
and you have gone too far - there is no turning back
her bed is now your bed and your men are forgotten or dead
this morning is not next morning - years have flashed past in moments -
 could this be true ?
you ask yourself while you clear your mind
She, this woman who lies with you, she is young like that yesterday so long ago,
and you, you are the age you are supposed to be, today,
As you walk toward the door, you hear her song once again
you feel her hooks pull you back, for she is what the man in you lusts for
Yet the bottle she offers is empty and
you are the warrior, that is, at least what you once were
(your men are no more, your ship is in ruins)
She laughs as she strips your armor off once again and you rage silently
for all that has been lost - for all that will be lost
and against all odds, you stumble out the door,
and curse the gods, and you fight because that is what you do,
you fight the rage of the sea and wind and you fight the ghosts of dead men you once knew.
You fight the distance between where you are and where you want to be,
and you nearly lose - you wash up on shore, half-dead
you have nothing now, you are the wreck yet somehow
you make it home to the wife that is waiting and she takes you in her arms
Then you know why you came - there is no one who loves you
except your wife. You are Home - somewhere else the Siren is crying your name.

Poetry 367: Dreams, Undead, Fire

Poetry 367: Dreams, Undead, Fire: "It happens on the day you wake up, when the dream you held tight like a warm blanket, fuzzy slips from your fingers, replaced by the cold ..."

Dreams, Undead, Fire

It happens on the day you wake up,
when the dream you held tight like a warm blanket, fuzzy
slips from your fingers, replaced by the cold wind
of the morning, slapping against your skin,
hey, face me you coward - it yells -
in tones of harsh bluster, face me damn you
pick up your head and face me.

When the wind dies, later
and you reach your car and put it into drive
the echo of her eyes lances into what is left
of the spark you once had. There in that moment
something is remembered, that tree you wanted to climb
or that girl you wanted to date, silly isn’t it after all
these years to think about your goal to visit all fifty states
and the desire to feel a peyote sunrise.

The alchemist in you has boiled experiences down
into the raw Archetypal elements,
the girl was just about sex
the tree was just to feel high
one state is much like another from the highway
and drugs just mess with your mind.
It should be enough to have figured things out,
to have bottled experience away,
now you live in the vicarious realm -
It must be the stories of others,
you know the ones where they do the crazy things
and you are safe, laughing at the kitchen table.
But this is the day that you have woken up,
this is the day the dream stays fuzzy by your side
the blanket you have stolen back from the wind
when you grabbed its hand - faced it and said
enough is enough.
It is the echo of your eyes that burns forth
igniting the soul, and she laughs,
because she is your muse and that is what they do.

©Frank Coughlin May 2011

The Monster Within

Dr. Jekyll - I presume
so proud of himself
upon finding someone else
living within
down there in the dark basement,
the crawlspace, the forgotten
place inside the house he calls
his own. What was he thinking ?
Opening the cage that society had closed and locked.

Imagine his shock upon finding he could not control
Himself.

Urges long thought dead
desires, rages, emotions
all lumped in one mass called - Hyde.
What was he really after
a dash of the bold
a pinch of the Taboo
A taste of Naughty
No matter - what he got was all that
and more, a whole lot more
Sin without the temptation - what fun is that.
Madness, I say, utter madness.

Feart

Now the above word is a new word for me
an accidental typo or Freudian slip
still the word seems less daunting than Fear,
four letters that paralyze me
while Heart is five letters that
stimulate me
Heart and Fear please hold
hands, there is room together
for you both,
Fear painted is dark colors of
black and blood red and monstrous forms
that leer evil grins
Heart painted is the red of passion,
warmth of pulsating aliveness
I choose to paint them both
they dance and struggle with one another
seeking dominance
stop I say unity and balance is what
I strive for and so shall you.
Blacks and reds merge turning into
blackened reds and reddish blacks
My sweat and blood joins my spiritual canvas
for I want my whole self leaping in
Tears too form puddles and the
paint swirls like a tornado building
force twirling me like Dorothy around
and around I feel the madness within me
being ripped out, sucked out like snake
venom
I am in charge of my destiny and FEART
birthed into my vocabulary is
reassuring.

©Beverly Bronson May 2011

And Then . . .

You heard the story
the one about those lovers
who met across the room
their eyes kissed, melting all inhibitions
No one told them there would be math
at least not afterMath
you know the part where one and one
make one - more that is.
Next come the decisions 
is this one we keep or throw away
do we stay or break apart
Is my dream dead squashed by the reality of us ?
or enhanced by our new experience
our choices, made together or not
become the palette of our tomorrows
will we sing the blues or dance in green
bask in the sun or work the night away
There is no happy ending here
in fact, there is no ending at all
She and he - taking a wait and see
attitude - leaving me - the narrator
waiting and not seeing - how can they be so cruel
It is like reading a romance novel where the last chapter has been ripped out.
Will they learn to accept the fact of each other, you know the one where each of them comes to realize that the other will never be their ideal, that their kids will never be what they hoped they would be, heart break will be around nearly every turn, and that time will not ignore them. Yes, time will kick their asses, turn them into prunes and eventually kill them.
But that part has not been written yet
and may not ever be.
Choices are the roads we take
There is no GPS telling us the right way to go
We write our stories and hope we live to tell

©Frank Coughlin 2011

The Arrogance of Poets (other than me)

Using Big Words such as hibernaculum
Conundrum, and ubiquitous - as status symbols
of useless knowledge and higher education
I have studied the classics therefore I can
invoke the ghost of Madea (you know the jilted lover of  Jason the Jerk of Argonaut fame)
Yes, he fleeced her if you know what I mean (its so golden)
and if you don't then you are not as literate as I
And if that is not enough I will use meter and feet
and iambic pentameter - isn't that neat
I am not that smart - my poems such as they are
act as fists, raging forth, in your face
Can you feel their pulse ? Can you feel their force ?
Like used car salesmen - they cajole, and smooth talk you
and cry for pity, writhing in pain
and beg (yes, I am not above begging for what I want)
I want you - your attention, your focus, your mind, your eyes on my page
locked by words, my words holding you tight like a hug from empty heart
I am not smart enough to send you to the dictionary or thesarus
Or to have you rush out for Cliff's Notes - no graduate student will ever do a Thesis on me.
Better for them to
Feel Me, feel the mood I used to write this crap, I am poster hanging on the wall
my words, my poems cover up the hideous wallpaper beneath I call life. Your life, of course
did you think I was arrogant enough to mean me?

Two Roses by Some Other Name

 A Rose is a Rose by any Other Name (some other poet)

Rose Rose
Up from her seat
Red with flowery flowers
Red with Lipstick
She looked to be from Tokyo
She looked to me for poetry
Covered from head to toe
Rose one Rose two Rose three
Across her chest sewn on her vest
I have never seen a rose such as she

Rose Rose
up in the sky
not quite so red
Still I wonder why ?
Oh hello Dali
can you explain
the head of rose above the plain
Is this the Sun you never had ?
maybe Rose knows
(but she is Mum).

Now I Am The Light Seeker

I am seeking new realms with rainbow wings.
Behind me are the storms and turbulent winds
of the past
raindrops glisten in the sun’s warmth
reflecting prisms of light on soft body,

fear, my cocoon, my refuge my womb
lies on the ground no longer needed
Now I fly high, stretching
wing muscles released from supine position,
pleased that nature’s
kisses have welcomed my take-off
into uncharted territory.

Eagles wink at me, as I ride
in their tail winds
my new wings waffle from
fatigue, but then strengthen,
like arrows furrowed
I feel sun’s rays pulling me
closer, a forceful yet warm embrace
and my
butterfly wings beat a melody
of joyful anticipation humming tunes
that rise higher and higher. crescendo
climax as sun and I dance,
waves of energy entwine and rejuvenate
my heart now so huge.
Now I am the Light Seeker
              By Beverly Bronson  ©April 2011

Hinting

If this reads as vague, I apologize
You see, or maybe you don't,
and that is all my fault because
I should have spelled it out more clearly

What I want, so terribly want, is to tell you
What I want.
And not just that
But everything
All the emotions, all the thoughts, ideas, joys, desires, visions, screams and dreams - tears, laughs, and yes oh God yes moods
each and everyone of them
Everything.
I want to become drunk with the energy that comes from releasing
letting go of all that has waited, dressed up and ready to go - get the car and come around - the rushing madness of the flood of words, levee breaking, dam busting torrent that can no longer be denied, tsunami waves blasting forth barely forming words let alone phrases, sputtering from lack of air because I forgot to breathe - I am like the little child that cannot bear to let you go because you alone out of all the people in the world
Listen to me.
Or would, maybe. 

But You are not ready for that
I can see it in your face
your eyes as they trace the path of your escape
No need. I will not start.
I will listen and wait and drink and put on my happy face.

The Trouble With Digging In Someone Else'sDirt

Ostensibly, we were there to dig

To make a hole big enough

Deep enough so that what

We were about to bury

Would never bother us again

Even in the first shovelfuls

Tiny ones really, barely braking

The surface sod – I knew

She would not be satisfied

For there is no depth that can

Cover a ghost, a memory,

Or that mysterious something else

Which shall, if she has her way,

Go nameless, unspoken of, and

Yet not completely forgotten.

My mother was the same way,

That is in her approach to things

That scared her – nothing was said

No mind was paid to it, despite

Its ghostly fingers touching everything

Pleading for release, Let me go, please

Please, please – let me go

They were, of course,  things of a highly scary nature,

The things that touch the Heart

Things that had one mission in life

To touch the heart – Now they are piled up

Like junk in a hoarder’s  garage

Some have been abandoned so long

They have lost their form – no longer those words said in anger or frustration or loss

They are now: hurt, sadness, and bad.

Chained to the door that blocks the heart.

The hole is now nearly five feet deep

Five feet long and four feet wide

Doris frets that it is not enough

I sense that I am in over my head.

©Frank Coughlin April 2011

One Day Everyday

The road was right
in front of me
why did I turn
off onto this
route to nowhere.

Call it a quirk
something strangely
compellingly
odd, but it was
me inside out
There in front of
all I cared for
crying because
it appeared dead.

Wait, she sighed, this
is all too vague.
Say what you mean.
In plain clear words.

Okay I said.
thought I was dead
turns out I had
never been born.
You have not known
the real person
hidden inside

Someone I have
kept tucked away
from friends and foes,
hidden from sight.
I was afraid
to be the me
the one down deep
the I, I am.

On this day I
proclaim myself
to be myself
to lead by not
leading, just by
being who I am.

©Frank Coughlin April 2011

MOving ON

the Wheel of Fortune
Favors no one - How Zen
Yet You pretend nothing
Ever changes - truth is
Nothing Stays the same

Moon Phases In and Out
Leaving today behind
Yet You pretend no changes
are ever needed at least
those concerning you

I grew to love you
Beyond that silly first sight
So many years ago
You must have thought
I liked a certain something
about you - yet You could not
figure what it was So you
Went out of yourself
To stay the same.

I love you more than chocolate
you know the good rich dark kind
And hot coffee in the morning
has nothing on you.
A Chinese feast could not satisfy me
more than being with you.
I could not eat another bite,

Sadly the same is true with you
The chocolate makes my face break out
the coffee is bad for my heart
The Chinese food makes me fat
And our love life is flat.
The wheel of Fortune spins again
and you are nowhere to be found.

Sleeping

Nocturnal, not for me
A gentle breeze, the cool of the night
Starlight from Milky Ways and others
Basking in harvest moon light
Teens thrilling in new experience
Cats busy dumpster diving
God knows what skulks in hedge rows
Unspeakable horrors coming out
with heroes running to the rescue
just in the niche of time
but not for me - I am sleeping

©Frank Coughlin April 2011

The Raven's Shadow

A feather of Darkness decorates her hair
if you are fortunate to see this woman
With hood down. Eyes are
hidden, yet you feel their pull.
She stands at the crossroads
in the darkness of your soul -
her voice chills - she is afraid of nothing.

Are you serious ? Is her challenge
She is the mistress of magic
Her forte is melting away
your illusions, your hubris and your ego.
Her familiar, the bird of shadow,
laughs at your approach, yet you continue forward. She stands at the crosswards
of your soul in darkness, the deep black you dare not look at.
You do not back down - you are not daunted.
'Choose' she cries in raven screech - Magic is your reply
Her eyes open wide, round beady white, then larger and cloudy
till finally perfectly round and perfectly clear
you gaze upon yourself as the raven sees you

I have heard tales of those who ran only to be haunted the rest of their life
I have heard tales of those who became clouded in the head
I am not one of them - I stand tall - there is nothing here I have not seen before
No I am bold - I reach out with both hands, her shoulders gather them
and bind them around her - pulling me close
A wind wails round us and the raven flies upward
off her shoulder and onto my head, the wind screams
as she melts into my arms - our hug has morphed into merger
We are one - I see with her eyes - I cease to be
and then there is darkness, total darkness nothing upon nothing
a silence of ebony, jet, midnight, moonless midnight
I am total magic, there is no bone, blood, or sinew
I understand, knowledge flows silent through me, I understand
I am being crushed, destroyed in essence, I can feel myself ebbing away
There is more here than my mortal frame can stand
death by knowledge - I am done - I  hear a female laugh
she lets go of me and I collapse - I have no body - I am gone
Tis then the raven lands upon my shoulder
tis then I feel her kiss upon my lips
the breath of life returns to my mortal frame
Well done - she sighs - come back again.

The dream is ended, yet I feel it still
the Magic is in my bones
I ache arthritic with it
Memories I have yet to experience
Jump into my path like cats of black
I know she waits deep inside
I feel her calling me back.
In the distance, Raven cries its treetop caw.

The Ripple Effect

She left in the morning
leaving me alone
with my thoughts.
I thought about leaving too, 
so I called and checked available dates.
Rose was all ready and more than willing
Libby too, and she had money
Sarah was the voice of reason
You need me the most, she said.
In the end, I did nothing
the bounce back ripple hits me
What if - what if - what if
Echos of what was - could it be gone.
Knocks on the door - enter complications - it seems word gets around
like ripples in a pond, bouncing from rock to log and then some - this complication
stayed the night, consoled my broken soul, fed me and took advantage - all in good time.
Morning has come again, in the form of the day after, and guilty me waits for her.
She'll come back - but she does not - the complication awakes, greets me with a smile.
It is time to begin again.

©Frank Coughlin April 2011

Strangely Happy With Myself

sad winds and whaling Jennys
echo canyon-ing
snapshots snapping shut
clickety and clack

that is the way the mind works

grave yard breezes
nosey sneezes
drippedy slop
all over the place

There is a pattern to this madness

Brakey aches
slippedy snakes
down channels
past waffles and wakes

Who needs this ? (I do)

©Frank Coughlin April 2011

All Creatures Welcome

In for a landing
she nestled in my hair
hiding amongst tendrils
taking respite from
pollen pursuits,
adding highlights
Ala natural
I love being a rest stop
for nature, an excuse
not to comb my hair

 ©Beverly Bronson april 2011

Random Rides (killing time and magic)

Random Rides                        ©by Frank Coughlin april 2011

Winter wings, things that cover

A long ride to nowhere and back

Periods of black, just a tunnel or two

Lavender dust spread out in the field

as far as you want it to be, or not to be

She never said "It will be easy."

You only thought you heard it.

The mind plays tricks on long boring rides

Signs of mystery dot the road

like 'Eat at Joe's' - I think 'and then what'

Cold collects on the glass, part you

from your impatient breath, part wind

blasting at seventy miles per, at least

farm houses wave their foolishness

right in front of your blurring eyes

Six hours, she said, seems like more

Is there candy? no, not till we get there

Does she live in the woods and 

is her house made out of gingerbread?

No, we are too old to believe that.

And somewhere, in the back seat maybe

Billy  pulls out a time machine, set for future

Twenty years flash forward, another car

another time, same us - 'cept we're not the same

too many miles, too many boring miles are to blame. 

Pictures of WCW (William Carlos Williams)

Stage One - They Come

Smiling happy voices toning
Something utterly unique
In terms of harmony
The same and more of it
They do not dance, no more than I can
Yet they make me look
and sound good too.
I do not know whether to thank them
or ignore them.

Stage Two - They Linger

Potatoes warm in the skillet
Refusing to mingle with onion bits
yet the aroma calls across
several rooms - I relent
I need this
I waited for you, but not for long

Stage Three - They Become Blind

In the hours I have lived,
so very few they are,
Someone has learned
faster is better, easy is even more
and work is what you do.
I feel old yet my thoughts are new.

How To Change the World (in four steps)

The mourning is where we start, smartly black,
Heading northward on the medicine wheel,
winter cold, and stunningly silent,  saving our grief
for some other time, Perhaps - definitely not now
when there is too many eyes, I do not trust them.
No matter, dust has changed to dust, what has gone
will not come back, positive attitude or not.
It is not this moment that has closed my heart,
this moment is the public moment, when you can
tell me anything - how you are sorry, how you know
what I feel - all the proper civilized saying one says
in front of the place where we are to let go of what has left.

They say one goes through shock and disbelieve
when emotional knives are thrust into the heart
Caesar's worst pain was seeing who had set upon him
Et tu - you brutal ones - whom I once called family.
Upon sight of my heart's essence flowing outward
in an unhealthy way, I died a death of disbelief,
and a blanket of emotions was buried deep
in my cocoon, my hibernating coma of numbness.
And I slept a good long sleep, dreaming of heaven.

Medicine wheel turns, this time to the east,
the place of beginnings, the place of birth,
bear wakes hungry, disoriented by the long dream.
I long to move to the south, the place of growth,
but I must sow the seeds that I have gathered from my dreams.
I must brake ground, unwilling ground, I must fight for these dreams.
The birds hunger for my failed dreams, harpies waiting for the earth,
the physical world to say - no way Jose - you are not good enough.
Your dreams must die - we live for your failure once again.
I must keep sowing these seeds - I must keep hope alive.

The forth step, of course, is the future - a place never reached
But we will ourselves there nonetheless, undaunted, dreams
intact, thriving in the glowing light know as love. It is a place
beyond Eden - for nothing grows in Eden - they only stay the same.
We have bigger dreams - dreams so bright they light the world at night.
And the only hunger is the hunger for more.

(©Frank Coughlin - April 2011)

Spring Mood

Tulips bedecked in pastel gowns Like closed up umbrellas on this gloomy day, in uptight slumber keep company with hyacinths sleeping, purple petticoats prone, hugging dampened ground while wind wickedly whistles through fragile cores, they shiver but keep the faith temporary shutdown of nature's sunshine A Moody spring, indeed ! by Beverly Bronson ©April 2011

The Evil Dead

There is something inherently evil about the dead.

The way they cast their boney hands in the air and roll in their graves, their eyes gone dark the way they turn on you, and leave without a thought (about you and living and the world in general.)

There is evil in their decay, rotting to the core, as they point out their indifference to your fate, asking only if you put flowers on their grave. (They do not bother you with advice about what stock to buy, or numbers to populate that million dollar lotto try.) Selfish to the finish - There is evil in their smiles where they lay contented in places beyond our ears, laughing at the joke we present on a daily basis. Rather they are concerned with the inane:

Is my car still shiny, does the dog miss me?

These sinister questions that they ask.

It is as if they have left for another place Say Florida, somewhere you can't go, not yet anyway, forgot about the bills, and the house, they don't call and they don't care to either.

Because there is evil in their bones through and through

And no amount of crying will make it go away

Excuses, Excuses

Excuses a poem by Frank Coughlin (April 2011)

Not today,

Not while my show is on

Not while the grass needs mowing

Not while the dog has to be washed

(There is nothing left to say – no words that could heal the wounds – better to leave things the way they are – you there and me here)

It is too windy, too cold, and it looks like it going to get worse

I just washed my hair and it is still wet

It is a bad day

(This has nothing to do what you said. Did you think it wouldn’t get back to me.)

The car is not running right, the brakes stick, and the engine is making strange noises

The kids are home now

The phone is ringing off the hook

The paper is over-due

I have to study

LOOK do you want the truth? The truth that flies in your face and you refuse to see it? The truth that no one dares tell you because it will hurt you so bad and no one quite knows what to say after the tears start and the phone falls to the floor and then you get angry and swear and vow revenge – do you really want that truth? Okay, here it is

The dog really stinks – I have to take him to the vet

Waves of Heaven

Waves of Heaven By Frank Coughlin April 2011

In this poem, we will make love

First we make contact

Meeting as sea does to shore

Forget all lies said before

Skipping ahead to the good part

Between both arms and satin sheets

A parade of waves, the water of my words

She is the shore, my beach and more

Touch becomes key, is it possible to be touched and not to touch back

or is touch something that happens both ways always

Beach touches sea, wave after wave,

We are driven blind in our effort to see

what is constant - we give it a name

we call it sensuality - I call it being aware

of your touch, of my touch, of where the borders blur

a place where sea is not sea, beach is not beach

this sandy water solution where he merges with she

we both allow in the same sense nature allows water to touch the land

Now skipping to best part - the giving part

To give one must release

the tide release water, pools form

the beach releases, we call that erosion

Today's giving features a strong release

an opening up - she and he become we

and we becomes weeeeeeee as the universe

becomes our discovery

we fly - no longer beach and sea - we are

legless beings of pure being riding the waves of heaven

I fly higher, she rides longer

there is bliss until the last part

the part where we pretend we are separate again

Even the largest oldest ocean touches continent

Yin and Yang

We pretend our separation exists because everyone does

We smoke our cigarette and dress

We walk our ways back to that other thing we call life

We do not to consider what we have lost and what we have gained

I have her in me now and she has me

The waves of heaven do not cease

They rise and crest and fall away and then begin again

One

There only needs to be one.
    One bullet in the chamber.
     One finger on the trigger.
      One moment of emotion.
       One failing student.
        One hating skinhead.
         One blind bigot.
          One sociopath.
           One gang-banging getaway, complete with car.
            One person sitting on the stoop on a hot summer night.
             One person with the wrong place and the wrong time written all over them.
              One loud noise that sounds like a gunshot.
               One lucky bouncing richoet flying through the open window.
                One heart shattered via projectile motion.
And Another heart which screams and cries and vows revenge. Then it begins again.

©Frank Coughlin April 2011