a birthday poem

by earth guru

Posted to Action Poetry on 2001-11-06 07:37:00

I.
The birds no longer sang outside my broken window,
The air had become too offensive and bitter,
In Yeats-like tragedy laid a head on my pillow,
And wondered what wonders I could ever deliver.

Alone in my verse quest, I felt rather quiet,
As a subject to a domain I shunned in the eye
Of a public’s disdain over my solemn quintet.
I wrote all alone, I hid in my lie.

Till England’s brash cousin, outspoken and vulgar,
With lungs full of smoke and head full of knowledge,
Did startle and say, “I too hide, though as a daughter
Of Vietnam’s man, just under the Blood Bridge.”

It was snowing then; white everywhere cold and new,
In Blake-light tragedy we then came to commence:
“Snow is just cold rain that you cannot see through…
I too am a poet, so we can never be friends…”

Laughter ensued, though much too quick and too sharp,
This banter pressed on until the sun came to rise,
And over each night we each returned to our part,
I as a Poet, she as a Temple, we had our disguise…

II.

The yellow drizzle is more urine than anything,
Hard crunch snow
under bottom of work shoe
Shined and spiffy ready for the office.
My old man,
A blue jumpsuit and
eyes, fingernails, forearms of
grease
Shovel the snow
So I can get off to work
And he can forget
About his mother,
even for fifteen minutes.

The boy I was.

III.

In Washington, it rains all the time.
The chorus of morning is lost to a Puget Sound,
And sometimes I want to climb to the top
So I can watch the waves rock California,
And turn around to see my homeland
Stretch in front of me,
And perhaps even catch the eye of
One of those high school dropouts who
Goes on to achieve everything

Or nothing at all
(the truth is it does not matter,
green lights don’t always mean “go”)

IV.

I find now that, as I grow (relatively) older
My mystery is fading,
And true genius and knowledge is supposed to take over.

But, in the face of that Demon
I crumble and wonder how I can remember
To forget

Who I thought I was supposed to be
(who I wanted to be)

in the eyes of somebody who is celebrating their birthday,
and for whom I write this poem.

I have grown so conservative
I finally understand how much I don’t know

The organic train of my stupidity

(poetry)-(genius)-(spirit)-(emotion)-(philosophy)-(art)-(love)

chugs on.

I blow smoke through my top and come out smiling all the time!

Ignorance was bliss…

V.

I have dedicated a book of unpublished private literature to you,
My friend, my enemy, my confidante, and my amateur laureate
Of chastisement and knowledge.

I want to wish you a happy birthday, but with words as well as emotions,
I fall short, all the time.

To be blunt would be blunt, and to overdo it would seem sarcastic.

I give these words to you, my gift is my word,
It’s the best I can do.

I may end as a failure, but I can
At least know that at all times during my decline
I was surrounded by the people, and person,
Who I would love
To hold my hand
As I drown

Into nothingness.

God Bless, Happy Birthday, Yours Sincerely, Wasting Away,

//Poet//


The Literary Kicks message boards were active from 2001 to 2004.