DEAR READER

An introduction to my poetry stack and how poetry inspired me.

Hi there!  Welcome to my 
poetry stack. Go ahead, feel 
free to look around.  Hope it’s 

not too much of a bore. If there 
is one you found, it’s ok to pick it up
for closer inspection if you dare.

Photo by Alfons Morales on Unsplash

There’s all kinds of stuff in here:
something for everyone, a
veritable smorgasbord for every 

poetic palette.  Let’s see, there
are epic tales of mortified youth,
haikus of getting ready for work,

of being a commuter, walking
across the Madison Street bridge,
my parents (that’s per-funk-tory),

flights of aspiration as high as Icarus’,
The Black Hawks, The Doors, even 
some for the conspiracy theorists!

And a whole lot more!  God, does this
sound like an infomercial or what?
But I hope you’re going to love it.

If you don’t, please don’t tell me to
shove it up my you know where.
All I ask is this: handle with care.

You know how us poets can be,
as sensitive as a shark’s nose 
when a drop of blood hits the sea, 

or mine in a houseful of cats!
Or for you scientists out there,
a gravitational wave detector!  

But here’s the thing: I am not
a poet, not a full time one anyway.
I “get away” with writing poems.

What works for you is what counts.
You might say: this is harsh,
or, this is so whack, it amounts

to nothing more than shadows
floating across a foggy marsh.
My life’s a poem no one knows

which is why I want to share
these experiences with you
in both joy and despair.

So, if this is your first look
at poetry, I’m thrilled your
eyes fell upon this stack.

Just so you know, it took
quite a bit of work to churn
out these bratty kids who

want to run outside and play
with others and take their turn
to laugh or whine the time away--

these little rascals--in the 
infinite white playground 
of unborn reality’s page.

Though I’m not really a parent
these are my children; I love them 
all regardless of how apparent

their verbal shortcomings might be.
You may want to smack them
around, or kiss their velvet cheek.

Perhaps they might wreak 
a bit of verbal havoc; if you
teach poetry, please don’t freak

out once you learn your 
humble narrator has no 
street cred or college degree.

I’m just a part-time poet
in search of full-time glory
unsure if this work will agree

with your sense and sensibility.
Don’t worry.  I won’t blather
on about blaming my parents,

or my childhood, and gather
a bouquet of bitter memories.  
No, I’d prefer to share with you

a song of infinite possibilities!

See, it’s all Jim Morrison’s fault.
I was inspired by the fires he lit
within my teenage soul’s vault,

The Doors trippy carnival music
where I glided on many moonlit
drives to the end of the night.

Led down blind poetic alleys
to the edge of an obscure town
where other poets were waiting

for the sun of fame to crown
the pages of their intoxicating
works: Rimbaud’s Illuminations,

Apollinaire’s angst-weary Zone
Beat poetry, Blake’s visions… 
After a while I came into my own

sense of identity, of being whole;
one poets work sparked another,
until my heart became a burning coal 

whose fiery glow I hope turns 
someday into a diamond that burns
among the majestic constellations.

Aside from all the usual speed 
bumps and roadblocks one
has to deal with on a need

to do basis: laundry, run
out to the supermarket for
some last-minute groceries,

because you forgot to plan ahead;
old receipts, a work day so dreary,
it almost makes you feel half dead.

Commuting, shopping, eating;
all the little things that life 
throws under poetry’s fleeting

bus to prevent its midwife
from delivering these children
into a world of fading forms.
 
These poems speak a language 
no longer in vogue, from a time 
when language went rogue,

and vision was the only thing  
that mattered as it flowed 
from the heart— organ now 

withering on the poetree of life.  

Look how long it takes
an oyster to spin his pearls
(which I hope are not cast

before sarcastic swine);
or coal into diamonds… 
I’m not sure if you’ll find

any pearls or diamonds
among this alphabetical
demolition site; but it’s 

my hope you’ll discover 
a treasure or two or three
amongst this lyrical rubble,

and perhaps lead you on a
path of inspiration you’d never
thought you’d walk before.

You’ll see a story of how
a man got back his poetic
mojo, how he realized that

the only reason why his reality
was the way it was, was because
his thoughts lacked a certain vitality.

An inspiration whose vivid
roads led back to ancient Rome, 
my ancestors!  Guys like Ovid,

Propertius and Horace would roam
the city, praising its decadent glory;
that’s how they made poetic history!

And laboring in poetry’s laboratory 
to take readers into bolder territory,
Dante, Petrarch, Campana, Pasolini; 

if only these letters flared into lights,
soar victoriously into sublime heights
like Roman candles on summer nights!

If just one of these poems inspires 
you, that’s more than I can even ask
because every poet hopes for this.

And in this busy world, where poetry
has taken a back seat to Facebook,
tweets, texts, You Tube cat videos,

and so many other distractions,
I want to thank you, dear Reader,
for taking time out of your life

to stop the world in this moment,
whether it’s 2013, or 100 years
from now, whatever zone you

find yourself walking through
while the world revolves around you,
to watch and see what will foment

on the page of this white stage, 
(the color of God’s invisible canvas)
to co-create this magic moment.