Once upon a mouth …
A glass of wine
Blood Blind Body
We are corpses
waiting for therapy
aching for a sign
The 5th of May
The 4th of May
Once upon a mind …
A hospital today
A friend away
Tests tests tests
I must arise and go now
and put on shoes that match
The 4th of May.
Add Verse
I have no poetry in me
No melody, no song
I am bereft of fluency.
My hummingbird attends,
I’m doing research
Lurching from sleep
Thirsting, cursing:
“It’s always been this way”
My hummingbird smiles.
Prague Spring 2018
Prague Spring 2018
A castle bare, tapestries
gone, no battle left to fight,
stained glass in a cathedral
surrounded by cobblestones
– a national museum
A Square that’s a rectangle
where you catch tram number nine,
M and S underwhelming,
Grand Hotel renovating
– a national museum
All the beer has disappeared,
dumplings, sausages, mustard,
replicas stand on Charles Bridge,
remembering a Kingdom
– a national museum.
And all the while Jan Palach burns …
Moanbaun Wood
Moanbaun Wood
I found my spectacles on the path
retraced my steps
thankful.
I wanted to see the recording.
the man in the green coat and black hair
came here by night
crisp clear sight
a lantern on his forehead
he said some dogs were trained here
maybe search and rescue.
how many shades of green are here?
this is a place to stumble into lines
into phrases
even stanzas.
rocks and puddles
jays, blue jays.
on this trail I met a chaffinch.
she sang
to me
of light.
she flew with an open air
across the trail
above the trees
above the pines
she spoke to me of days to come
and I walked on
with a lighter step.
on the bench
sat a magpie
she did not fly
away
she looked me with her sharpened eye
she called to me of days gone by
immobile days
one for sorrow…
she did not sing to me
she wrote a note of silence
in that resting place.
I walked away
she stayed with me
she never left my shoulder
her grip
firm
solid
muscular.
she was no tenor.
that magpie had a nest nearby
I could see why she picked me.
where has my chaffinch gone?
she’s not so strong.
when will she rise again?
when will she lay her eggs?
around the corner
downhill
there are songbirds.
drops
raindrops
hang
from twigs.
ah that song
again.
this is the way.
Broken
Broken heart
Broken mind
Broken spirit
Broken images
Unbroken heart
Unbroken mind
Unbroken dishes
Unbroken feathers
Unbroken veins
Unbroken arteries
Unbroken breath
Unbroken nerve
Broken sleep
Unbroken dreams
Unbroken thirst
Broken bristles
To be broke
to be human
to be live
I Love Women
For International Women’s Day today – I give you this celebration of women.
I love women
I admire women
I am jealous of women
I am enriched by women
I have been saved by women
I love the shape of women
… the flaws of women
I am infuriated by women
I love cooking for women
I am irritated by women
I despair of women
I am tickled by women
I write for women
Women have made me a man.
Testing the embed code provided by AnchorFM
I’d prefer you to see a pretty audio player – though the sound quality is pure raw.
Here’s the best I can give you – because this is a WordPress.com site.
If only this was a WordPress.org site … things would look different & sound the same.
But – maybe your look would change the sound you hear?
David Gluckman, author, is here
Am I the only one?
1.
I was killed at school.
The bullets hit me somewhere
in the eye, ear, nose & throat,
maybe through my heart.
I didn’t feel a thing
pierce my umbilical pipeline.
I guess my mother’s blood gushed.
Maybe she hadn’t decided what she’d do with me.
All that ammunition …
Cartridges for crucifixions
Explosions of extreme unction
A Hell of Heaven
I imagine the bard broken.
I was gone within a heartbeat, snuffed out.
Was I the only one?
2.
I was elected at home.
The votes cost me
a bank balance weighed with wishes.
I keep eyes, ears, nostrils, speeches primed.
I feel throbbing hearts,
invocations of investors …
shareholders sighing like furnace …
I am a political animal,
I stand to attention for the last post
in association with my brothers-in-arms,
with every voter who craves the right to shoot,
to the grave.
I’ve earned the money to pursue the sins of the Senate,
the hustings of the House.
I’ve paid the price
Am I the only one?
3.
I am the gun that shot the child
in many places.
I have an owner.
A kind, gentle, considerate, generous, careful citizen.
An emotionally retarded, psychotic, neglected, deprived, abused, vengeful
collector of beauties.
My barrel gleams.
I am an automatic obliterator,
my owner is a dead shot,
proud, defender of the faith of our fathers,
responsible,
lover of fire & brimstone.
I love my owner.
Am I the only one?
_________________
(17 February 2018 – in honour of 17 humans massacred in Florida – 14 students + 3 faculty members)


Martin Luther King
January 15, 1929 – April 4, 1968
I wish that I could sing
a song so strong
your dream would seem
to have returned to life
on streets
where blackbirds thrill
and arms are bent
against the ring of a call to prayer.
You sit on the right side of an angel’s wing
You rise with horned larks
across farmlands, prairies, deserts, and golf courses.
I have a song
that waits to be sung
the day a choir is born
surrounded by mixed fruits,
blackcurrants, redberries, dark chocolates, and meringues.
Martin Luther King
you’ve never slept,
always an eye forever,
a tooth ready for the call,
ready for the Promised Land.
Walter Whitman – 3 notes about Walt
Historically speaking, did you know that:
American poetry that many readers think of as essentially “American”–free, open ended, rough and inclusive–came largely from poets in New Jersey, particularly Walt Whitman, Stephen Crane, William Carlos Williams, and Allen Ginsburg.
Whitman was born on Long Island but spent 20 years in Camden, N.J.
His “deathbed edition” or “Leaves of Grass” was prepared in 1891.
Ralph Waldo Emerson heralded Whitman as the poet for whom America had been waiting.
_____________________________
John Tamiazzo, PhD, is executive director of Verde Valley Humane Society.
… Seeing the smiles on their faces and listening to their positive attitudes, reminded me of a book I was currently reading on the life of American poet Walt Whitman, authored by Whitman’s personal physician, Richard Maurice Bucke, MD.
Buck spoke affectionately throughout his memoirs about Whitman’s demeanor.
He said that in the 20 years he knew Whitman he never argued or spoke unkindly about anyone. If literary critics spoke harshly about him or his writings, Whitman would simply say that they were absolutely correct in their criticism, thus lessening the emotion of the situation immediately.
Bucke wrote that the central teaching in Whitman’s poetry and lifestyle is that beauty is all around us and we just need to recognize and appreciate this beauty with our God-given senses.
Whitman strongly believed that we are missing out on the enjoyment of life when we long for things we don’t have or become judgmental too often.
Instead we can simply open our eyes to take notice and to see the bigger picture, open our ears to quietly listen, and open our hearts to a deeper wisdom and knowing of how much there is to be thankful for…
Bucke said that he never met a man who genuinely enjoyed so many things and people as Walt Whitman.
Whitman was kind, generous, gracious, and grateful. He was especially fond of children and animals. He exuded such enormous charm and love that he literally transformed the lives of everyone he met…
Continuum
Continuum
Depressed
Miserable
Sad
Unhappy
Dissatisfied
Discontent
Irritated
Pleased
Content
Satisfied
Happy
Delighted
Joyful
Ecstatic
Magical
Fulfilled
In defence of unhappiness
In defence of unhappiness
“Happiness is a warm gun” – John Lennon
As the cuckoo grabbed a nest
and crushed eggs to death
blackbirds sang
As hurricane winds blasted
and tree trunks fell
wood beetles sang
As mayflies starved and died
exhausted swarms collapsed
hover of trout smiled
As meteor crashed to Earth
the sun went black
jellyfish smiled
As serfs and slaves revolted
blue blood was spilt
beheaders sang
As Job tasted pestilence
a hunger reigned
Almighty sang
As foetus died stillborn death
a mother wept
a hope was born.
____________________
Note: Audio recording is here https://anchor.fm/e/993838?at=1085154
Waking up to genius music
The ideal length for a piece of music
I recorded this as my contribution to the online music festival #Octaver17
After Sunday
‘It’s hard
to start…’
______
After Sunday
A roll of the dice
A cut of the cards
Slot-machines
Night and Day
rolled into one
Background & Hinterland.
Did Elvis chant
‘Let’s Strip You Bare’?
Music & Musaque
‘ Where have all the jute-boxes gone?’
——
What’s your poison?
Your cocktail?
Your justification?
To be sure,
none of us expected you to order
“Massacre on the Rocks”.
No parrot sang
“Pretty Polly
Off your trolly
No folly
Pretty Polly
Off-duty
Police officer
Nurse
Local government employee
A couple of Canadians
With his fiancé
A very good mother
Heavy-duty mechanic apprentice
Maple Ridge
Big Sandy
Henderson
23
29
20
22,000
Vesuvius
Pompeii on the Strip
_______
‘I won’t be right
until I’ve written
– even then
I won’t be right.
I lost my heart in Vegas
Nevada
Cork.’
Nobody but you
There are too many bloody good people around
They make me sick with their good intentions
Puke with Generosity
Retch with Universal Love
Angels cast in vomit.
Too many spirits carry the burden of pain
– as if one snake’s venom was bedfellow
to a reptilian Collective Conscience.
Give me the fiery “Go fuck your trouble”
anyday.
Stop feeling for me.
Cut out the empathy surrogacy.
Drown in your trade-marked tears.
Do something for yourself.
Go walk your own mile.
Go be nobody but you.
Isn’t it hard enough to live one life
than to be mother to another?
So many good people
Twas a bitter night,
earthworms driven deep,
swifts and swallows flown from sight,
few nuts laid to sleep.
On the road well-trudged
shoes sliding behind,
crowds into my face misjudged,
to their rhythm blind.
An all-weather pitch,
hummingbirds and rats,
a carpet woven eldritch,
oodles of green hats.
Twas a spark, a flame,
kindling wood for home
way beyond a trace of shame,
whispering coxcomb.
Too many good people
abroad with wisdom,
blessed good loving people
mend sorrow’s kingdom.
So many good people (new poem – first audio version)
Waiting for something to happen
Waiting for something to happen
that isn’t
already
waiting for something
that Godot
missed,
Waiting for someone
to hiccup
more than me.
You see
waiting is (a) creating
gestating
sublimating
art
Not Farting But Founding…
—————
Will
The rain fall?
The toilet flush?
The doorbell ring?
Will
The jackdaw land?
The chicken lay?
A pony snort?
Will
That fish spawn?
This hiccup die?
Her tongue melt?
Her wit end?
Her scream echo?
Will
Friday follow?
The poet’s grip falter?
Your journey age?
Will
The albatross be called Wisdom?
My hummingbird depart?
My sign language strike a chord?
Your fingernails warm?
Waiting for something to happen…
A story take on a character?
This ceremony embrace your destiny?
My watch tick?
Tim Miller wake in time
to catch Godot working?
Miracles
Waiting for something to happen.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 