Song, I am

I am late,

again,

but worth waiting for

I be the god in the glottal stop

that can stop traffic,

put out streetlights in my sleep.

I am the cello-waisted

baritone under your breath,

makes the knees of bees

quiver in their hives,

Honey

I am the haze in Monet’s gaze,

a cat purring on your

sacred sacrum

while you dream

of roots reaching down to trace

the fractal weave of leaves,

the bloom of your lungs, singing,

bringing the be to becoming,

thrumming

the strings of all those lost pianos

in Iowa fields, humming

a sea of middle-C’s

I am the sea change and return

I am the conclusion, foregone,

the forlorn beginning

of beginning again,

and again, a wren

wriggling the first worm

under her gibbous moon

the gibbon grinning

with the inside joke of every punch-

line

saying,

not so bad, baby,

not too late:

you
were worth
waiting for

Sing yourself - On track

On track

“On track”

Side track

Side rail

Discarded rail

Train tracks may be crossed in many places

Mind no anatomical heed

Turn off your magnetic attraction before approaching this powerful thorough way

of the iron breed

Leave no penny leave no traces

Stations

Slow moving yards

“All aboard”

a few haikus revealing self

this moment right now
is all i really know well
so please don't miss it.

*****************
hardscrabble farm kid
my blood runs thick with forests
that never get felled.

*****************
song of me wild flung
also soft in the shower
even mice can hear.

Better off wild / better off quiet

There is no beauty greater than I, sitting soundlessly on the ground until the time I rise.

I could jump in the lake or run down the hill keeping warm on adrenaline and zany abandon.

In dreams, Dr. Seuss trades drawings with me. Mick Jagger feels I’m a freath of bresh air.

Using mnemonic devices, I manage to check off items on the to do lists in my dreams.

A hundred poems a day and a novel get lost in the wind between my mind and the writing.

Empires treat my blood like gold. The violence is not my fault, but sometimes troubles me.

My body upon waking is the heaviest thing in the house. Elephants could not move me.

Any of my motes, acting alone, can heat the air in a room, but to cool it all must act in concert.

Top to bottom, the business world (gratefully) grinds to a standstill the days I play hooky.

The ocean will make me a fine bed where I will be able to roll all night and never fall out.

My Song, by Elvis Aphrodite

if you want a song where it is like the star spangled banner and everyone has their mouths open and everyone is feeling fervent, that's not my song

am i more like elvis presley belting it out, only elvis is playing an accordion
that is like a red bowling ball, glittery and bright,

only elvis presley is the goddess aphrodite, and also ceres,
offering organic persimmons that are floating out of the red bowling ball colored accordion music

only elvis-aphrodite is also a cosmic nova, and also playing songs
to support uprising farmworkers, who are also protesting the destruction

of old growth forests, and also she-he-they, red and glowing --wait, also
orange like thin sunrise fiestas or how poppies can shout through their
purple fuzzy gullets, fiery pumpkin frothy pompous and swiveling in the wind,

already instantiating by their very presence, a quavering in the air
from shimmy shaking, a reverberating
a new/ancient sounding, something orchestral and galactic
change-making by its very sound, awakening, startling, sonorous
like whale song in the garden, inspiring halle-lus and clapping
coming from that crimson shiny bowling ball accordion

and maybe, maybe, yeah, everyone is also mouths open belting it out,
about spiral revolution, but also peacefully smiling, knowing
it is already made so by the very presence of our synaesthesia,
our knowing, our loving, our cavorting, our crimson shininess,
our fantastic capacity to dance
through portalways of time and place

yes that song that song that song

Me Myself - March's first prompt

"I celebrate myself and sing myself." --W.Whitman

Starting with the assumptions that you are wonderful, fascinating, powerful, holy, magical, transcendent, beautiful, elemental, astonishing, famous, regal, central...

write a poem that sings yourself to the world.

You are telling the truth about the wonder of yourself, so there is no need to disclaim any boasts.

Sing yourself.

Everyone looks forward to meeting you


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Labels: poem, myself, [your name]