This old duffer has obviously made out better than Charlie Brown did. And to think he made a play for that beauty in 1970, and she actually made him her Valentine. I think there may have been a flower or two and certainly chocolates involved back then. She never reaped the full benefits of Valentine’s Day since her birthday came a week before it, and since holidays were his “long suit,” she usually got screwed twice in a week because he was (a punny guy) a horny romantic who was usually broke—so he’d write her a poem. She has been, still is, his muse. When one feels so full of this life, the miracle, the joys and pains of living, that they are compelled to write about how they feel, they must be/have been in love. Poets are lucky bastards because they are in love with life and feel the need to share their views with others, leaving these little language constructs, momentary reminders, of how sweet or bitter it can be to be here experiencing the wonder of existence! The muse and the poet are one. So here you go, a few poems from this poet (and his muse of course) for your Valentine’s Day. Good ol’ Charlie Brown would sigh and smile that crooked smile reading these babies leaning against his mailbox post as Woodstock flutters in with a single stemmed forget-me-not on Valentine’s Day! Wishing you all no grief today. Remember the love. Peace
We Love We dream We want to Leave our Mark Accomplish something Be recognized Be remembered Be revered As someone special Someone others like Would aspire to be like Like a God Idolized Heroic Not some loser An insignificant Invisible Not the typical Hypocritical Egotistical Human Being We want to Be more Than what we are And I guess There’s nothing Wrong with that If we weren’t Driven to be better Deluded by pride We would end This nonsense Forgo the self- Indulgent pain Incurred by a brain Too big and too small To handle all The duplicitous misery of Being Human All the bleeding waste We dream We love
First Date When I forget that night at the State Drive-In with you in the backseat of Christ's brother's '68 Wildcat, Elvis ministering to Mary Tyler Moore's Change of Habit . . . nothing will matter anymore. When I forget the smells of your hair and the Wind Song on your neck, the Coppertoned skin of your legs & arms against that tight-white terrycloth shorts & top outfit, our blood throbbing, the trickling sweat . . . nothing of me will remain. When I can't recollect the fullness of your mouth hungering to devour mine, the anxious embrace of your arms, your breasts pressing into my chest, and our tongues tangoing the ballroom of yes . . . nothing will be left of my mind. So, today, when you ask me if I remember this anniversary, the 43rd since our first date, I laugh at the silly romance of it all, duck my head as if someone lurking overheard—afraid to be found out a dream lover like you . . . that nothing else has mattered more. —for Pam
The Search And in the end we find it, what we’re looking for . . . if we find what we’re looking for is what we’ve found . . . looking for what we wanted to find. The search, the journey, the process . . . we all know the story, and we all know it’s true— what we’re looking for is the distraction we need because we know, really, there’s only one way to know, only one scenario where we find it and drink from the grail. Yet we look, we search the leafy shade dappling the board fence; the cat’s tail dancing as it sleeps in the window sill; the child’s sobby-song burbling out on a toddle-trot-&-stumble away from the dog’s tongue, arms up, tears sprinkling the ground. We know when we go slow, look close, savor the sweetness and the pain, we can find it, what’s there— because every moment is a quest, every taste is what we get, and sometimes it’s less than we hoped for— and sometimes it’s more, way more than we can swallow. Sometimes it’s more than we ever dreamed.
Love Poem Have you ever noticed How, regardless Of our age and all the jokes We make about getting Old and dying (and the physical evidence To support those conclusions) We are oblivious To the facts, the days, The changes, our decline? Our minds, the spaces We awoke in, still awake in Each morn, haven’t altered, aged, Lost or gained. Though We have had multiple And varied experiences, We remain this odd awareness We’ve always known, Attached and unattached to all And nothing but ourselves, This inner-scape of observation, Joy and fear, queerly disembodied From the meat-sack we pack Through the hours, mile upon mile, Before we finally let it fall, Lie down in the dirt And dry back to stellar dust, Pull the shades of our little cottage, Turn out the lights, let go Of this consciousness, these words, Thoughts, our yearnings to know, Enter that cosmic plane Where everyone goes, knowing They have done their part, Played their role, inhabited The theoretical variables of this Particular equation commonly Referred to as “life” . . . What I prefer to call “love.”