Poem of the Day 3/3/21


I want to be-

As Ginsberg described Dylan-

Transformed into a column of air,

No longer substantial, but only movement.

Then I could rage down 9th Street,

The way the winds once did on cold winter mornings,

Forcing us to pull up our coats up against that fury

And roll our cigarettes inside sheltered pockets.

I could sweep coolly over Cooper Square,

Tumbling, the way we once did,

Drunk with youth and whisky,

Racing to wherever it is that spring breezes go.

I could be some weary sailor’s salvation then.

I could be the song not the singer then.

I could be only the whisper, soft against your ear.

If I were transformed to a column of air.

Poem of the Day 1/28/21


Sitting, like Rodgers Hornsby, looking

Out the window at the bleak winter day

Waiting- yes, for Spring- for the green grass

And the heralding crack of bats,

For Trout and Mookie and Thor, X-man and Judge, the Polar Bear,

For days less full of nights, certainly

But waiting, also for you and me,

For that version of you and me,

Wandering in lone back fields

And riding rough pine beams

Or watching quietly at night

For sometime we have not seen

Yet in the old ballgame,

Quiet, with sweet anticipation,

Waiting, once again,

For the smallest shred of magic to be reborn,

In a Spring night’s journey home.


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Poem of the Day 1/21/21


Static was, of course,

His constant companion.

The low, dull roar of a wave

Neither crashing nor ebbing,

In unending roar,

Toward a never reached shore.

It walked with him.

It drove with him.

It layed down with him

The soundtrack of his days-

The Vacant space between

Radio Stations and CB transmissions-

This was his truest friend

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Poem of the Day 1/5/20


Looking up at the cover of clouds,

I am reminded of being a child

Of fanciful games played under blankets,

The haze of cloth obscuring the light.

Those games would end, always,

When the air grew heavy and thick

And the imagined roof became only an obstacle,

Keeping me from the cool, clean air.

And I would rise up and wave my hands

And shake off the oppressive shroud.

Under the cover of clouds, now, though

I can only turn my head down,

Pull my collar up against the wind

And hope tomorrow,

There will again be the sky.

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Thank you for reading. Stay Strange.