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[from August, 1999, workshop:]
Blessed be our afternoon
No mean glare
The sun is shining
money well-spent
the food was good
Let's think not of the second cmoing
Enjoy the pleasure of it all
our embrace will help us through
problems are no match
for the healing powers of love
Not just the summer of '42
Let history repeat itself
[Three poems from May 20, 1999:]
I saw a lovely flower in her eyes
I watered myself with self-centeredness
My pride grew and grew,
adorning leaves of hope
but, alas, her flightiness took over,
allowing herself to be picked by somebody else.
* * * *
I was not born early enough to experience the malt
shops my father knew about when he was a
youngster. Hamburgers were old-fashioned back then.
I probably would have enjoyed eating one of these
old-fashioned hamburgers with a real pickle
included, the smell of dill exuding past my nose
as I slurped on my chocolate milkshake,
listening to the paperboy yell "Extra, Extra."
But I will probably have tales on my own when
I am older, passing along the information to
any passer-by who cares to listen. I'll
inform them of when fast-food was merely
prepared fast and not approaching the speed of
light.
* * * *
All hail! Rise to the marigold hallejulah.
Promises of "I am not a crook" mimic
tribal connotations of "Hair." Let
the sunshine and shampoo in. Goldie
Sunflower Hawn is pretending to be
dainty again, laughing up the storm
that drenches America's funny bone
but Fido don't care that the tomatoes
are newly planted. He's trying to
do some yogic rolling around all over
the garden patch, playing with his
red rubber ball, his crystal magic
equivalent of tang but if carrots
are more orange than oranges, Peace
Pledge. Rise up, wake up Kellogg fresh,
lean up against the care-free Wall-Street
wall, then start to sink down when
the day is dimming, setting, slowly
but surely like yeast, like Betty Corcker,
like Little Johnny Smith's applie pie,
until the day, like the news, dawns
again.
* * * *
[Two Poems from December 16, 1998]:
What truth do words hold really?
The undue representation of body and voice
perchance to deceive or confess
the listener's ear does not hear the sweat and toil
truths are only self-evident
the many times I have tried to capture
the essence of a situation,
providing a key that does not unlock
the door to another's interpretation
truths are only self-evident
what truth do words hold really?
They can only be valued in the
way they are received.
* * * *
O woe he becam the
flame of life, the person
held in high accord during
Kwanzaa for his eye of
compassion. And he did go forth
through the city spreading
unity. when one now touches
the ground of the sacred
dessert, they think of him
and smile.
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