They used to burn leaves on the streets Of Richmond, Indiana. The streets Rustled under our feet. Swishing through the night In scare-garbs, my sister and I In town visiting our cousins, We swished door to door bumming Sweets, big bags full To take back to the farm on the hill And dip into for the next two, three days.
But the smell of fall and school Always pressed me to crave Summer, this rustling fall Whispering in my face And though I barely caught the words, Their meaning was cold and clear And their promise kept when morning Broke and the ground was covered. Fall had turned on me And made walking down the hill slippery.
Image created by Gemini and Grok inspired by the poem
this building
for Thomas & the RB
this building is our world. we must learn to love it as we fault it. with its mouth of glass and steel it sucks our life like an armored leech. we must not let it suck out our hearts for if we do, it will swallow our love as it does the dreams of the students who sit for our classes. we must not let this building our world twist our minds into nests for birds of gloom for if we do, no butterflies will delight us with wisdom. we must not shatter our will against the newest testament that declares the messiah hath arrived and his or her name is called VAX. for is we do, we will not intuit that a messiah named VAX is better than no messiah at all. we must not let this building our world calculate us among the weak in spirit for it we do, we will learn to fear the words that ignite our souls to burn the dross from our mood-dimmed brains. this is our building, our own world, for all of its cold, sharp edges, for all of its slave laborers, and for all of its empty promises— it does offer our only shelter our only ground where we can meet, smile and say our small hellos
“When the yogi, like a tortoise withdrawing its limbs, can fully retire his senses from the objects of perception, his wisdom manifests steadiness.” —Bhagavad Gita II:58
I move slow, but what if win the race? Will thy affection remain or fast fade ? As speed is thy god, slow remains my pace. I bear this heavy shell wherein I’m staid.
Thy form unencumbered I do admire, Once dumped over, I struggle long and hard; My cooked flesh the gourmand’s greed does desire, So I support the vegan’s cleaner board.
Still, my fierce jaws from time to time will snap At crazy bugs, small fish, or busy hand. What choice have I beneath this heavy cap Wherein I creep and crawl upon the land?
I shall not weep; I’ll simply turn my face And drop out of thy breathless, vapid race.
Converted to a Shakespearean sonnet from my original free verse poem “Turtle Woman,” which appears in my collection Turtle Woman & Other Poems.
“I felt so symbolic yesterday” —Adam Duritz, “Mr. Jones”
Standing in the doorway, sniffing the 20 degrees outside, a late February snow blowing down covering the ground in one of its last fiestas before spring sets in, I feel so literary— like, man, I’ve felt this stormy snow and wind many times in the pages of books.
Similar to a caffeine buzz But instead of propelling to more movement Instills urge to more calm, more stillness— Until you zoom into the Star!
Image: Original photo by Linda Sue Grimes, text added by Grok
A Prose Commentary on My Original Poem “Soul Buzz”
In my little poemette “Soul Buzz,” my speaker reveals a form of heightened awareness that differs existentially from ordinary physical excitement. The opening comparison to a “caffeine buzz” refers to a familiar sensation of stimulation, alertness, and energy. But the poem immediately distinguishes the two experiences: whereas caffeine propels the body and mind toward greater activity, the soul’s distinctive “buzz” instills the motivation to achieve quietude, calmness, tranquility, stillness (Be still, and know that I am God . . . KJV Psalm 46:10).
This contrast establishes spiritual awakening as an inward experience in which consciousness turns away from external distraction and toward the deep perception of the soul. The repetition of “more” emphasizes the progressive deepening of this inward movement. Calmness and stillness remain the essential, yogic conditions for meditation and spiritual realization.
The great guru Paramahansa Yogananda teaches that this stillness prepares consciousness to envision the spiritual eye, whose luminous center contains a brilliant, silver-white, five-pointed star. The verb “zoom” conveys the exhilarating intensity of focused consciousness penetrating the spiritual eye. Ultimately, the poemette presents stillness as a dynamic spiritual experience culminating in the vision of the Star and the soul’s movement toward divine consciousness.
The concluding phrase, “Until you zoom into the Star!” directly evokes this spiritual vision, transforming the poem’s apparent paradox into a steady movement from inner quietude to transcendent, divine perception, or samadhi.
Well, there it is. As pink as you painted it. The bed stripped naked. No need to make it. But I probably will. But not right now. No, I will walk past it. Close the door. Not think about it. How bare it is. How you won’t be there tonight Or tomorrow or any night now.
And though you are a smiling bride On your wedding day, For a brief moment You saw it too And felt that pull Away from the room, Away from your home And me.
In a blaze of memory the streets flare up Between the concrete cells of my brain— Hard as night the rain has not loosened the fire That tears through the walls of my mad heart.
You rise out of the demolition of buildings. With the axe of your words you hack through the cement— Sidewalks and down alleyways you gain speed Surefooted and safe from this mad stalker heart.
My thoughts dangle at the end of a long line— A stranger assures me that many fish still swim In the oceans and time has a way with mad hearts— But she has not heard your boots on hardwood.
And she has not watched you brush grass from her hair And she did not feel the thunder in your voice The night that lightning struck the house And put out the fire with your naked hands.
Image: Max Surreal Abstract Image by Grok inspired by the poem
Maybe his memories are locked Under a grin With rolling paper bags To keep them in. He probably pushes doll dresses Or stages wakes. You won’t see him in the thick Of things like shipwrecks, Although he might canoe downstream, If someone else paddles. He may use tools with short handles But no one knows where he keeps them. He is not a mystery, only a puzzle With a few missing pieces. He is volcanic but not violent. His flair for luster is sometimes bold. His lack of tolerance is rolled In mixed nerves and senses. He could be struggling for self-seizure Or maybe he is just getting off on the flowertops And saving the stems for later.
