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Category: Poems

When I was a young man

When I was a young man

I was young forever in my early twenties.
I was infinitely young and immortal
from about age 20 to age 34.
I was really somethin!

But now I’m oldly looking on with a glass eye
that turns a little too unnatural, a little walleye.

Shakespeare we don’t know.
He kept himself out, all we know is the totality of the vision.
A vision that grew, that got wider, deeper, wiser.

Then you got suckers like me
who just talk about ourselves
as our visions get colder, glassier, further, blacker, emptier.

Too bad!
Doubtless there was something there at some time.
And isn’t that how it goes!?

AMW/BW/that gloom

Lonely Monster

Lonely Monster

Who walks with long thin legs,
flings itself across the world really–
on those 30 foot chicken legs.

Besides its legs, it has long thin arms
and a bulge round arm socket
stuck in a round leather-ball body.

Giant creature that runs across the plains.
Terrible monster with a jagged-tooth mouth around its center.
And two giant wet squid eyes plastered into the three-fourths quadrant.

Horrible monster.
Wanting nothing but to, on long strides, toss itself across the seven seas
and the countless worlds,
spinning its arms and with long curved fingernails tearing through every living thing it can reach.

And yet
it has its sorrow, its hurt, its division,
and we shouldn’t judge overhasty.

Sad, lonely, cruel creature.
I feel bad for it, but we still must shut it down,
else it will kill us all,
and not in a redemptive, religious, hopeful 16th Century kind of hanging way–
no, it will just slice us all up like a blender would if it could
get so large and so mean.

Poor fiend,
lonely devildog,
rising up off the evil like some kind of a yellow vapor.
Wish I could stop it, wish I could make things nice.
But all these knives swinging in all these directions!

Still, I thank you for the flower
made of paper and bent with relaxed fingers that are too often tensed.
Well, well again, well around, our wheel comes round again with a bucket of water
to drop into the stream.
The water actually turned the wheel that turned the gears that turned the grind stone
that milled the corn.

AMW

Standard Theory of Pure Love 3: Supposing it were true

Standard Theory of Pure Love 3: Supposing it were true

I wonder what it would mean if people actually mattered.
Not just to me or you,
but really–
whatever that means.

What if love was realer than everything else?
And when you died,
what you were that was love
remained;
and everything else
didn’t–
because it never had been
anyway.

What if this life really was primarily a spiritual exercise?
And if you keep holy love as your center, all is well
no matter what.
And if you don’t, nothing is quite right
no matter what.

What if that’s not just something people say to break the ice
or win the round?
What if it’s truer than all the threads
that weave together
to argue it away?

What would I say to my friend if it really mattered what I say to my friend?
What if “really mattered” isn’t just an indefinable concept;
what if it also points towards a true knowledge
that I know
though I cannot perfectly define it,
or that I at least know something of
and know something of how to let it win
even though I can only get better and better
at holding, knowing, describing,
and sharing it,
without ever quite
catching it
in words
or even feels
or even maybe
acts?

What is the point of seven billion human beings?
What is the point of a busy world forced silent by the overhead catastrophes?

What is the point of getting together
or breaking up?

Why be Einstein sketching the edges
or Shakespeare painting from the inside out
or a skinny bum sitting on a heating vent,
sipping from her diet coke
and telling the air to leave it the fuck alone!?

And what is a human soul when dogs have feelings
and even gnats whisper a trace of thereness?

Who’ll stop the sides from falling into the center,
the stones breaking out
of outward blossoming walls?

You? Me? Us? Them? The god? God? Who? What?

I’ll wager you one life
for a life worth living–
one where I am really here now
and know it
and have reason
to be
and am
OK
with it.

—-
Attributed to the same old committee
Copyright AMW

What is this?
Well, it has to do with Love at a Reasonable Price.
In the first section of that evolving ebook are two stories from the town of Pine, Michigan–where Pure Love was once peddled and where in time a Pure Love Research Center grew. And at the end of the second store, a Pure Love researcher says, ”
To understand Charles’ and I’s research, you have to be at least somewhat acquainted with the standard model of Pure Love.”
So then we thought we’d write a Standard Model or Standard Theory of Pure Love–like how there is one for physics. But we’ve been having our troubles. So now we’re just writing poems around the topic, hoping to sink in at an appropriate place. So far the poems are all free (so far all poems are free: see “Poems” category on the right hand side). These poems and all other writings in Love at a Reasonable Price are listed and linked-to here:
Intro to Love at a Reasonable Price

Access to the whole evolving ebook, along with Love at a Reasonable Price for sale here:
Buy the Books

Wandering Albatross Press’s most physical products:

Buy Cat Totes!
&/or Objectively Cute Baby Onepieces! (advertised here: An ad for an “Objectively Cute” baby wrap

Standard Theory of Pure Love 2: About the Intellectual/Emotional Irreducible

Standard Theory of Pure Love 2: About the Intellectual/Emotional Irreducible

To feel or think a faith or doubt,
we rest upon the sense
that our feels and thoughts
can somewhere go,
can something mean–
are solid, worthy routes.

But what’s that undergirding sense,
us without we cannot trust
any sense that follows hence?

If knowing what is better
and following where it lead
are not within the scope,
or lie beyond the need
of my own heartfelt thought–
then the how and why
‘neath mental spires–
‘neath all my thought begot–
sink fast from flashing fires
that burn their ground floors out.

So faith in lawlessness
and doubting there’s a way
both break down at the gate.

So sole a course straight through
the sense we sketch but rough
(for sitting prior to all talk)
with “true” and “good”
is option to us human folk,
who can’t be but what we are.

Thus any answer we may post
for what we think to know
must ratify and follow close
our deep-in sense about
how Good nor True can go–
are ours before all doubts.

—–

Or wind round another way,
and hold our drive to learn
what’s best to be our own,
not mindless churns
untied to human yearns:

Our meaning speaks to us–
if not, we nothing more
but pretend to trust,
believe, and follow
what we never saw nor were.

And if our deep still sense
that kindness wide
and goodness far
and truth with love’s long reach
is start and path and goal in one,
and right to call us forth–
if that blaring inner light
does point away from right,
what meaning have we left
that matters very much
to us, to us right here right now,
with “it matters” at the heart
of all our thoughts and feels?

—

So there is after all,
a common faith–
regardless how we nod and shake,
we’ve a boundary shared,
beyond which any step we take
betrays all for which we care:

Faith and doubt are tools
to help us find our better ways;
if we so contrive them
to seal our minds
or shut our hearts
or keep love locked away,
they’re tools misused
that shot the hunter
and gave the game away.

BW/AMW

What is this?
It has to do with Love at a Reasonable Price.
The first section of that evolving ebook starts with two stories from the town of Pine, Michigan–where Ichabod the Love Peddler appeared over a century ago, and where there now stands a Pure Love Research Center (at the University of Pine). At the end of the second story, a Pure Love researcher says, “To understand Charles’ and I’s research, you have to be at least somewhat acquainted with the standard model of Pure Love.”
So that seems to call for a standard model or standard theory of Pure Love–similar to how there is one a standard model for physics: a set of principles and findings that just about all practicing physicists agree on. But we’ve been having our troubles writing a standard theory of Pure Love. So now we’re just writing poems around the topic, hoping to perhaps eventually sink in at an appropriate place. So far these “standard model” poems are all free (so far all poems are free: see “Poems” category on the right hand side to see them all). These poems and all other writings in Love at a Reasonable Price are listed and linked-to here:
Intro to Love at a Reasonable Price

Access to the whole evolving ebook, along with Diary of an Adamant Seducer for sale here:
Buy the Books

Wandering Albatross Press’s most physical products:

Buy Cat Totes!
&/or Objectively Cute Baby Onepieces! (advertised here: An ad for an “Objectively Cute” baby wrap)

Standard Theory of Pure Love 1: The Prophets Retire

Standard Theory of Pure Love 1: The Prophets Retire

And looking down the ridge line, from Northtown to the sea,
They sigh and roll their shoulder caps, a swanning at the sky

The stars quick flicker white and cold, their gods in stories told
eyes tall and wide with sparkles shameless–mirrors of the flame.

“Enough, we’ll unenlist ourselves of this our then-time sacred charge:
No calling can outcall the comm’nest call of all:
To speak no more nor less than through us turns the wheel
and jointly rounds us one and all to God’s wide meet-up field.”

A nod as one–but relaxed, with placid pouted lip.
Then off-slough their burlap robes, the cowls fall’in first.
And dressed like you or me, in street clothes of the day,
they sally to their other-handed, uni-hearted ways.

“A time when many kinda know, and when the knowing’s out there;
when word travels fast as light, around the bend and back again,
reverbing, growing tight.”

“No more the solitary saint, some one who keeps the key.
That system bound by dogma, in bent-up storylines.
Its strength allegiance; its weakness just the same.
So now we’ll talk together, each sharing praise and blame.”

Author: Bartleby Willard
Copyright: Andy Watson

What is this?
Well, it has to do with Love at a Reasonable Price.
The first section of that evolving ebook starts with two stories from the town of Pine, Michigan–where Ichabod the Love Peddler appeared over a century ago, and where there now stands a Pure Love Research Center (at the University of Pine). At the end of the second story, a Pure Love researcher says, “To understand Charles’ and I’s research, you have to be at least somewhat acquainted with the standard model of Pure Love.”
So that seems to call for a standard model or standard theory of Pure Love–similar to how there is one a standard model for physics: a set of principles and findings that just about all practicing physicists agree on. But we’ve been having our troubles writing a standard theory of Pure Love. So now we’re just writing poems around the topic, hoping to perhaps eventually sink in at an appropriate place. So far these “standard model” poems are all free (so far all poems are free: see “Poems” category on the right hand side to see them all). These poems and all other writings in Love at a Reasonable Price are listed and linked-to here:
Intro to Love at a Reasonable Price

Access to the whole evolving ebook, along with Diary of an Adamant Seducer for sale here:
Buy the Books

Wandering Albatross Press’s most physical products:

Buy Cat Totes!
&/or Objectively Cute Baby Onepieces! (advertised here: An ad for an “Objectively Cute” baby wrap

We lived there

We lived there

In the hollow
in the wood
by the stream,
where it bent
around Great Oak.

How wonderful for us
to be there in that place,
where everything dripped sunlight
as juice peach
splats dirt floor,
and selfless love
was reasonable,
made perfect sense,
fit right in
with the vibe
of the place–
such a great place.

I wish you’d been there
and me too.
and I was still there
with you
when we were there
together,
which never happened–
except in the place
where all
that should’ve
happened
happened
and keeps happening.

So I’ll go there now
by turning round
and round
my center pole–
held still,
burning white light,
and stretching
up above
and down below
forever.

And by and by
sit there
with you
on the sandy bank
that the stream
bends around.

Needle Down

Needle Down

Needle down
Twist around.
Now you’re talking.

Saw whirring
through the bone.
Keep it rocking.

Wrists tied twice
to the stone
Drop it down,
yank the moan.

We’re monsters on safari
In ill-fitting
pin-stripe suits
In ink-stained
dirty collared
dress shirts.

We’ve mastered every combination
And watched down every lane.
We’re pulling up the rear boys
There’ll be a show tonight boys.
For sure.

A single malted whisky
with scotch to rub it down.
Now gather ’round my pretties
we’ll whoop and spin the town.

I’m berserk for all this
Just crazy for the win.
The answers they’re all falling
like manna safely in.

Poem BW or AMW depending.
But copyright must fall to AMW, for being real as day

Our great escape

Our great escape

We stole a lightning raft
and floated on our way.
Down the slick blue stream
that turns and glints the day.

We snuck beneath an arch
between fields that front a sea.
There a god apportions life
to hopper, fly and bee.

We ran our motors loud
and called the moon beside
to beat the blazing sun
and jump the curving tide.

And so we get away
and I escape the curse
of always wanting more
and being just the worst.

New York – A Worrier’s Requiem

New York – A Worrier’s Requiem

Shiloh – A Requiem – Poem by Herman Melville

Skimming lightly, wheeling still, (7: 1, 3, 5, 7)
The swallows fly low (5: 2, 4)
Over the field in clouded days, (8: 1, 4, 6, 8)
The forest-field of Shiloh — (7: 2, 4, 6)
Over the field where April rain (8: 1, 4, 6, 8)
Solaced the parched one stretched in pain
Through the pause of night (5
That followed the Sunday fight
Around the church of Shiloh–
The church so lone, the log-built one,
That echoed to many a parting groan
And natural prayer
Of dying foemen mingled there —
Foemen at morn, but friends at eve —
Fame or country least their care:
(What like a bullet can undeceive!)
But now they lie low,
While over them the swallows skim,
And all is hushed at Shiloh.

…..

Opening wide, rolling round,
that cloud from jostled frames
–that billowed cauliflower–
blooming now where just before,
sure and pretty, towers tall
as steel as glass as glint
will reach
funneled passion and her minds.

Through the pause of light
that followed the secret fight
’round the folk of New York–
a folk so rich in towns and creeds–
who’d echoed together in good in bad.

Their natural prayer
ignored by cinch-down certainty
that bade the core evaporate
and edges melt to scream.
Oh lie us low, let it go–
the discussions radiate
all through a forgiveful heaven.

AMW’s writing exercise

I know

I know

I elephant eye long looking past
with the twitch-limp in my long-lip smile.
Walking across the lawn in flip-flops,
in nylon bag-around shorts,
in faith and style.

With the sunlight in my eyes.
Early in the mornday sun.

That’s when I know.

I hoot-a-nanny with the bass
thump bumping in the scatter
and the crowd jit jiving
in the move-fast lights

While the fire burns me from
the inside out, whirring my
frolic across the smooth top floor.

And so I know.

Talk to the girl with the itch
in her eye.
Talk to the bird with the hop
in her flutter gait.

Rolled up in sheet leaves
and the look that wraps my own.

So then I know.

Longtime now, playing basketball
in the second grade.
Longtime now, up and down the
squeaking plastic-top floor.

Longtime now, lurking by the creek
looking for another dart
beneath the tilted planes.

Longtime now, knowing all I know.

God who splits the pavement.
God who herds the cattle.
God who crumbles the edging.
God glint my eyes–
the highway rearviewed.

Getting along, unable to stop the flow.
Getting along, unable to stop the plain
clothesman watching signs from the shade.
Getting along, can’t stop the end
from circling ’round,
mixing in my blood,
overtaking the song.

Still I know,
even though
I won’t
outrun the fireplace.

Still I know, so something rests
easy in the place between
the caulking and the Listerine.
Amidst the hurt we didn’t stop.

What should we have done?
Why didn’t we manage?
And what to say now?
The loss coats our hearts.
I cannot believe in anything.

And yet I know.

Hold me when I cross the stage.
Hold me when I burn the temples.
Hold me when I cannot win
and must not fail.
Hold me today when I’m scared.

There’s a place between.

So we know.

But what do we do?

Poem copyrighted by Andy Watson, who takes a walk with Bartleby Willard, the two of them forgetting the themes and losing their shoelaces. I’ve not heard them. I’ve not seen them. I’ve not known the way to fix the boat, to rig the sail or anything.