Monday, November 5, 2012

You Used to Run Across this Sand

You used to run across this sand
Your breath, your heat, your straw blond hair: the chemistry of you
impressed the sand, diverted waves, colored the air
An essence like flame, invisible in light,
a hearty presence at night amidst
the mist, glowing in the white halo of the moon,
against black water laced with white strips of roaming foam,
in forever rushing receding clunky roar
You, a swelling in the air, ghostly flower flame, still running, still girlish, still vital; still.
Oh, I touch the sand and feel your warmth
I ply the waves and feel your splash
I breathe the air and taste your breath
Your footprints are still here, and though long ago gone
you are still here:
separated from me only by time

Friday, March 23, 2012

Even nonsense rhymes will do

It doesn't matter what I write as long as I start
Even nonsense rhymes will do as long as they're tart
I say this plainly though it would make some cringe
But I don't really care as I'm out here on the fringe

You'd better not be leaving me too far from here
Then you'd have to catch me though I thought I'd made it clear
I would not be drawn back in again to take those pounding waves
Set off by every slipping fault, by all those stormy days

Writing nonsense like this has such a calming effect
But now that I'm trying to make those rhymes, the effect is wrecked
Doesn't really matter, I can still keep on trying to do this
I can always fall back on cliché, but that's so hit or miss

Ha, hah! I laugh to myself; that was a funny joke, wasn't it
Using a cliché to illustrate a cliché, I really must admit
that I'm cleverer than I thought, that these ideas just come to me
And here I am on this computer just giving it away for free

Now I'm wholly immersed in another world that really isn't another
It's a story that didn't really happen, though it kind of did, oh brother
The coincidences between the details and sudden remembrances
All those things that really happened are providing all the nuances

Remember now, it doesn't matter, I don't have to be Mr. Poet here
Just keep up the good work, keep up the good cheer,
Just a few more months and this long year will be up
As I type and stare at my coffee-filled cup

Ten or fifteen minutes walking in this searing morning heat
By the time I get here sweat is draining down my arms onto the street
They all say it's been unusually hot this summer but I think that's folly
These past few years have been mild, I say, it used to be this hot, by golly

I raise my gaze from tiles to the sky and run my eyes
from those tiles to the steel table, bushes, dirty white station, girder tower, white clouds, and icky blue sky
Not so keen on all this today, so I guess I'll just pretend
And since it doesn't matter what I write, on that note I'll end

Yesterday while drinking ice cold coffee at my table at Aobadai
I started reading through my B**** G*** story, and I don't know why
But even though I was not planning on finishing it until after my workout
Some phrases came to mind, and in a few minutes the ending came about

And a sad one, too, oh, the weight of a broken heart
Even though he hardly knew her, even though they hardly had a chance to start
She just walked away, maybe by instinct, tactic, I don't know, it was just so her
And though the story is over, I'm already thinking about the next chapter...

There again are those tiles, bushes, train station, tower, clouds, dirty blue sky
Through the other window is the train bridge over the road; doesn't say Miyazakidai
Says Kawasaki-shi Miyamae-ku in big black letters on a faint green background
I'm here because it's the only coffee shop around

Of course, I like my place, my table in the brightest place in Aobadai
Though it doesn't have to be there, there are those places from where I can spy
on the girls walking by the glass wall on the floor above, but must be careful not to stare
when they get too close in short skirts that fail from this angle to cover their und*rw**r

Oh, shut up. Yeh, I know I'm not supposed to get a kick out of that
I'm supposed to avert my eyes and pretend it's not something for me to look at
It's the way of the world, I guess, to claim one thing and do another, especially when it gets too hard
Oh, what do I care, I'm just typing here, trying to be a bard

Here I am at the Starbucks in Aobadai where I wrote an email to Rob
It's fun writing to him, because I think he understands things. He doesn't have a job
now and is writing music for his future as a musician. I hope he succeeds
If nothing else except for the motivation it in myself also breeds

I'm also creating a synthesis of all the versions of my Message in a Bottle story
All those attempts to follow editing and writing rules made me sorry
that I tried to fix it for public consumption, forgetting that it’s the storytelling
that will give pleasure, not the mechanics, which, though important, just keep things from jelling.

Still have 55% percent of my battery left. Pretty good since it's been three hours
But I feel a lunch coming on, guess I'd better go eat before the showers
What am I talking about, it's not going to rain today, or anytime soon
That's right, I did that for the rhyme, just like this next phrase: hey, it's almost noon

The other day I got to watch the number 10 ranked woman squash player hand out an ass-kicking
The guy looked like he didn't know what hit him, maybe he didn't know, but he got a licking
Of course I couldn't do much better, especially now, with everything hurting like they do
I still have to be very careful about twisting my leg like a screw.

I finished up Cosmic Time Warrior and did some more Time in a Bottle synthesis
It took just a few hours of work, well, not really work but play, not bad Chris
Gotta go back to my place, maybe type some in or practice guitar
Writing stories, writing music, writing manuals, which one will take me far?

Ugh, nonsense is nonsense, so is this spiral into the negative
Oh yeah, done this before, forget it, be positive
Just figure out an exit strategy, you can always go back to who you trust
How about some pie with crispy sweet crust

Friday, February 24, 2012

Look who won

White foam chases me across the sand
But I stay just out of reach
Until the sea recedes and leaves a band
of that white foam ― stranded on the beach