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A minute

A Minute

I miss you again.
Seems I am alright for
what the kids call
'a minute'.
Then I remember your touch,
your skin.
Always before I fell short
when it came to leaving you.
Lately I just pretend and push.
Still it's seeps, like a bad paint job
in the kitchen might allow grease
or nicotine to stream down
as if the walls were finally crying
from years of being covered
in shitty paint.

My favorite

I'm ending the evening with my favorite. This one has always been my favorite. It started the whole poetry and photo project, I sure wish I knew where those were.

Witness

There was a second when I thought to breathe,
to feel, to crawl under my own skin, turn it
right-side out, claim nothing more
than capability. As if disrobing
mid-sentence were entirely normal (accepted).
More likely it'd find you half undressed
with as much life as an eight (times 7) year old
hound stuck somewhere in Iowa exhausted
with July and it's knee high corn, serving him
as much purpose as you, naked on some corner,
skin all upside down and backward, stumbling over
your words, wondering who's idea was this anyway?
Still there was that second when I thought to breathe,
to touch myself as if I cared a great deal.
You came to watch and did so fascinated,
it was hard to see which was more beautiful,
more natural; you struck silent, or me
struck alive at your witness.

I really do like this one. I don't give a shit that every single person that reads it thinks its about masturbation. It used to bother me truth be told but now, not so much.

Power lines

Power lines, trees, and the human condition

My lover hates power lines
the way they barge through his sky,
as if he were the owner.
Still he hates them. Distracts him.
His mind spins a bit faster with
the buzz in the air.

Though he does love the trees
the way they scent his air,
as if he holds special claim.
They calm him. Lending shade
without a thought.

Not like people
with their penchant
for measuring this and that.
He doesn't care for them.
Rightfully so with the corner tree
struck clean through it's middle
with power lines.
As if man had finally
gotten his fingers
in every bowl .

Joshua

The poem below was inspired by a poem written by Jane Kenyon, and dedicated to my son Joshua

I hope it shows the respect I feel for all of her works, as well as all I feel for him.
She was an inspiration, he continues to be much the same.


In the Grove: The poet at Thirty

She saw him stretch;
long and lean -
the timothy bowing to his form.

A plane rattled the window,
sliced the lone cloud -
one shape bending the next.

Silent he shifted visions.

Somehow, before awe
turned intrusion, she left him
to his day.

For Michelle

This is such an old poem. I rather doubt I will change so much as a comma in here but it is slightly immature, perhaps it needs to be. Perhaps that is my justification for letting it be as is.

For Michelle on losing a friend.

Some days aren't so bad.
Others wrap themselves
like Boa Constrictors
around your chest,
force you to gasp
wild gulps
of grief.

On those, it's me
you thank and call Angel,
for offering platitudes
of simple people.

Could be you don't see,
when your days tighten,
pain steals my breath
and I can do
no more.

Ok so I changed a comma but not much more. It does hold a special place in my heart so I'll stop.

Love Letter

Love Letter

Yesterday I drove to the snow,
. thought a bit of you
. a bit of me,
the clouds pressed against the mountain
seemed to be waiting for the sun to back down
so freely they could roam the sky.

I wonder, would you think them cowardly?
Sitting on the mountain's edge
like Mother Nature's Cinderella
alone at the ball, fingering a strand of pearls
not quite comfortable in the power of magic.

I prefer to think them polite,
standing down like the step sisters would have
if Cinderella had once, found her voice.

You, my darling, would see yourself
the sun, the hero. Asking only the chance
to share the sky.

Oddly enough I would agree.
Still, hardly oblige.

Change in theme

I'm going to use this blog to sort through my poems. Goodness knows if I'll find anything decent in there but I need a small distraction and maybe just maybe I need to get back in touch with my writing. To start off I am going to post a poem that never fails to catch my breath; it is not one of mine. It does how inspire and I need that if I am going to go through my things!

North Rim
Edward Abbey
(July 1970 Grand Canyon, Arizona)

Everything conspires to haunt me here
with memory and thought and sense of you:
the fragrant lupine and the quiet deer,
the hawk that soars against the icy blue
of noon, the silver aspen on whose bark
I carved your name and mine within a heart;
the night you came so softly in the dark;
the day I came to you at last - to part.

My darling girl, is there no end to love
which lives despite all loss, regret and tears?
that flourishes on mountain rock, above
the plain, and grows against the wind and years?
Let it be so. I''ll consecrate my days
to loving love, and you, and all I praise.

Terms and Conditions

About two years ago a friend of mine had written out her "Terms and Conditions" for dating her. I thought it was a wonderful experiment and decided to try it myself. I recommend it to anyone with a spare few minutes, it is extremely eye opening and a bit of fun too!

Terms and Conditions for dating Carol McCormick

Required

Must enjoy the mountains - this must forbid you from destroying, littering, and any other activities that could harm the atmosphere of said mountain.

Must enjoy water - this should, as well, forbid you from harming anything involving said body of water.

Must adore children, this adoration must prevent you from harming said children without just cause. “Harm” must never include inflicting extreme physical damage, as well harm can not include any destruction of said child’s overall self worth – you are welcome to guilt trip and even scar, you must not however do so in a way that implies they are unforgivable and or without hope.

Must accept and not resent the fact that reproduction can not happen if and when coupling does.

Must adore animals, this adoration should forbid you from harming any animal without tremendous cause.

Must enjoy sitting through a sunset as well as watching the fog lift.

Must enjoy a good book from time to time, discussing said book(s) is a bonus.

Must possess the ability to be both sincere and sarcastic (one without the other is not acceptable).

Must enjoy kissing, cuddling, and most importantly foreplay

Must have a level of appreciation for beer

Must have a level of respect for music of all kinds – this is not to say you have to enjoy all forms

Must have a level of respect for art of all kinds – this is not to say you have to enjoy all forms

Must be of the mind that any sexual activity between two consenting adults is never anything
but glorious

Must be secure enough to know that flirting, is not only healthy expression but an art form.

Must respect privacy and it’s importance

Must have a level of respect for persons whom find work to be of the utmost of importance.

Must be able to enjoy the occasional rant – based in reality or not

Must appreciate the necessity of a good connection at all times, must also be able to handle the panic that follows losing said connection without notice.

Unacceptable


Must not be solely driven by monetary goals.

Must not be offended by the use of profanity.

Must not posses the ability to harm persons and or animals without just cause.

Must not believe that fashion is based in reality

Must not put stock in organized religion

Must not be bothered by people whom do not believe as you do.

Must not use guilt as a tool

Must not use ultimatums to obtain control.


Two years later, and I'd have to say that the above still applies. A co-worker of mine has said on a few occassions that my "requirements" are far too many and no one could ever fit the bill, I tend to disagree. In the same respect, I still sit here single so who knows?! :-)

Suddenly

I have had this poem in a book of my father's; one of his old college literature books from college. In any case I wrote this poem for him, rather about him, when he was sick. In trying to organize my poems I found there are some that aren't anywhere I.E. this one. This is the first draft and goodness knows if the final draft is anywhere but in his shirt pocket in his grave (I tucked it into his shirt at the funeral). His wife was none too pleased but that is a different post! Enough of the rambling, this first draft is stuck in the book, sitting on my desk and I think typing it will make me feel good so without further explanation.....


Suddenly

Suddenly I am less terrified to be your daughter
A little less ashamed of how tangled we became,
those two years after my son.
Grown as a tree might
grafted in some horticultural design.
Suddenly, I know I am yours
as I know he is mine
How innocent we all become
when it's that simple; how horrible
to have found it now. Maybe it's the lighting
in here today, or the unnerving way you all
sound alike on the phone when I call
and your brother(s), son(s) answers.
Perhaps it's your leaving so soon,
so soon after I'm not so terrified to be your daughter.
I am a little shaky, my feet aren't quite my own,
rather like roots in new dirt, fingering around
for a solid grip.
Maybe it is just the lightening in here tonight,
or the air with it's musky feel,
or perhaps it really is you leaving so soon,
so soon after I am not so terrified to be your daughter.

Carol Ann McCormick 01-31-00

God love poetry

During a rather stressful afternoon (mind you it's only 1pm) I decided to look up a poem that has been swimming around my brain for the last week; I have great admiration for the writer as well as the subject. Over the years I've gone back to it several times hoping to one day fully understand. The beauty is that I never have, each read gives me a new feeling yet never have I found it to be disappointing. I think I may be in love with the subject, perhaps that's why I am forever single....my ideal is a character in a poem.....

          He Held Radical Light

   He held radical light
   as music in his skull: music
   turned, as
   over ridges immanences of evening light
   rise, turned
   back over the furrows of his brain
   into the dark, shuddered,
   shot out again
   in long swaying swirls of sound:

   reality had little weight in his transcendence
   so he
   had trouble keeping
   his feet on the ground, was
   terrified by that
   and liked himself, and others, mostly
   under roofs:
   nevertheless, when the
   light churned and changed

   his head to music, nothing could keep him
   off the moutains, his
   head back, mouth working,
   wrestling to say, to cut loose
   from the high unimaginable hook:
   released, hidden from stars, he ate,
   burped, said he was like any one
   of us: demanded he
   was like any one of us.