A Week in the Life of a Poet.

A week in the life of a poet.

Monday 10:20 a.m. 


Long day it s t r e t c h e s,lazy like a cat,
s p r e a d o u t upon a sunny windowsill,
one half a cup of coffee slowly chills,
my body struggles to deny my will,
with things to do, and people yet to see,
it's much more fun to sit, just let things be,
and write some poetry to match the songs,
still humming in my head all morning long.

I wonder if great poets often spent,
days just like this, most surely heaven sent,
sweet rests turned into stand-zas, sitting down,
how nice it feels, when one just loafs around.

I see them scratching thoughts on yellowed sheets,
the poets Frost, Miss Dickinson and Keats,
in ink that flowed much faster than their flesh,
as they arose and let the long days mesh,
with scattered ruminations in their minds,
captured in simple words, that savored times.

Life goes by in a rush, we must take pause,
and step out of the crush of endless cause,
and so I dally by my windowed screen,
that lights a world of poetry serene.

I ask all those who write, to treasure this,
one moment in my life so full of bliss,
just find the time, to do the same, some morn,
before the peace, you love so much is torn,
amidst the massive workforce daily born,
that lines each face with burdens so forlorn.

My close is drawing near, I must arise,
to face the effort of my endless tries,
to break free from the dreary drudge of tasks
that never seem to end, "Dear Lord I ask,
send me a bit of fame to pay my way
I'll honor you with poetry each day
giving you praise for cat-like 
s t r e t c h e d o u t days."

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Tuesday 8:15 a.m.


Morning came like 
the inside of an old shoe
in the cavity of my mouth.
Sleep dirt built a mountain
in the corners of my eyes
and bed head never looked so
much like Carrot top as today.

Toothbrush painted crests
and whitened the canvas
of my numbered squares.

Washcloth bulldozed the
sleep dirt into a eye level plain.

A hot shower melted marshmallow
hair into a manageable rag mop.

My coffee came out stronger than
Arnold Schwarzenegger's armpit
after a 2 hour workout
but 4 spoons of sugar and some
hazelnut creme made my own
morning workout more palatable.

Some days it doesn't pay
to get out of your bed
you have to borrow the energy
with little or no inte-rest
note the 
emphasis on the rest
I am no longer interr-ed in.

But the sun was annoying,
the paradise I was tossing in was lost
to my snake eyes popping wide,
and a couple of dogs were licking
my toes like clumps of Bil-jac
thus I have arisen 
from the dead of dreams long passed 
and penned this paltry poem.


Wednesday-7:45 a.m.


It's a refrigerator outside
backpacked school kids
are mustered in yellow slickers, 
and some are playing catch up 
near the corners of this 
vast icebox of an April morn.

S-Mothers and Pop-sicles stand
a non-embarrassing distance away
amidst the clouds of their breath, 
waiting patiently for that giant 
orange-yellow cheese block on wheels
that carries their chill-dren
off to cultured places.

16 bloated birds, 
all puffing up their feathers 
to keep warm,
squat like butterballs around
my well stocked feeders.
They remind me of 
tiny stuffed turkeys, 
thawing out only 
to to be re baked 
in the solar oven to come.

I would invite them in 
but they would most likely leave 
spatters of white
all over my studio, 
like renegade brushes
flinging abstract inspirations.

My coffee is tardy this morning
but soon enough 
I will watch it perco-late,
into the joy juice 
that keeps me sane.

It's hump day
and if I were still addicted
I'd smoke a camel or two,
but for now my rush 
comes from blending poetry 
with a couple of smoked sausages
and two eggs over easy.

Later I will venture out
into a warmer April's embrace
and savor the Spring that is still
bouncing around between,
the frigid-aire of winters past
and the Maytag
that will be here soon.


 

Thursday 10:27 a.m.

Thursday was warm, and sunny,
as my forsythia became five.
Another new bush 
butters my landscape,
over the brown toast of my lawn.

Of course John Deere, 
was anything but......dear to me,
and required a new battery, 
to get him to turn over and move.

He's been sleeping off, 
his grass and weed habit ,
for many months now,
on a strict diet of garage floor dust,
and spiders escaping the cold.

I think all of our 
batteries are weak,
and the spring recharges us.

Thursday should be called Th-urgent-day,
for by now we are all thirstday,
for the end of the weak.

Work weary we so heartily enjoy,
that relaxing couple,
of Sat-his-day away, 
and Sunned-her-day off.

My poplars are shedding, 
roach-like shells,
and bright red cattails, 
all over the place. 
My one weeping willow,
is dressed in neon, yellow greens,
as if for a leprechauns funeral.

My dogs are full of spunk,
humping anything warm,
even chipmunks run in terror,
of a musky, fur blanket smothering.

Summer winks from a far off place,
in the back of a daffodils trumpet,
still muted by the chill breezes,
that linger early, and late in the day.

But for now I am fleeing 
these lovely panoramic 
April heavens,
for a palette of fresh paints,
soon mingled with a bright world, 
of my own created 
on a 20"x30' space.

Sometimes being an artist, 
is like being a, 
miniature god of sorts.
We bring bits, 
of our own visions,
from the world to life,
and then hope that someone,
will worship our handiwork enough,
to sacrifice some of, 
their earthly worth,
to share a place ,
that was offered deep,
from our inspired souls.

Friday_ 10:20 A.M.

Most anytime I can be found
In a chain of aisles -(Isles)
that I frequent weekly,
all those shopping aisles, 
book aisles, and archive aisles,
where I seek out required items
for my tiny thatched hut of a studio.
it's here where my palms sway over, 
many supplies most helpful to me,
discovered by my intense searching 
as a castaway from society's norm.

It is where I 
struggle daily to survive, 
often finding myself 
Robbing sun from my life,
after a Cruise so tedious.

Lost in the shadows of 
my many burdens
that left my young dreams,
marooned in a middle class status,
off the long sunken ruins 
of my relation-ship
with financial independence.

Having little to work with 
in my space allotted
except my creativity 
and ingenuity.

Sometimes a starving artist
and at other times a Tiki god
dancing at great feasts
commissioned by all
those native to my passions
who bear many gifts in exchange.

It is here in a hammock
of netted worries.
that I greet with delight.
the early morning arrival of
my man...."Friday!!"
who shows me 
by the five o'clock hour
the sheer sanity
of partying away
just a couple of days
at weeks end simply
by leaving my isolation
for a wade into the joy
of just having fun.

In a paradise of escape
he always shows up 
in the nick of time
on the fifth day
offering me a fifth
of something much 
more relaxing
as we toast
a break from the monotony
of surviving the bleak
drudge of keeping 
shelter over our heads
and food and drink in our gut.

Come Monday he vanishes.
in the fog of early mourning.
Bittersweet memories. 
dissipate with alarm.
at the thoughts of. 
all one must face ahead.
until he returns
with a crooked smile.
and a beckoning arm.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Saturday 10:18 A.M.


Saturday ever so politely, 
lifted my eyelids,
and mentioned that maybe, 
I should get up,
sometime around 10:00 a.m.

The sun was illuminated 
through the window,
right on a very personal spot of mine,
that was already quite up, 
so that my morning visit,
to the commode was, 
a bit of a bend and strain.

Lazily I got dressed, 
and went to the park,
for some woodie time not of my own,
making upon awakening this morn.
I saw turtles sunning on some rocks,
shelling out their various body parts,
to the warm April weather.

As well as the trout, 
leaping from the lake,
looking ever so natty
as they caught a gnat or two

I grilled out some hot dogs, 
and savored the flavor of, 
charcoal broiled meat,
in a primitive surrounding.

It was hard to leave such, 
a heavenly place left, 
in its natural state,
for the artificial light, 
and structure of my studio, 
but I had an art lesson to teach,
and a budding young mind to
coax into early bloom.

Much later,
vibrant colors that splashed, 
across her canvas for two hours,
barely rivaled the smile,
stretched across her face.

Night is too soon drawing near,
its pencil cutting shades of grey,
cross this space I exist in,
in five hours or so it will be,
a Sadderday, 
because it's nearly over
with only one day 
left till mundane.

But tomorrow is another promised,
languishing stretch of hours
just hanging out in the sun daze

of my second most favorite
of all the days of the week.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sunday 9:49 p.m.


And so the weekend 
rolls over and dies,
like a bug that's crawled 
over a weeks worth of, 
sun baked, fried egg pavement,
to finally reach that sweet,
puddle of melted fudge-sicle,
in the cool grass of a Friday fumble.

Whereupon he gorged himself,
for two days in the nectar's,
of a carefree life,
feeding on the most joyous,
of times and taste,
only to end up bloated,
hungover and
dead to the world,
come mundane morning.

Suddenly finding himself,
blown back to the beginning,
of that long stretch of road,
heat waves rising in curled lines,
one foot forward to cross,
the long stretch to that next,
Friday's fumble of responsibilities,
perhaps some Kool-aid spilt
or a margarita splashed
as his final destination
to the next weak-end 
from this one.

Sunday evening 9:49 p.m.