Diary of a Poet

Volume I

Just Scribbled Words© (1986)

My mind is like a city

of one way streets

all leading to its center.

Poems and parts of poems

and parts of possible poems

stampede frantically

in Twilight Zone redundancy

down each street

and i live

in the dust above the collision

unable

or willing

to control the bits of their shrapnel

as they tear through me

writing all that i can hold on to

long enough to slate.

I am not sure if i messed up the blueprints

or the construction

or if the city was already there waiting for me.

My best days are when i scribble frantically

or share those scribblings.

I guess that makes this one of my best days!!!





Thanx

SAMPLES

#17



He stood about six foot four

bare feet on the floor and pony tails down his back



He was quiet most of the time

when he talked it should have rhymed

it was about sunsets ad snow



He had dark colored skin

and was kind of thin

but put in a good day’s work



He would jot things down in a little book

and hide it away should someone look

and eat little loaves of flat bread



They called him Thunder

cuz his voice boomed when he talked

They called him fool

cuz he owned no horse but walked



They called him stranger

cuz no one seemed to be his friend

They called him Mrs.

cuz when trouble came he would not fight but bend



The men at the mill did not treat him well

but if it bothered him you could not tell

his expression never seemed to change



No one knows what he did with the money he got

whether he even spent it or not

but it was not on clothes



Wore a homemade vest of buffalo fur

and his pants weren’t factory made that’s for sure

and moccasins in the winter



Sometimes he would talk to the foreman

and often to old Mrs. Gorman

when she brought in a pie for the men



One day a fire broke out in the mill

while everyone ran old Thunder stood still

the payroll was in the back



He finally came out with ash on his face

when he got to the foreman he slowed his pace

and handed him a pile of burnt bills



The foreman yelled something about it not all being there

everyone gave old Thunder a stare

but he just turned and walked away



They called him a thief, said he would hang

when he was near there were songs they sang

about indians being dirt



He said it was all, they called him a liar

one day they set his cabin on fire

they were still there when he got back



He walked inside against their demands

appeared with the corpse of a woman in his hands

he said that it was his wife



He said that when the mill burned down

the money had been scattered all around

he had picked u what still was good

asked why none of the rest of them would



Tears rolled down his face as he turned

and carried his wife back into the flames

The men stood staring at the ground

no one dared to make a sound



because the indian never came back out





#31



A friend

is one who laughs

and cries

and shares their joys

and sorrows

one who can predict

how you will feel

one who is ready

to hold you

if you are crying

who makes ready

if they are not

one who tries their best

to do what’s best for you

one who holds out a hand

when you are falling

and when falling

holds out a hand

doubting not

that it will be taken

one to whom

you are bonded

the strongest bond

that does exist

yet one with whom

you feel free

one who knows

just when to talk

or when silence

for thought is needed

one from whom

nothing can be hidden

yet with whom



you have nothing to hide





#74



Music is a river

formed by many streams



Sometimes reality

often holding dreams



Quietly through forests

cascading over waterfalls



Dirty in the city

it hardly moves at all



There is room for the children

room for you and me



Current only to feel

waves that you can see



It tangles with our world

present on every shore



Always leaves you hanging

crying out for more











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