Asia’s Rain

When the wrapping paper flares
in freakish red and blue flames
and its ash rises on its own heat
up the blackened chimney flue;

When the ornaments and lights
seem tired and longing for the attic
or basement where they can rest
until someone feels excited about them again;

When the gingerbread houses
have been stripped of all the good stuff
their icing is rock-hard and
they are left as offerings to the squirrels;

When tannenbaums poke out pathetic branches
half buried in the snowplow’s berm
half torn by the snowplow’s blade
waiting for Removal Day, whenever that is;

When you are tired of the metaphors
of red and green and music of bells
and your poetic mind can’t bring itself
to write twelve stanzas for contrast;

Christmas is over.

Christmas is over.

Don’t run up Cheese Factory Road
on the second Sunday in January
if the wind has already beaten you
as you came up Palmer Hill.
You can sit in your warm office
in the late afternoon and search
the Internet for the word “cornice”
then browse through awesome pictures
of silver crystals whipping from the top
of a curled, white ridge, while dramatic
blue-sky backgrounds let you imagine
how fucking cold the photographer was.
At least you won’t be the one plucking
ice from your eyebrows and wondering
what frost-bitten earlobes look like.
You can Google that later too.
Don’t pretend that coming down
is easier than going up,
such thoughts are fools thoughts
when your mantra should be:
Wind-chill saps the body’s strength.
Let someone else berate themselves
for forgetting their face mask.
Let someone else drink Gatorade slush
in their last few miles.
Then call me and tell me how you
drove past some poor bastard struggling
up Cheese Factory Road.
I’ll be soaking in a hot bath,
but I’ll still pick up the phone.

A few years ago I was reciting William Blake’s Ah Sun-Flower to my son when a tune popped into my head.

I sang it through a few times and the tune seemed to fit very nicely with the poem.  Since I have no formal musical training, I made a recording of myself singing it and sent it to a professional musician to have it produced.

The following mp3 is the resulting production which I received.  The song is sung and produced by Mike Jasper of Austin, TX using my tune and William Blake’s original poem.

I hope you enjoy it as a diversion from my usual poetry postings. 

Happy New Year, and may you all find your own “sweet golden clime[s]” in 2009.

Ah Sunflower

My face was warm as I sat and thought
About the money, and the money, and the money.
My feet were as cold as a slice of January wind.
And somehow I just sat there
Feeling everything within my warm face
And cold feet,
Wondering if you were coming to find me,
Or coming to despise me,
While I thought about the money.
I wondered if you would ever come
Or call.
My cheeks felt like a hand slap,
My freezing feet.
I kept looking through the dingy glass
To see if you were following
Or up ahead,
Wondering if you were far behind,
If you were cold or warm,
If you thought about the money.
I sat and despised my sitting.
I thought and despised my thinking.
And the money–How I despised the money.