Netting the Future

RELYING ON MY HAMMY PAST


Happy Holiday! It's Christmas Eve here in Phoenix. Los and I are probably gonna' ride over to his godfather's, Nino Eddie's, later today. Unfortunately, a bid of bad news: another of Los's godfathers, his father's best friend, died yesterday.

My thoughts have been wrapped up in other's words the last few days, a nice, nice article at Salon.com by David Brin on the latest LORD OF THE RINGS film which reflects a bit of my thoughts on the film as well (see my review of the film, the December 19 web-log entry) and a book by Jamake Highwater called THE MYTHOLOGY OF TRANSGRESSION. So far, the book is just intensely right and powerful and thought-provoking. I'll share more as I read more.

So, to compensate for my shortage of words the last few days, I'll now share some densely-packed words with you now, some of my poetry. Some of you out there know some of the stories behind the poems, but rather than catch everyone else up, I'll just let the words stand on their own...


ORIGINS OF WAR
(or EROS HAS LEFT THE BUILDING)

Love once lived here, in Eros's masculine frame;
I'm the town where Love's waters flowed freely and tame.

But, it was in my port where poor Eros was drowned.
A Japanese dog and a traitor pulled him down.

The demon dog used his special tongue--cheated, lied.
"Love, please love!" were the last words that poor Eros sighed.

Aphrodite attended poor Eros's wake.
With each step she took through me, my buildings did quake.

Afterwards, Love left like she was running a race.

* * *
Now, shouting, here comes Ares at a fiery pace,

"Let's fill that fickle traitor and dog bitch with pain!
If Love can't live in here, let War begin his reign!" (July 26, 1998)


CHESS

My brother smirks behind
his white fortress, fumbles
with his mood ring (angry-
black as always) and laughs
at my obvious clerical ploy.
While I remove
my socks, he fingers
his bishop, and I
see the trap only
seconds before my horse
falls into it, thrashing,
dark blood flowing
from its sculpted nose.
I crush one
of evil's pawns
under the white
bloodless blade of my thumbnail.
He kidnaps my
queen. My cheeks tingle and
I scream until Mother moves
me
diagonally across
the carpet to the corner
of the room, places
my nose on the wall,
and says,
"Stay here 'til your daddy gets home." (August 15, 1991)


HUGGING SHADOWS
(or THE PALE PROCESS)

Peering
up the tree
whose limbs reach
down to me
but are too high
to climb, I stretch
up to two men
who are
both named
Randy D. Gadd,
who fly, with wings
one and six
years older than me,
over the leaves:

the pages in my photo album,
the names on the gravestones,
the angels I long for. (August 8, 1991)


CHIAROSCURO

You cast a Rembrandt
shadow on the wall
as fading sunlight flowed
into the room. The bedroom
became a dark masterpiece,
and I could smell you, could almost
taste you, as you whispered
something to the black window. I closed
my eyes and consumed the dark
art in the room; and when I awoke
an hour later, you finished
our portrait with light from the bright hallway. As you left,
you cast a Rembrandt
shadow in the hall. (1992)


GRIMACES IN THE DARK

Treasure youth.

It is full of small, green perceptions
Of grown-ups' ripened ills and perfections.

Laugh with your children.
It brings gold dust on the wind.

But, don't belabor innocence for reaching.
Make sure you practice what you're preaching.

And, never deliver blows
To the child who writes poetry.

Imagination
Is the world's most valuable spark.
Beatings
Only snuff it out and create

Grimaces in the dark. (May 7, 1989)


EASTWARD DESCENT

Teddy Johnson was a whole two months early
When he came into life in Mississippi.
Disturbing silence. Overwhelming Scriptures
Gripped his hushed soul and scarred his knees with worship.

He raised his head to the sky and beseeched
Whatever. He crawled through the Heart of Dixie,
Blind and trusting. No helpful benedictions
Were said. Teddy fled to the land of peaches.

Now, he wastes away on the Chattahooch.
He won't voice his woes to the deafened Lord.
As he drags his toes toward Atlantic's shore,
His lungs release mist and his face turns blue.

He plunges eastward and no sounds of hymns
Sing from the purse-proud priests. Teddy can't swim. (January, 1990)


TITANIC

I was huge, indestructible, the best,
My hard-headed prow far over the rest.
Wrapped in false armor, I sailed to the west
To find love's red rose--my new-outing quest;
But Passion booked passage, an unknown guest.

He strolled my cold corridors, lovelorn caves.
His fire warmed me, made me his steamship slave.
He cracked my compass; we were two blind knaves,
A pair of jacks outranking kings. He gave,
And I gambled he was the rose I craved,

But his flame faded; old ice cracked my chest...
Petals of blood flowed from my heart in waves.

I'm in a rose-storm of love now. I'm blessed,
But I sink into lost Passion's briny grave.

Take away these lead-weight roses. S.O.S.!
S.O.S.! S.O.S.! Please, please, save me! Save... (July 15, 1998)


OBI WAN

You raised me from the yellow sand,
sheltered me in the dusty land.

You bore me to a gully green,
showered me until I was clean.

You filled me with vast blue will power,
stood me up strong in your safe tower.

You healed me of hate's indigo scars,
took me outside into the stars.

You led me from night to orange day,
endowed me with force to cleave the haze.

You showed me red heavens to scale,
hoisted me up through the dank Hell.

You set me free with violet wings,
taught me to lift my arms and sing.

You left me feathers of many colors to try...

and I'm a rainbow now across a swelling sky.


Thank you, Ben (July 10, 1998)


Well, that's it for now. We're headed to Nino Eddie's. Have a wonderful day today and have a wonderful day on all your tomorrows.

--Michael Adams
(All writing contained in this web log, including the above entry with all of its poetry written throughout the last several years, is COPYRIGHT 2002 Michael S. Adams.)