A Found Poem

It might have been written

on a napkin and stuffed into a pocket

or the back of a work order in a construction yard

a post it note or clean white sheet of paper

neatly folded

put into a shirt pocket

it might have been lost

and lamented

or forgotten

or even discarded when the writer

came to his senses

but it is written

and it will be written again

and again

and this will go on

in some form

forever

and it will speak of truth

of desire

of injustice

or simple beauty

it will come from the heart

and it will

beg plead and demand

it will seek

it will cry out

it will compel

and because you

picked it up and read it

it will live

Night Sounds

I left my home last night

as the world around me

was falling asleep

and I walked

far into the night

beneath the trees

and the low

illuminated clouds

I walked until

the sounds of night

overtook the sounds of

the evening

where

music and voices can be heard

from doorways

and alleyways and when

it's gone and the sounds

of night are all around

you walk softy

and try to be quiet

because it is the sound

of slumber and dreams

it is the soft breathing

of a child sleeping

you want to hear it

you want to feel it

because it is pure

I came home before the dawn

fell into my bed

and tried

to keep it

 (note: this poem keeps changing. No doubt it will again.)

Memo

There is

I am saddened to announce

no more room for improvement

it is partly an age thing

and partly a matter of having tried

all the known options and variations

to the points of exhaustion 

and distraction

so

from this day forward

we will no longer seek to

improve in any fashion

and will concentrate

only on output

because as time grows ever shorter

we discover that there seems to be

increasingly more work to be done

and we feel the level of excellence

currently achieved

will suffice

thank you for your continued support

                              the management

1976

She came around to the back

She parked her car 

 and didn’t even bother

With inquiring at the front

She just walked around the building to the back

I was sitting on an empty crate

Just outside the overhead doors

Taking a break

Smoking a cigarette

She stood there for a minute

Just looking at me

There was tension

I honestly did not know

If she was there because

She couldn’t stand being away from me

For another second

Or if she was going to throw my keys

At me and tell me

She had had enough

And oddly

I was okay either way

If I could have just frozen that moment

Walked away from it

And never learned the outcome

I don’t think I would ever had wondered

Not much

I knew it was going to be over soon anyway

Just like you know when the season

Is about to change even though it hasn't yet

We ran out of good times

That’s all

We just ran out of good times

1977

She who is forever lost to me

She needed everything I could not give

  that I did not posses to give

  or could not find within myself to give

  And nothing that I could

She gave what she could

  everything she could do without

  and it was everything I desired

  but little of what I needed

we kept each other company

  for a while

  through late fall and

  winter into spring

  and drifted away when summer came

  it was the heat perhaps

Coffee Cups

I left your coffee mug

in the cabinet when I left

maybe the next tenant will

appreciate it

more than likely

the cleaning crew that the

leasing agent sends over

will take it

maybe put it in

the garbage

I guess if you had

wanted it you would

have taken it

maybe it held bad memories

or maybe good ones

maybe I will see it

in a Goodwill store someday

right there on a shelf
next to mine

Blank Canvases

I am accumulating blank canvases lately

the way I used to accumulate blank paper

before there was a computer / word processor

most of these canvases I have made myself

from good quality wood and hardboard

One day soon I will start painting

large loose abstracts mostly

the way I intended to one day soon

start writing on all that blank paper

   large concise novels mostly

I have a good supply of paint

a nice assortment of brushes

and palette knives and such

I had a good supply of words

  still do I suppose

I'm just not sure where I put them

  I laid them aside one day

and started making canvases