Poems of Life

To honor our brave soldiers and their families.

Ed Corrigan — Sat, 25 May 2013 04:45:29 +0000

Leaving the Family Behind

The very roots are torn from the tree.
The soldier must soldier on with heart,
mind and soul 9,000 miles away.
The very roots are torn from the tree.
While families left behind live a daily
palpable drama hoping to avoid the tragedy
of the reaper rapping the death knell knock.
Knock Knock, “Good day. We are the ones who stay
behind to comfort the dying for the dead. Here to
soak up the endless tears from eyes without lids.
Eyes staring blindly hoping this cannot be
really happening – please just not today.”
The family remains, the tree withers and
sheds its leaves blowing in the cold west wind.

Sergeant, I see the tears in your eyes beneath your
glasses wire rimmed, while holding young wife and child
in your arms so tender, in your camouflaged fatigues
and dusty combat boots. Suited up for war then packed
into a gutted flying machine like a thousand sardines.
Seated next to your brothers and sisters – comrades in arms.
No one is speaking as if words will only bring a suffocated
choking response and life would never again be the same.

The very roots are torn from the tree. Let us
nurture the fragmented ones left behind. So that:
Their pain becomes our pain; their joy becomes our joy;
Their lives become our lives; their love becomes our love.
One love…

Cloud Shadows

Ed Corrigan — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 03:40:16 +0000

I saw cloud shadows
Atop rolling hills
Dusty green and hazy
In the mid-day sun

Cruising straight ahead
On a never ending road
I sit and see
Life passing by me

Cloud after cloud
Shadow after shadow
A feeling of uneasiness
Rises and fades away

The mind misses the train
White cloud misses the rain
All the while does not explain
The scissors in my brain
How can I live without you?

Cloud shadow floats still
Painting the good farmer’s hill
Where all good children return
To love To play To cry
Under radiant steel blue sky

I was thinking of isolation

Ed Corrigan — Sun, 14 Apr 2013 04:57:49 +0000

silos

here we live
in silos
of our own making
undertaking to
keep us warm
safe from harm
from coming undone
silos taller than we
i cannot see you
you cannot see me
how safe can one
really be

next door is an ICBM
door next is a long lost friend
whom i hope to see again

there is no sunshine
no sublime
no love
no holding hands
silos
built on our fears
brick by brick
a thousand feet thick
we are beyond reach

is my reality
so separate from yours
only two doors down
we can’t even talk
or touch
the tips of our fingers
and life lingers in
a forbidden zone state

it’s never too late
to tear down the walls
within and between our souls

Row After Row

Ed Corrigan — Mon, 04 Mar 2013 00:56:28 +0000

Row after row
The undertow
Pulling me out to sea
A dead man’s float
One man’s hope
Is not to be.

Row after row
Tan square little
Pill boxes simple, plain
Nothing in between
One green house with
Shutters, a single spire
A few flowers are seen
Here and there
Blowing in the wind
A broken gate
Swinging, creaking.

Row after row
Plate glass window
Ancient mothers’ children
Propped up, prone in bed
Some hanging head
All plugged in
Tubing intravenous
Sustenance losing ground
Clear blue sky
A single white cloud
No rain, no rainbows
I walk on idly by
To hospice, cathedral, Amen.

Row after row after row
A gust of wind
Dries the throat, the eyes
Silently whispering good byes
Row after row after row
Unflappable stone heads
Not bending to the wind
The roses, the grass
Lean in
And brush my soul
Between
The thistle and the tomb.

Valentine

Ed Corrigan — Sun, 03 Feb 2013 05:45:32 +0000

Valentine

Listen to the music
Listen to the sound
Turn off your thoughts
Tune in turn on
Gather round
Miles Davis is calling you
Gather round
Listen to the sound

Tiga Tiga boom boom
Tiga tiga twiddly mac twat
Tweet tweet twat
Bang a dong
Never ever, never ever mind
So what
The song
Bang a dong
Free me baby, free
So what
Give it to me
The beat, the beat
The unintended
Syncopated beat
On the street
Off my feet
Down the street
Moves on
No song
No memory
No intentions
An uninterrupted stream
A stream of consciousness
Beat beat beat
Searching a rhyme
A rhyme divine
Searching for a mind
No clash
A movement
From my head
To my heart
To and fro
Sway and fro
Brain and soul
A rhythm
A non rhythm
Bang those strings
Bang those skins
Bang a dong
Rough rough roughillicious
I am all
Tongue tied twisted
Beat up inside
King Kong and his bride
His lily white
Princess bride
Whitey tighty twiddly diddly twat
Searching for a string of notes
A parade of floats
Blue blue aqua velvet green
What a scene
A parade of boats
Rocking, rollicking bouncing
The wavy undulating heat
Strike those strings
Zizzy zizzy bingaling
And that horn
Blare blare mocaholic sound
Beat beat
Blow baby down
To the ground
A ground zerooooooo
You are the one
You are the one
Be mine every
Be mine in
And every
Time
Baby, it’s so good
For what ails you
Move body, mind
Heart, soul
The beat goes on
In a song
Without a song
Bang a dong
Within your mind
Oh baby be mine
All you need is
Love Love Love
Beat Beat Beat
All the time
Loony toony
Rhapsodic
Time
Incredible
Tripper-cerrific rhyme
Be mine
Be my
Valentine
Ffff fade away baby…

christmas dreams

Ed Corrigan — Tue, 25 Dec 2012 19:50:55 +0000

there was a fluttering
of birds…
must have heard
the word
in my head
bird, bird, bird
bird is the word…
they took off flying
floating, circling
futa futa fluta fluta flappity flap
going nowhere then
back to ground again.
where are dey going
this rainy christmas eve?
flutter flutter
zippity do da
zippity ay
then dey
back home again.

if we could only but
stay in this moment
in a bird brain trance
we could be
we could be
present
in this christmas of dreams
outside our own thoughts
circling circling circling then…
back home again
with omega the cat
who looks into my eyes
wondering…
where have you been?
flying with the birdies
my fine feathered friends?

then back to me
here
now
my present,
time to close these eyes
and sleep again.

Lost Friend (remembering Newtown)

Ed Corrigan — Sat, 22 Dec 2012 07:31:27 +0000

Watching and waiting
For a friend to play with
Why have I been alone so long?

The masked man came to school today
He took my best friend Johnnie away
Mommy oh mommy when will Johnnie
Come to play?

The masked man said
“It’s your turn”
Then boom Johnnie’s face blew away
And all that’s left
Is his blood on my socks.

Mommy oh mommy
The blood won’t come off
my socks so white
this morning… before…
I don’t understand.
Can I keep the socks red?
They will remember my best friend
Who won’t be over today.
Tomorrow or ever again
How does this happen?

Son, he is in your heart
Your love will never fade away.

Soon you will see me
‘Cause I’ll be all around you
But where i come from
I can’t tell.

The masked man said
It was my turn to play
Then click click no boom
And the game was done
The masked man left the room
Then boom all gone
Leaving me with the others
Who were already gone
And Johnnie at my feet
And no more song.

I don’t know…

I feel so lost and alone
Even when I’m home
I’m all empty inside
My heart has an ache –
It feels dried up, shrunk
I want to be with my best friend
And laugh again
It will never be the same.

Watching and waiting
For someone to understand me
I hope it won’t be very long…

Through the Darkness of My Memory

Ed Corrigan — Sat, 08 Dec 2012 22:12:17 +0000

I am always returning to the past
It passes me by
And I’m left standing
In the middle of nowhere
Is it love?
Love we are searching for
In the deepest recesses of our minds
Between the cracks of our own existence?
We look toward beginnings
In the loving womb
The warmest, softest, wettest room
To the beginning of the end

Open my mind
To the truth that so painfully
Stares back
Through dilated, mutated, shredded, stoned out eyes
It is mine own truth
That scares me back into
The self-created hell of convenient infliction

Love is so easy
It defies gravity
Love is real
Real is love
Love is feeling
Feeling love
Love is wanting
To be loved

Back to the womb
Of all mothers subsistence
Before words got in the way
Of what?
No words to describe the
Ultimate peace within
The all-around soothing sound
Of waters embryonic
Return me to the emptiness
Of space
Floating, cruising the unknown
Happy to be there?
I just don’t know
Or can’t say
As my words are yet to be invented
Words will soon cloud
New horizons
Revolving, swirling, screaming
The chorus
Of my fragmented soul.

Stand of Birch

Ed Corrigan — Fri, 23 Nov 2012 05:06:06 +0000

The Stand of Birch
Protector of dark
Secrets inside
Halos of fairy dust
Tinker Bell tracers
Castle like spires
Splendiferous
Translucent
Lunatic-licious
A cloud gate
You must pass thru us
We will wash your
Mind
Then push you on
Into dark forest
Beyond
All experience and imagination
We will cleanse your soul
For your trip
Upon a path of no return
A shining cloud gate
Etherealite
Sparkling souls
Remnants of rusting leaves
Shuddering in the wind
Clinging like loose buttons
To a threadbare thread
Silver shadows with
Barely hanging ornaments
On bones so white
So straight
As not to bend
To your will
We will cleanse your being
As you walk and breathe
Air, dust, cloudy steam
A world beyond
Blinded minds
In our timbre of existence

black bird

Ed Corrigan — Mon, 08 Oct 2012 02:07:22 +0000

black bird cruising
over
grapes of wrath
purple delicious
yum yum
fly to the sun
overcome
mountain mist
in the distance
glaciers overlooking
warm earth
farmers hoeing
row after row
green luscious
rolling orderly
soldier fields.
sun squirt
left eye.
the birdman
sees all
that moves
makes him whole
black bird soul
fly with me
die with me
to the moon
over the frozen
sacred glacial ground.

I Am The Eggman

Ed Corrigan — Sun, 23 Sep 2012 01:31:56 +0000

The chickens of the ages
stuffed into stifling cages
barreling down
devil’s highway
on a path of no return…
hunting, scratching, pecking
awaiting the butcher
for the chopping
of the head.
I see your eyes
frantically flicking,
do you feel like i do
tearing up, fearing up
filled with dread.

Hey mama hen
where have you been
i need you
did they already feed you
to the maker of the bread.

Choking up
drowning on the tear inside
i can’t run
i can’t hide
for the butcher man cometh
to taketh a meal
for his ravenous bride.

Going Home / Poem by Ed Corrigan

Ed Corrigan — Sun, 22 Jul 2012 23:38:03 +0000

Going Home

Floating thru the Palouse
Over field
Open ground
Rolling desert Spring infested hills
Gold, green, gray
Silos popping up
Water spraying
The gathering dust storm
Clinging to vines, leaves, roots
Trippy thunderen tornado
Life defying moonscaped scene.
Birds abound, hawk
Posing atop post in ground
Who who who are you?
Staring me down
Where have you been
My rhetorical friend?
Wink wink snort.

White clouds
Little white cloud
Spread lotus top of mound
Puff puff
No rain today signora.
Streaming towards higher hills
Filled with a thousand crucifix
Turning spinning around
Mankind impaled on blades
So sharp so sound
Until spun off
To earth
To space
Gravity pulled
Splat to ground.

Warning – go no further
You who are entering
The city of spirits
The son of man has found.

Going home, going home…

More thoughts on nuclear war

Ed Corrigan — Sat, 23 Jun 2012 22:12:44 +0000

The End

The atomic storm descended
From the heavens offended
Then took our breath away.
It stole the leaves
From the trees.
It tore the trees
From their roots.
The storm sucked the roots
From the soil
And left the land
Deserted, bone dry, charred.
The fire filched the fish
From the river
And severed the river
From the sea.
The sea remains
As do I
To chew the sinew,
To siphon the marrow
From our bones
To be tossed upon
The pyretic heap
Warming us this night,
Pray,
‘Til the morning keep.

This is the end my friend.
Dear Lord, deliver us from evil,
Amen.

Two Men Having a Street Fight On 1ST Avenue

Ed Corrigan — Sun, 25 Mar 2012 20:28:49 +0000

Haiku, haiku!
Jumping up and down
I hate you
I am not you
you peasant
unpleasant
stepping on my
effervescence
Mind over matter
this is the matter
I am not you
I am not you!

Oh you of
Asian persuasion
we are one
we are won ton
of the universe
You speak
I do not listen
You speak
I hear
but do not listen
a screamy maniacal
magical wizard
The time for
decision has come
we are one
we are won ton
of the universe
Can you
-hear me
-see me
-be me?
-beeone
in this
soupy existence?
Living with and
without you
with and
within
nothingness
My mind is
slate blank.

You, you!
must go to heaven
go to hell
just go up there
away from me
screaming
no submission
I am not you
I will not have you
I can taste you
and it is bitter
Jumping up and down
and out of here!

Seattle
Street
Sanguine.

To Celebrate Black History Month

Ed Corrigan — Sat, 18 Feb 2012 22:53:58 +0000

An Unfinished Work

Abraham, oh Abraham
Paradox of a man
Wherefore art thou,
Oh Abraham?

Who will lead us from our wanton ways?
Who, this day, will summon
The better angels of our nature?
Who, this day, shall set us free?

After more than one half million vessels
Having spilt their full content,
Having consecrated battle fields of green,
Having nobly advanced a new
birth of freedom,
Having secured the bonded-man’s dream…

And, yet, the gulf remains.

A chasm of racism divides
Brother against brother,
Sister against sister,
A house divided cannot stand.
More than one half million vessels slain,
As the woe due to those
By whom the offence came.
Multitudes paid the ultimate price
In purchase of the national stain…

And, yet, the gulf remains.

Let us seek God’s sacred grace.
Our blood hath runneth together
Blending brothers and sisters,
In the mystic river of sorrow and hope.

Almighty God, we beseech thee,
Let us be as one.

A little poem for our beautiful grandson, Liam

Ed Corrigan — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 21:00:46 +0000

Christmas’s To Come

Now I lay me down to sleep
A sometimes kind
A sometimes wicked
Soul for Saint Nick to keep
Under his wing
Then leave under the tree
For grandson Liam
To have a peek
To give a nod
And a wink,
Perhaps a smile
For his old grandad
Who received so much
And gave so little.
I bequeath freely
A gift of life
A gift of love
A gift of Irish angels
Watching over Liam
From heaven above.

Rembering Black Friday 2011

Ed Corrigan — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 02:14:15 +0000

Occupy Mall Movement

The good soldiers go marching on
from dusk until dawn
answering a call to war
“We want more and more and more.”
A war cry heard from
Wall Street to Main Street
and only the strong survive
a relentless debit/credit tide.
One soldier is down
on aisle number five
a Target driven broken heart.
Step over, fly forward
Onward Christian soldiers
God is on our side.
Flank left, flank right
keep up the good fight.
We must:
Consume
Subsume
Ex womb
Untomb
Exhume
a hidden treasure
the source of our pleasure.
Pepper spray those
who dare obfuscate
the discounted
American dream.

Autumn Leaves II

Ed Corrigan — Sun, 30 Oct 2011 06:01:47 +0000

A fluttering storm of yellow
Leaves
Butterflies from the sky
Bursting forth the tree line
Across the black, wet road
Floating…flying…filling
The air
With apostles of the wind.
Autumn leaves defying a heavy rain
Falling divinely to vinyl road
Smearing all order and borders
Of middling yellow lines.
Adorning the blues
Of my worried mind
Strapped in listening to
A sad song
So loud
It almost bursts ear
And tongue,
A Bumble bee sadness sets in.
All could be wrong
But for the yellow leaves
Blowing
Blurring
Stirring
Joyful tears
In my soul.

In honor of Jack Kerouac – America’s great Beat writer/poet

Ed Corrigan — Sat, 08 Oct 2011 21:48:37 +0000

don’t know jack

what if i were jack kerouac
would that be
wac
or wut?
i would know the perfect
word to write
every time
i needed a line
is this too much rhyme?
if i were jack kerouac
i’d be cuul all day
beat in every way
seattle blue
if i wanted to
Criss crossing
screaming
across america
stories looking for me
if i were he.
was it all in his head
those amazing things
he wrote and said
or was it shoved in
like meat to a grinder
making a massive meat burger
from not so thin air?
the traffic light just
turned red
it really messed up
my head.
jack kerouac is dead and
if i were he
who
would
be me?
cuul de sac is the nu b wac. beautiful beat…lives on…
jack uac is jazzdelicious, lost in space baby…

Nine Eleven Eleven

Ed Corrigan — Mon, 12 Sep 2011 03:35:09 +0000

Tears formed in my dry eyes
Hearing the names
One by one by one
Nine Eleven Eleven
All good souls
Spring to heaven
Bodies pulverized
Vaporized
Fountains of youth
Spirits in the air
Everywhere
A child lost his father
I miss you dad
They stand on the remains
Of those not walking
This earth again
Remembered
Memorialized
But not found
This most sacred ground
A mother lost her son
My heart is broken
A wife lost her husband
I love you still
Water water everywhere
Tears mist rain
They will not be
Back again
This most sacred ground
They walk on the remains
Kneel on the remains
Children run and laugh
On the remains
As children do
As children will
Until the end of time

Something silly for a change…

Ed Corrigan — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 00:51:49 +0000

Awakening

I hate that darn wrinkle
In the bed
I can’t get that wrinkle
Out of my head
Pull it, tuck it, and smooth it
To no avail
With that wrinkle, I do fail
I don’t have a clue
What to do
Tried twitching my nose
Like Samantha the witch
But son of a buck
No such luck
That wrinkle stays there beyond repair
It’s so unfair
Once I tried starting over again
And became filled with such dread
The real problem being
That darn little wrinkle
Is stuck on my head
For all the world to see

“Wrinkle, oh wrinkle
Please let me be
Smooth out of my bed
Cast out of my head
And set me free.”

Thoughts on the current famine, caused by drought in Somalia and the Horn of Africa. This terrible famine has already caused tens of thousands of deaths, many of them children. This is just the beginning as hundreds of thousands more people are at risk. “Gaajo” means hungry. I cannot understand why such things happen.

Ed Corrigan — Wed, 03 Aug 2011 05:09:31 +0000

Exodus to Purgatory

The women leave behind their Somalia,
gaajo babies strapped to their backs
There is no food
there is nothing alive
there is nothing left back there
The women walk
as mirage spirits
thru the thin desert air
Burying babies along the way -
the way of hell on earth
A Saeta marching dirge
a thousand mothers
a thousand broken hearts
From hell to purgatory -
ascending Dadaab Refugee Kamp
shriveled Angels
still strapped to their backs

“Welcome to purgatory
my Somalian friends
You who have survived
until the bitter end
Please take of water
take of bread
feed the body
the soul is dead”
Ghosts in the air everywhere
Finally and fully forsaken
by a gaajo God

Thoughts on A.I.D.S

Ed Corrigan — Sat, 23 Jul 2011 04:03:42 +0000

Young Man in the Store

i saw a young man
in the store
his face was scored
by lesions
red, scratchy, sore.
lesions by his own admission
of passion so unforgiving
scarred forevermore
walking proudly thru a store
not hiding from the
stigma of human enigma.

Where is compassion?

as we sit in judgment
scarred forevermore
by our own mortal sin,
blaming this poor soul
for causing his disease
as if he plead with god
for a deadly condition.

Where is forgiveness?

in an act of contrition
we do not absolve
this young man of volition
of therefore seeking
to die a thousand deaths
in desperate hope of transcendence.

Where is love?

our own inner fracture
does not prevent
a cataracted vision
of a young man suffering
an-oh-so-human-condition -
of seeking
love, life, not death -
same as the rest.
wandering the magical mystery tour
hoping for something more…

Columbia River Summertime

Ed Corrigan — Sat, 02 Jul 2011 05:38:26 +0000

Columbia River Summertime

A mass of water
Formed of a thousand
Streams
Storms
Dreams
Moves as one molecule
Thru the canyon
Forming walls of instruction
Only to be interrupted by
Gliding
Man made
Manta rays
Whorling airy foamy wake
Leaving us behind
With the debris
Of our beings
Flowing to the sea
The ocean of all
Birth
Construction
Destruction
Cascading thru the ages
As one with all souls
All hearts
World without end
Amen.

David

Ed Corrigan — Mon, 23 May 2011 03:45:30 +0000

Haunted by your presence,
haunted by a past.
A random collision
of two comets, and
only the dust remains.
Ashes to ashes
dust to dust…
A flash, an explosion
our particles intertwine
a nanosecond in time
one arising
one left behind.
A sparkling sadness in space,
drifting back to the
horizon.
One still formed,
embodied.
One fragmented,
enshrined.
Forty years free floating
a universe and
you finally come home,
filling the coulee
in my soul
with tears held back
behind eyes wide shut.
Forty years of what -
neglect, regret
loss for words?
Your resurgence may be
a claim for me,
but not before my time
if you please.

Lost

Ed Corrigan — Sun, 15 May 2011 18:36:56 +0000

Lost

Sometimes I feel so lost
Lost and alone.
When I am so lost
Will you call me home?
Call me in the morning
Or afternoon or night
Call me home soon.
When I reach out to you
Will you reach for me?
Pull me into your heart
Your warm loving heart
That feels like home.

Spirit of the Sky

Ed Corrigan — Tue, 12 Apr 2011 03:51:12 +0000

Sky Spirit

I am eagle,
Spirit of the sky.
Fly…
ascend a stream of angels.
Screech…
a solar trumpet
a clarion call,
simply
Bose-o-phonic.
Whispers of divine presence
of homeland domain,
spoken softly
proudly
piercingly
sublime.
Eagle eye
high in the sky
sigh think blink.
Diving
ovoid comet dripping orb,
greased lighting.
A silent
streaking
living being.
Wings parachuting
clawing, braking
hovering, grounding.
Nearly missing me
leaning, floundering
against cedar tree.
The Golden one
featherly slides thru arm
under shoulder
leaning head to heart,
wing to warm stomach
so full of yesterdays.
A sudden spring
a slung shot
a raucous flapping
soaring back to sky
with no goodbye.
Copyright © Ed Corrigan 2011
All rights reserved

Thoughts on Nuclear War

Ed Corrigan — Fri, 01 Apr 2011 03:56:06 +0000

Saeta

The war was born
of a firestorm.
The band went marching on
and the trumpets blasted to the heavens
as the earth scorched below.
The war was born
by men of no imagination
living illusions, delusions
who cared not for music
or the children of others.
Men who loved and were loved by their mothers
or so they say…
Jack and Jill
marched up the hill
on a path
of their own construction and
destruction.
The band played on and
the trumpets sounded the story
of souls lost in their ways.
The war was born
of a firestorm.
Consuming all in its wake
burning flags and all else without discretion.

Interlude

Indeed, the storm became
the demon of our dreams.
It took on a life of its own
stealing the air that we breathe
melting our eyes beyond disguise
consuming all that it sees
and all that sees it.
Sucking up people off sidewalks and streets
burning all fruit, leaves, branches
pulling up the very roots of trees.
Melting all that melts and
all God’s creatures innocent or not.
A reddish, yellowish, hellish tornado
not taking us somewhere over the rainbow
but only way down below
beyond protection and redemption.

Saeta Continued…

Jack and Jill
went up the hill
to fetch a pail of water.
But were soon ascending to a fire cloud
sadly to return never after
rudely sent to their ever after
by the men who knew not
what was true
who cared not, for me and you.
By men who supposedly succoured
their mothers who were ultimately consumed
by their bombs and napalm.
The war was born
of a firestorm.
A storm which consumed all in its path
incinerated the haves and the have nots,
the know and the know nots
the first and the last
and the band played on.
We step to the beat of death drums
and the trumpets
extol our glory
to the bitter end.
We march to the boom boom beat of the drummer
only to be finally silenced
by the shattering of already deaf ears.

Early Winter Blues

Ed Corrigan — Mon, 21 Mar 2011 00:24:38 +0000

Early Winter Blues

Winter has come too soon.
The bed is left unmade
so much left behind
so much left undone.
The fall leaves blew away
in winds fierce and strong.
I had a full handful
and let them fade away
to a far distance
of my mind.
I once held the leaves
close
in my trembling hands
then…
watched them taken up
into white chilling air,
toward the autumn
setting sun.
unleashing a thousand
screaming ghosts,
becoming
radiant summer after thoughts
of this early winter day.
I could
have
held on tighter.
I just
did not
know
any better.

Thoughts on Child Hunger

Ed Corrigan — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 04:10:50 +0000

Twigs and Bones

Fragile, angular bones
bleeding through
skin so thin,
a frame so still
yet shattered within.

Limbs barren of leaves
scattered by the fall winds.
Silhouetted twigs left behind
twisted, not broken,
remaining moist within.

A long, cold winter arrives…

A body once saintly pure
succoured by mother
until well run dry.
This holy sheath once
full of promise
hangs haggard, unloved.
Sunken eyes bare her
soul to the sky.

Don’t blink yet.

The tree springs back-
budding in April
flowering in May
chewy green leaves come June.
As the child withers,
wastes
to powdered skin.
Wisps in the smog,
blowing sideways
across the street,
in a sacred whirlwind.

Little Creek in Auburn Valley on Side of Road

Ed Corrigan — Wed, 23 Feb 2011 04:40:03 +0000

Little Creek in Auburn Valley on Side of Road

The
copper
creek
flowing
through matted
brown
leaves of grass and
small barren trees.
Creek turning, glowing
in radiant sun,
blinds the eye
for a fractured
moment.
Teeming with life -
minnows, tadpoles
and gurgling bubbles
containing a
laughing wind -
echoes of
metempsychosis.
Hello Helloo..
Helloooooo…
bounces off
valley floor,
arising to
incense blue sky.
The grass dormant
sucks copper creek
dry,
to become green again.
Alive
beyond
the
new
beginnings.

not a kid anymore?

Ed Corrigan — Fri, 18 Feb 2011 02:51:10 +0000

not a kid anymore?

as i lay slumbering,
my arm slides down
the side,
my hand drops
below the bed, then
thoughts of childhood
begin
streaming thru my head.
are there monsters
in the darkness
below
the bed so soft,
the sheets snow white,
the blanket sky blue?
are alligators stalking
to chomp a hand,
to fill their toothy grin
with my fingers so thin?
maybe brown furry
modest mice are
waiting to nibble a thumb,
and not a bit politely at all.
i am not afraid,
i am not afraid
anymore!
as i lift my hand
quickly
off the floor.

To Honor Black History Month

Ed Corrigan — Wed, 09 Feb 2011 03:48:27 +0000

An Unfinished Work

Abraham, oh Abraham
Paradox of a man
Wherefore art thou,
Oh Abraham?
Who will lead us from our wanton ways?
Who, this day, will summon
The better angels of our nature?
Who, this day, shall set us free?

And, yet, the gulf remains.

Through the mystic chords of memory
Abraham speaks to us the living,
Let us strive to finish the work we are in;
To bind the nations wounds
With malice towards none
With charity for all
In order to form a more perfect union.
Let us seek God’s sacred grace.
Our blood hath runneth together
Blending brothers and sisters,
In the mystic river of sorrow and hope.
Almighty God, we beseech thee,
Let us be as one.

son of tucson

Ed Corrigan — Sun, 23 Jan 2011 00:15:48 +0000

son of tucson

look at me.
i have a gun.
do you think
you can run
faster than my bullet,
which will fly
to the left side
of your brain?

look at me.
my head is shaved,
are you afraid
because i am
lex luther,
super villian,
and you are
not superman?
all will be stopped
by the speeding bullet
flying thru the gun
from the
fingers of my hand.

look at me.
i greet your
loved ones
with a smirk.
i am here
and you are not.
i have won,
you are done
not looking at me

look at me.
i am immortal
on the front pages
throughout the ages.
and who are you?
a victim whose
pain and name
will soon be forgotten,
a footnote to my fame.

look at me
i have a gun.
all my evil
spread in a wake
of solid lead.
will it not
be said
when i am dead,
“his infamy lives
forevermore.”

Recently Faithfully Departed

Ed Corrigan — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 02:37:11 +0000

Recently Faithfully Departed

Death does as death is.
The best laid plans
will not be undertaken
for the undertaker
must not be delayed.
He must have his good time
embalming this heart
affixing this little smile
so all the while
the loved ones may say -
Oh now, doesn’t he
look so fine
in his black pressed suit
and shiny black shoes?
The white shirt is good, tho
blue may have been better
and the green tie
is a bit too green
bright as a spoon.
Oh me, oh my…
he never did look better.

All the perfect plans
were in place when
the clock expired.
Now here I sit in this
Costco discounted coffin
wondering what it is
that I’m supposed to be doing.
Oh, no need to cook
special tonight, my dear
I won’t be home for dinner,
won’t be home at all.
For here I lay in this box
so wooden and so woolen
my veins are drained
and ready for the fluids
that will keep the deadly grin
attached to my face.
While watching those who visit
whistle and
stare into space
through my almost shut
and squinty eyes
these others look very hazy
and not hardly worthwhile.
The problem is that
my body is stiff,
my blood is spent
but my mind is still open
for business.
It won’t shut down and
seems more sarcastic
than ever.
But surely you see
the humor in it all.

I think that I need to be
somewhere
but there is nowhere to be.
For I have passed on
in between spaces and places.
All will come to me
if I can sit still for
just a minute…
My good man, give me
another quart of that fluid
that should just about do it.
Then I promise to be
on my best behavior.
It’s about time
don’t you agree?

writer’s block

Ed Corrigan — Thu, 23 Dec 2010 00:54:28 +0000

writer’s block

the words are eluding me
evading me
mistaking me
for the criminal interloper
who strings words along
in a jumble line
of lies and broken promises.
the words flee beyond
my grasp.
so, i’m waiting waiting…
for the words arrival
at last,
to satiate this vapid stream.
to pour once more
into the tributary of
my matter –
thru the mind
into the soul
down the arm
thru the eyes
focused on this paper.
i will do my best
not to scatter
their true meaning,
their message in a bottle.
dear words,
i will not abuse you
as even the cuss word
will be held most sacred.

Cry

Ed Corrigan — Wed, 15 Dec 2010 04:22:55 +0000

Cry

When she cries on my shoulder
I just want to hold her
and let her tears roll down,
gently roll down my back
then become part of my being.
So cry on me –
Cry on me baby
and let your tears
water my dry existence.

Sergeant Salvatore Giunta – Medal of Honor Winner 2010

Ed Corrigan — Wed, 01 Dec 2010 03:30:10 +0000

Sergeant Salvatore Giunta – Medal of Honor 2010

Hey Taliban man
chase my blues away.
We ain’t in the mood
to play with you dude,
‘cause you ambushed
shot and killed
Sergeant Larry Rougle,
just yesterday.
So, hey Taliban man -
What’s on your mind today?

Soon, the s__t began to fly.
Air power, thunder and
lightening
lit up the sky.
First platoon on Honcho
Hill was getting hit.
The captain yelled
“Drop everything,
cross that river,
help your brothers!”
And to a man they did.
Sergeant Joshua Brennan
took the lead, ran ahead
up the Afghan path, then
took six lethal bullets lead.
He was barely alive,
Medic Hugo Mendoza
was already dead, when
Sergeant Eric Gallardo and
Sergeant Salvatore Giunta
saw Brennan and
Specialist Eckrode ahead.
Franklin Eckrode was saved
but the Taliban was dragging
wounded Josh Brennan away.
Giunta lunged up the trail
and thought “Who the hell
is up there?” While firing hard
at the Taliban man,
shooting deep into his face,
which transformed into
a grotesque Halloween
death mask,
with brains dripping out
all over the place.
Brennan was still breathing
and moving, so Giunta pulled
him into the ditch.
Out of the sky dropped a hoist
and a medic with a trach
which Giunta kept squeezing
to keep Brennan breathing
until there was nothing,
only silence and fidgeting.

Salvatore lived on to say -
“All my feelings
are with my friends,
and they are getting smaller.
I have sweat more, cried more,
bled more in this country
than my own.
These people won’t leave this
valley. They have been here
before I could fathom
an Afghanistan.”

Hey Taliban man
Chase my blues away.
You may expunge the bodies
of our faithful comrades,
but you can’t slay the spirit
of the Sky Soldiers,
who remain with us
forever and always. Amen.

Winter Sunset

Ed Corrigan — Sun, 21 Nov 2010 04:20:04 +0000

the winter sunset
steel cold blue
high sky burning red
cedars shiver in the algid wind.

snow on the mountains
white cold distant.
sky turns gray
clouds icy blue.
night invades the forest
surrounds my soul.

clouds fly east as sun flows west.

a small whirlwind
an infinite space
a deep peace develops
envelops, stirs from within.

the winter sunset
steel cold blue
high sky burning red
souls floating in the silent wind.

The Lawson Mine Widow

Ed Corrigan — Wed, 10 Nov 2010 02:41:24 +0000

The Lawson Mine Widow

My man walked today
Down to Lawson mine
To earn the family pay.
Left his new born
This Sunday morn
Before the church bells rang
Never to return again.
Leaving behind his young
Widow
Daughter and
Baby boy son.
And how are we to live
Without him?

6:40 am November 6, 1910

Five good men were
Already 2200 feet deep.
Eleven good men were
On their way down
The shaft so dark
So full
Of the deadly after damp.
With a roar that was heard
For 16 miles
The Lawson mine exploded…
The mouth of the mine
Discharging timbers, piping
Dinner buckets, clothing
As if
Shot from a cannon.
Sixteen good men
Whose fates were sealed
Before the church bells rang.
Who met their maker
That long ago Sunday morn
As the foreman proclaimed
While dropping his spade
“It’s all over boys,
They’re dead, all right, now.”

The man from Lawson mine
Today
Brought home my man’s
Last pay.
He said “Sorry for your loss mam…
Good day.”
So, what is he supposed
To say
To a left behind
Young widow, daughter and son?
The mine men said the explosive
After damp did husband in.
That he was one of the
“Lucky 11”
Who didn’t feel a thing,
Having been evaporated
By the deadly gas within.
A comfort small though,
For Lawson mine did not
Return a body whole
To fill the hole
That they laid him in.
My man was blown apart
Scattered with the winds
Through the town
And all around
Everywhere but home.
Leaving behind
A son, a daughter
A young widow, a broken heart.
My friend, my lover
Gone forever.
His body, my soul
Eviscerated…
My mind is barely hanging on.
And how are we to live
Without him?

The Irish Songwriters

Ed Corrigan — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 04:00:20 +0000

Last summer I attended a Glen Hansard concert at Marymoor Park. Hansard is an Irish singer/songwriter (Oscar winner for best song “Falling Slowly” from his movie “Once”) whose songs tend to be on the dark side. He said (and I parphrase) “Why is it that when the Irish drink and chat life is merrry,but when we write and sing life becomes gloomy?” Good question and, being of Irish descent, I sometimes wonder myself.

The Irish Songwriters

The sadness in your voice
a sadness without choice.
The magnitude of the
servitude.
Breaking the bonds that hold,
unshackling the mind numbing
oppression,
delivering a joyous
resurrection.
Yet the pathos remains
in between
and all over the lines
of your songs.
Ghosts subsumed in
the terrors
and the darkness.
Spirits hidden like
the Book of Kells,
unbroken
silent
but not so gentle.
A sanguineous uprising.
Mothers without sons
or daughters.
The spirit ascends
in your verse.
A fierce expression
a razor obsession.
Sadness without choice
tears behind the voice.
Lilies sprouting here and
there
amongst the ever present
daisies.

The Attack

Ed Corrigan — Sun, 24 Oct 2010 22:15:02 +0000

During a recent drive on I 90 in eastern Washington, a hawk flew right up to, and just short of, the passenger side window of my Jeep. This is what I saw in that few moments.

The Attack

The golden brown
russet saffron hawk
came flying to
my face -
sideways to my face –
clawing then braking
hovering in space.
Piercing eyes,
ivory porcelain
horn tipped
razor talons,
wings flapping furiously
oscillating
holding
onto the air.
Textured titian feathers
desert sand ridges
blown smooth
combed
conditioned
slicked backed
of a reddish hue -
beautiful falcon wear.
Pirouetting
floating
banking
suspended for just
a moment in time.
Ebony eyes staring
back thru me
flying full speed away.
A soft exquisite
powerful movement,
silent no screams,
an explosive rising.
Escaping my reality,
leaving me
speechless and smiling,
driving into
the crimson sunset.

Carousel Love

Ed Corrigan — Tue, 19 Oct 2010 03:11:29 +0000

Carousel Love

Around, around and round
She goes
Around the carousel, round
She goes
Love once set free, returns to me
Here comes my love around again
Take hold of my love if you can.

Me and you, in love forever
Me and you, a love like never…
Never before, was a love like ours
A love like ours is the moon and stars.

Around the merry-go-round
She goes
Here comes my love around again
Take hold of my hand if you can
Follow me to the stars, my love
Take me over the moon, my love
A love like ours makes doves cry
A love like ours will never die.

Me and you, in love forever
Me and you, a love like never…
Never before, was a love like ours
A love like ours is the moon and stars.

Never before was a love like ours
A love like ours is the moon and stars…

Requiem for the Living

Ed Corrigan — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 03:48:34 +0000

Requiem for the Living

The after life. The
oh so sought after
life eternal paradise,
the perpetual light
that beckons us to Zion.
Grant unto them eternal rest, O Lord…
and let the light perpetual shine.
This is a mystery of
faith for the blessed believer.
God receives us into His arms,
His eternal light,
ad finitum to
all that we know, of
all that is known.
All thus as prophesized.
Absolve Domine,
I will still miss them so.
Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy…
Sacred notes of the hymn
dance in my mind,
pulse the chords of my heart.
Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus…
I know what to know
my spirit is forever
and with your spirit…
Absolve Domine,
I will still miss them so.
That day of wrath, that day!
Grant them rest…
My soul exorcises as
I write this line. My
heart aches at this rhyme.
The sky darkens as
the wells fill to overflow.
Absolve Domine,
I will still love them so…

autumn leaves

Ed Corrigan — Sat, 25 Sep 2010 21:07:35 +0000

autumn leaves

what is it with leaves?
at the end of their lives
so vibrant, so colorful.
falling softly from
maple, birch, alder perches
sailing to ground, not to sky
as death doth not
gravity defy.
do leaves see the beauty
near our end? are we
so vivacious, so chromatic?
in their eyes do we
have a sacred halo
or an evil holograph?
is our skin effervescent?
are we even in their
field of vision or concern?
the leaves fall well before
and long after our passing,
blanketing the brown grass
covering the red dirt
shrouding the concrete coffin.
the maples, alders and birch
exuviate an organic aegis,
protecting us from snow,
storms and the sneakers
of our grand children.
do leaves sense a presence
of new life to be?
or, are they just waiting
for the next falling leaves
to color their existence
through eternity.

Vampire Love

Ed Corrigan — Sat, 18 Sep 2010 04:17:01 +0000

Vampire love
Muslim hate
This is the reality
Of the modern state.
Fear seduces all
Fear consumes everything
Fear becomes hate.
Our children are
In love
With vampires.
Monsters who
Consume blood,
Subsume life.
Transforming
Human nature, while
Promising eternal life,
Subjugating souls to
Eternal violence.
And ye shall enter
The kingdom
Of the Lord.
Muhammad loved Jesus
And all the prophets.
Christ the redeemer
Died for our sins.
Yet, we are afraid
Of shadows.
Hence, the pathetic
Breathtaking
Mind blowing
Internal screams.
The preacher
Translates hate
Into prophecy,
A prophecy of holocaust.
Afraid of shadows
He imprints his
Abject nature
Onto the hearts of
Sons and daughters
Who are in love
With vampires.
Fear anoints these eyes,
We see existence thru
A fractured kaleidoscope.
We can only lose
This life
In order to gain hope.
Walk thru the
Valley of darkness,
Fear no evil,
And ye shall enter
The kingdom
Of heaven.

the bumbershoot fountain

Ed Corrigan — Sat, 11 Sep 2010 00:14:08 +0000

The following little poem came while I was attending the recent Bumbershoot music/arts festival. I sat by the Seattle Center fountain, in the midst of the festive chaos, waiting for our son,Tim, to join up with me. And as time slowed for just a few seconds, this is what happened.

the bumbershoot fountain

the fountain at the center,
the center of the center
of the universe,
spewing forth resplendently
towards the needle
of all dreams
stationed high
in the stratocumuli.
the fountain, the center
of a cacophony of bass,
sonance and saucy blondes
from all directions circling
shiny crystals swirling
into space
to reenter earth with a
pitter patter
clip clop
plop.

Lost Soul

Ed Corrigan — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 03:30:00 +0000

Lost Soul

Another lost soul
on the street today
planted lotus like
on the sidewalk next
to the traffic light
green…yellow…slowdown…
There she is centered
on the walk as if to say
“Here I am and here I’ll stay.”
She has a cigarette, a coke
a profile slightly hunched
or scrunched, hard to say.
Contemplating all that
there is to see on this
urbanal street full of cars
busses and trucks blowing
exhaust fumes in her face while
she’s blowing cigarette smoke
randomly into space as if
to create a personal cloud.
Traffic light yellow…red…stop…
I look over
through the tinted glass
in my cool and air
conditioned space while
taking in her face.
She looks down
and then up at my
face, which is now
looking down – a near miss.
Her hair is bedraggled.
Her mask is jagged, rough
around the edges with
no discernable expression
whatsoever. I think “Hmmm…”
then “Hmmm” some more…
Now smile a wave while
she smiles a wave back.
Her eyes shine for just
a second then revert to
dark pool moon craters –
one hundred thousand miles
away in a nanosecond.
Moving from the traffic
light red…green…go…
Driving on down the road,
heading away or towards?
I cannot say or be sure.
But mostly just leaving
her behind and thinking
about what happens next.

Sonnet I

Ed Corrigan — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 02:07:53 +0000

This is my 1st poem written, a long time ago, when I was 16 years old. My father saved this poem and I found it among his personal papers after his death. It has special meaning for me on a number of levels – thanks dad.

Sonnet I

Something inside me
is affecting my eyes.
I see things in the world
that are not there.
Things men label abstractions
therefore unattainable.
Peace a temporary truce,
beauty a centerfold,
love locked in a bedroom,
with no windows.
Yet I still see them in their perfection
through the darkness of my memory
in some long forgotten room
exiting my mother’s womb.

Pigeon Mania

Ed Corrigan — Fri, 06 Aug 2010 02:30:52 +0000

Pigeon Mania

13 pigeons all in a row, perched
upon a silver lamp post.
statuesque still, watching goo
goo eyes as the girls go by.
we are the baker dozen boys
dooya dooya dooya see?
cooya cooya be with me?
we beseech thee so sweetly,
cool and utterly unattached
from the world below our
feet so pigeon toed, on this
lamp post so bowed.
cooya cooya be with me?

pigeon number 14 lands then says
move over fellows, and
give me some elbow room.
I won’t be a bother boys,
no need to swoon.
I won’t swoop down swooshingly
to swipe your girls who
have hearts of clay, anyway.

14 pigeons lined up so neatly
cooing ever so sweetly
looking so very important
all in a row. 13 pigeons
on the curvilinear post
plus one atop the light.
number 14 is ready for flight
bored of the bakers dozen plight,
ready to spread his wings-
jumps eyes closed, into the wind.
flying, floating, soaring
above the rest. those mere mortal
13 pigeons all in a row
fall far behind, seem as dots,
like flat notes on a scale.
while 14 skywrites sonatas,
free falling then riding a
riser of rarified air up to the
mythical kingdom of eagles.