Poems of Life

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?

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.

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.

Slick Love – The Laughing Gull’s Lament

Ed Corrigan — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 03:38:41 +0000

Slick Love – The Laughing Gull’s Lament

I have wings but cannot
fly
I have tears but cannot
cry.
Slick has had his way with
me.
Slick love is slippery love
enigmatically clinging to my
feather.
Slick love is love forever or
“Quoth the raven “nevermore.”
“Ghastly grim and ancient
raven
wandering from the nightly
shore.”
It makes no sense to me
pearls of oil clog the sea.
My home, my habitat in oiled
ruins.
My mind consumes only this
moment
Must feed, Must fish, Must
flutter.
Not that life matters anymore
or “Quoth the raven nevermore.”
“This grim, ungainly, ghastly,
gaunt and ominous bird of
yore.”
Pray thee, please enlighten,
cleanse my polluted mind…
I just don’t understand
the tar balls in the sand.
Slick love is mistifying my
eyes.
I have wings but cannot
fly
I have tears but cannot
cry.
Quoth the laughing gull
I “shall be lifted nevermore.”

Leaving the Family Behind

Ed Corrigan — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 04:21:38 +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 that 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 rimed, 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 bring only a suffocated
choking response and life would never again be the same.
Or maybe words are just so inadequate as to be vapid
and muted beyond recognition.

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…

The Machine Is the Message

Ed Corrigan — Fri, 09 Jul 2010 04:05:22 +0000

The Machine Is the Message

Do you remember when words said it all?
Words made of funny little alphas, a thru z,
described the universe as seen through cataractic eyes.
We were alone reading letters disparate all in a row,
while ignoring the sound, fury and taste of it all.
In truth only seeing an out of focus, linear world.
And then came the machine, eventually filled with billions
of bits of this and that and vital information for the ages.
All in; “real time”, living color with Bose sound, intertwined,
electronically, digitally connected to the others.
We were once alone with our self-help improvement books,
newspapers, and nurturing non-threatening nuclear families.
We were safe in self constructed demilitarized comfort zones;
isolated, self-important, independent, suburban drones.
Now, we are thrown into the machine consciousness stream,
drowning in self fragmentations, deeds and instant reaction by
all the world who can see, indeed be part of, the previously unknown.
Where every utterance morphs to a fact which is: immediately,
thoroughly, supposedly fact checked; then discarded like
a day old remnant of rotten fruit; or to be chewed, digested,
regurgitated, then chewed again until the bitterness is stricken;
and then finally spit out when only an arid pulp or seed remains.
The machine stream of consciousness, void of compassion,
empathy, and love will only feed into a river of despair.
As we twitter, blog, and weave a new reality on the net,
the old word is still true that the truth shall set you free.
And love of others will always be the most sacred reality.

The Crossing

Ed Corrigan — Thu, 01 Jul 2010 04:07:46 +0000

The Crossing

Idling at the railroad crossing
watching the fast freight train fly by…
The space between the box cars
blurs at first then sequences – light -dark-
light- dark- etcetera-etcetera in rapid succession.
Upon closer inspection, wide open eyes
can see clear through to the other side,
where I need to go, or want to be, or not really…
Now glimpse beyond the tracks and up the road
where another sits, as do I, looking at the other
with unfocused eyes.
My heart races to the rhythm of the passing train-
boom boom beat beat thump thump.
Breathe deep, let all the world slow down.
Close eyes and listen to the movement of
steel wheels over steel rails as if the music begins
and all things are constant and in balance.
The red crossing lights are blinking but
do not disturb this perfect moment.
The locomotive whistle pierces the air,
while crossing bells chime steady, undeterred.
All sights and sounds crash in harmless collision
then compose in symphonic precision.
I think about trains of the past which came
from nowhere and did not last beyond a brief thought.
They moved on to other places, people and time,
out of sight then out of mind.
Never try to stop a speeding freight train
for it has its own momentum.
I start to think of future but cannot.
Staring hard straight ahead brings a flow into focus,
and empties my mind of broken thoughts.
Breathe deep; take it all in stride in its
beautiful simplicity; clear the mind of endless chattering.
Listen to steel wheels rolling on steel rails.
Just feel the freight train moving forward –
without effort- without thought- without regret.
As the last box car streams by leaving us on the road,
at the side of the tracks, we finally, cautiously drive on
while wondering what it is that just happened.

We

Ed Corrigan — Thu, 24 Jun 2010 02:12:17 +0000

This is a safe place, in this state
called real love. We look into
each other’s eyes and see a hero,
a friend and our one true love.
We sit close next to each other in
accustomed places, and talk about
today and days yet to be. We reach
over and touch hands from time to
time while watching a favorite show.
We love happy endings and don’t like
all things scary. We have visions of
Somewhere over the rainbow…ding
dong the wicked witch is dead… as are,
at last, the demons in our head. We
laugh and trust and look past the fine
porcelain fissures and inner imperfections.
We feel at home together. We built this
safe place together. We are in love forever.

For Nona
Copyright © Ed Corrigan 2010
All Rights Reserved

Go Fly a Kite

Ed Corrigan — Sun, 13 Jun 2010 23:39:14 +0000

Go Fly a Kite

We learn to fly in a cold March wind on
the still damp fields of the newly melted snow.
We are tethered to earth, attached, grounded
yet still in flight. Tug tug, string string, kite kite.
Let it out all the way. The comic book color kite
with the Batman face and tail of torn cotton shirt,
sails up up away and into the beyond. We squint
then close our eyes until in a dream…Unleashed
floating, flying, soaring left then soaring right.
Through the clouds with arms straight out like
Superman on a good flight. All the people below
seem as modest mice pacing on the still damp fields
of the newly melted snow…Now eyes open wide
shocked to be tethered again, mind, body and soul.
Kite string strung taut. Kite above, tug left, tug right.
Sever string…And away we go! Flying solo, unhinged
through the sunset, into the darkening sky, to the stars
and round the moon. And to places unknown, as we
the grounded ones wander from the still damp fields.
Then follow the street lamps to places we call home.

The Distance Between

Ed Corrigan — Fri, 04 Jun 2010 02:14:07 +0000

The Distance Between

The young woman coughs gently sideways on
her shoulder. Then hands the paper plastic coffee
cup to a customer, who promptly gives it up,
because it was contaminated by a gentle cough.
All as I stand in line doing what of if I please to
spread my own disease. And where is Father Damien?
Who lost his arms, lips and life. By caring for,
kissing, embracing the lepers who were shunned
and disdained by most. But not by Damien,
who held them close to their requisite end.
The distance between us is a fault, tearing asunder
you and me. Please listen…embrace one another or
surely die of loneliness, thirst and anomie.
The customer receives a brand new sanitized paper
plastic cup. Then says she is sorry and quickly leaves.
Leaving behind the young woman; eyes full of tears,
feeling slightly toxic, alone, demeaned. I remain, in need of
caffeine, and finally ask, Are you okay? Then, explain
that a similar thing happened to me and I hate when
people behave in their antipathetic ways. She says,
Thank you Ed, and gives a strained but beautiful smile.
Small everyday events, simple gestures hold us
together and keep us from falling apart. Keep us
from falling blindfolded, deaf, dumb and head over
heel into the distance between us. And, who put it there?

Soldier of the Desert

Ed Corrigan — Mon, 24 May 2010 05:05:56 +0000

We honor the brave men and women of the U.S. Armed Services. They, and their families, have sacrificed much for fellow citizens and for our great country. Many have made the ultimate sacrifice and all have paid a price. We owe them a debt of gratitude and thank them for their great service.

Soldier of the Desert

I am a soldier of the desert, a child of the desert storm.
I am a daughter of the Desert Fox protected by panzers,
in the Sahara simoom. I am Sir Lawrence of Arabia, son
of Britain, protector of all, sword to Damascus, father to none.
I am a cavalry keshik of the great Genghis Khan – the mystical
killer in the desert who spared no one. I am a sacred crusader of Christ’s
holy church. Only say but the word, and my soul shall be healed.
I am a soldier of the desert, here now, as before, as always.
To protect and defend, to get blown up by I E D’s, to do
your bidding as you please. Here to deflect and pretend:
that bombs do not hurt; that bombs do not kill; that bombs
do not break my heart, scatter my spirit, fragment my mind.
I am a soldier of the desert: walking now in the sand; talking
now in the market; sweating now, always thirsty; afraid now
and watching fearful faces out of fearful eyes. Punching the air now,
or the enemy, or Lieutenant Ray, or my brother, or myself. Just feel
the pain. Think about the pain. Inflict the pain, only numbness remains.
Always so thirsty, so dry. Desert days then desert nights. I see the oasis
in a dream, a mirage of the mind. I turn away back to the endless fighting.
The desert remains a field of dirt, rock and sand spouting blood red,
here and there, then and now and then. A dream, a nightmare, then a
a dream revisited. My brothers and sisters are before me, standing
together and alone, in a giant waste land that endures our efforts
now, before and beyond. We are soldiers of the desert, not marching
but roaming through the ghost dreams of a vastly different empire.
I feel…I feel… not much. I remember…I remember…very little.
I am a soldier of the desert, out here all alone, with my comrades
and all alone. Bright burning itching sordid sun, red blotches in the
sand and on the road and in the market square and on my hands…It
won’t wash off. I rub my fingers frantically through my hair, on
my shirt, and in the sand… a futile effort… a scarlet stain.
I am a soldier of the desert. Will you please love me? Will you please
help me: grab this heart; feel this heart; massage this heart; with these
hands attached, to my arms attached, to my chest attached to this heart?
Am I here? Well, am I?

Mountain Magic

Ed Corrigan — Wed, 28 Apr 2010 02:20:08 +0000

Mountain Magic

The mountain moves into my soul

Turns me inside out

Makes me whole.

The mountain surrounds, embraces

Making me inseparable

From its flowers, clouds.

Above, below, beyond, within

The mountain links life.

I arise from the mountain

Fuse with its forest

Life springs from its side

Death feeds its new beginnings.

The Storm

Ed Corrigan — Thu, 22 Apr 2010 02:47:52 +0000

The night is cold, the fire is warm

outside the winds are swirling

the leaves of the maples are dancing

the branches of the maples are rat…tat…tatting

against windows and walls

these are only small signs yet of the gathering storm.

In our place of comfort and safety

the fire is crackling, popping, brightening our eyes and hearts.

The fire is warming our hands and feet.

We huddle under blanket forts

covering heads, arms, shoulders

so that we must turn sideways to peek out and speak

whispering for no apparent reason.

We sit still and listen…

Here it comes…

The thunder is rolling, crackling, rumbling…

The lightening exploding, dazzling, frightening…

And the rain, the cool, cool rain.

We shudder under its fierceness

as the windows are rattled but not broken.

A shrieking noise makes us uneasy but untouched.

The lightening blinds our perception

which has been clouded since inception.

We hear the rain on the roof and sideways against the windows

pitter patter ping ping plip plip plop…

incessant and drop by drop

the rain’s rythm is spectacular in its own way.

In our small safe place, we remain dry and unmolested

only in our minds is the storm creating its havoc.

The storm passes at last.

We are unharmed and warmed in our hideaway.

No more reason to worry

the wind is blowing the storm out to sea

leaving behind you and me, intact but sideways, unsettled.

The wind turns warm, taking the clouds, the rain

out to the deep ocean blue

filled with salmon and whales who welcome the storm

as if its one of their own

having waited patiently for months, years.

The whales, the salmon swimming in stride

below the sea and waves, untouched but not unaffected

by the world above

as one, with the world below

as if…all is…as its…meant to be.

Back on the shore we finish our huddling ways

and wander out into the night

a night filled with stars, moon and shadows.

The birds barely stir, the squirrels soundly sleep

and make no notice of our passing.

We walk hand in hand under the stars and skies washed spotless clean -

stars, moon, air is shining.

We breathe in the clean air at no cost to self or the other.

We walk not in turmoil but not at peace.

III

Remnants of the storm remain surely to be barely seen

under the crescent moon by these dilapidated eyes.

Remnants of the storm remain in pulsating hearts,

tattered and mended hearts,

but mostly in our scattered and random thoughts.

The truth is that a moment in time leads to another

then blurrs to another

until the past is no more and the future is always soon to be.

We are just passing through the present

desperately grasping at what is or is not.

For the salmon and whales in the sea

for the birds and squirrels in the tree

and yes, for you and me

the storm is as it was and always will be.

Cold, hot or warm, it moves through our lives and time

past days uncounted and nights yet to come.

The storm comes to us and through us

leaving only remnants of its passing.