Poems of Life

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.”

Copyright © Ed Corrigan 2010
All Rights Reserved
“Italicized” verse “The Raven”
Edgar Allen Poe 1845

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.

Copyright © Ed Corrigan 2010
All Rights Reserved

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.

Copyright © Ed Corrigan 2010
All Rights Reserved

We

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

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.

Copyright © Ed Corrigan 2010
All Rights Reserved

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?

Copyright © Ed Corrigan 2010
All Rights Reserved

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?

Copyright © Ed Corrigan 2010
All Rights Reserved

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.

Copyright © Ed Corrigan 2010

All rights reserved

I

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.

II

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.