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Piano Poetry

Dear Readers,

I am a piano player by nature and recently am taken with the idea of writing poetry as if playing piano. In my case that means thematic improvisation where most of the playing is exploration of the theme and every so often an interesting passage arises and I riff till it passes. This all came about from an intense conversation after which I could hardly keep up with the thoughts and wrote and wrote. In retrospect it seemed quite like how I often played piano to process emotion. With poetry, however, there is need to formulate thought which is helpful. Though I think I prefer the more physical nature of piano, both together seems a matching pair. This only makes sense considering most music being melody and lyric. The long poems that I have posted recently are written in this style. In bold are the more poignant passages and the titles have a “No.x” as if they are a classical composition. Some day I would like to post some piano pieces, too. Until then.

Best,
Redbear

What is the overwhelmed
Where is it
Who is it
Why is it
How is it
Just wondering about it it
Makes it go on a little more
Existential hoohaha
Ug
Please, no more
No, not please.
Always asking for allowance
No
Yet it goes on and on
No stopping the automatic
Only can be satisfied in creation
Satisfied in what is there and is not there
Perhaps one day it will quiet down
There thinky thinker monkey
Programmed into this being
To think and monkey about
As if that will solve and mend
That will make the little boy not hurt
He does just want to be okay
Yet can no longer because
This thinky monkey
Claims its dues
Clamors for attention
And this boy know only
Only
To submit
Feels righteous in giving away
Giving away
The power
This boy is so skilled in the monkey mind
Can analyze the world to bits
Including
His own satisfaction
His own enjoyment
His own being into bits and bits to no end
Always finding not enough
Because way way down and back
In the soybean field
In the summer grass
On the tractor road
He was disowned
Sent away
Given up
Not needed
And his only option was to please
And please, and please the world, and
Himself
And he was to think and think it out
And it could never be done
He never found out how to be
to be
God.
So the pleasing game broke
its maker.
Overwhelmed at the task
Only left to be satisfied, and
Choose which fire to sit in.
Flourish in the fire
A new game to overwhelm himself with.

Into Breathe

Yes I do like nice things. I like kilts. I like dresses. The ladies look so good in them and maybe me too. I like women. They are so lovely. I like how some smell so nice even without the perfumes. I like earrings and necklaces. like nice trays for carrying food. I like sweets. I like movies. I like cartoons. I like video games. I do like long hot showers. I do like fantasies and fairy tales and magic and secrets. In fact I do like hard physical work even though I can’t anymore. I like how people smell after a day of farmwork. I like chilling. I do like manga. I do like anime. I do I do I do. I like poetry. I like art. I do like friendly people and friendly dragons. I like flowers. I like how they look and how pretty they are. How they smell. I am in fact something of a pansy. Always wanted to be big and strong but that ain’t me. I like plants. I love baklava and tiramisu. I like knitting and sewing machines. I like simplistic things. I like Japanese art. I like scientific research papers, I like all those fancy words; the content is nice too. I like how it is just the facts with no convincing. And silly humour iss the best.

If you must to punish for what I am and have become—go ahead.
I am done with that employment.

I’ll probably like too, you.

I would like to like what I like. Feel when I feel. Let go this squeezing away the self in a box whose corners are
So tight.
Open rather into a space for breathe.

There is

There is guilt being born in privilege
When others have not
There is guilt when others suffer so
And I have so much.
There is guilt to be with satisfaction
When others are not
There is guilty to be in happiness
When other are not
There is guilt to feel comfort
When others do not.

Jade Plant No.3

Jade plant

How your stoicism frustrates
As these pacing steps keep time to
This unraveling mind

Grandma’s Blanket

Knitted in wool
Green, black, blue
Keeping this grandson warm
Till he joins you in
Your far away place

Shower Cap

O, shower cap
You deceive in simplicity
Masking such great service
Saving hours of damp long hair.

Sighs
Siiiiiiighs
How like sneezes in release.

Hot water bottle

Hot spring kept in a jar
Not by the door, in a bed;
What is it for
Keeping body warm
While it rests till the morning.

I want to be saved
I can not forgive this world
That is so much bigger than me.
I can not forgive myself for not
Being able to reach
The end of the rabbit hole.
It is impossible
I want to be Superman, and
I can not.

Forgive myself for not being able to lasso the stars every day.
Forgive the sun for not setting with
Purple and red every day.
Forgive, forgive, forgive
Let go this moon sitting heavy
in my body and soul.

Take me back
to explore and revel:
A blueberry smoothie, a book, and the grass.
Building castles on the old footstool of
an ancient tree.
Reading comics over a brothers’ shoulder.
Trees and trees and sap and scraps
To when the world was not always nice but I could always go home.

If I were Superman it would be so
I am not
I am not
I am me.

Where is this mountain top experience and the happily ever after.
It comes and goes like these hours, and
still I hope for forever noon.
Will ever I truly live that there is nowhere to get to and nothing to be.
And let go of this realm of Man that tallys and measures and scours.

The rabbit hole will play every man
Attempting to reach an end.

Today is determining the circles end
Yesterday finding the edges of a ball
Tomorrow seeing marks on blank pages

Always the breath of the bull
Nowhere to get to. Nothing to be.
Just the spirit. Just here.
With my important part of the whole.