“solemn vision”

somebody heard his tired old vision

giving way as he aged,

and she grinned

like a solemn old cat,

in the yard, and all that
and the land giving fruit trees,

with little young fruit bees,

so the dog’s been depressed, lately

lately, nothing for playing with
he keeps trying to catch those,

quick little bees he sees

but it keeps getting harder, like that

the world’s getting flat,

or so that’s what Freidman says

and the guitars stop sooner,

not later, these days

and still, somebody heard his tired old vision

one third the money, and still

life is so lovely

not trendy, ostentatious, not pompous

but so soft like a melody,

humming the hummingbirds

asleep with the bees

and the trees,

and the leaves,

with the dreams he sees

as somebody sees his tired old vision.

CHRISHEBDON 09-10-06

sneaking upon the moon

sneaking upon the moon, whisteling a tune drops
sweeping with the broom, the sun
until the wind of night stops
come here sweet moon, for a dip, a shower
what shall you do with the moon
once you feel the sundrops in your hand?
isn’t it the epitome of goodness holding power?
i’ll take it and lie it here while i think
sink my toes into the sand, and waiting
holding out one foot to keep the moon from rolling
and showing all the while, my smile to the sun
who, i am sure, has teased the moon for million while
i think i will do what is best to do, for everyone
i will stand and set the sun’s friend back in place
and waiting for another race of words and song
i’ll sneak up on the moon, whisteling a tune drops

outdoor dreams

in a tent in a valley, above me there a blue jay springs
and the sun lays upon me like it never does
but always seems to when i wake from my outdoor dreams
the alarm clock that i purchased for this place was compliment
i never expected such a beatiful way to wake, by the sundrops
and while honestly the timer is set by the last night’s singing
at least i wake when nature gives me such a shove
into daylight, fish streams, hiking trails and outdoor dreams
a comment to me as early as nature sees fitting
and my compliment to them while the coffee’s percolating, I say;

you remind me of where they used to live
among you, rising, sleeping, screaming
catching what they need to catch
the wage of labor in what they fetch
and once a part, there’s nomore they here
the bluejays don’t remember them, long gone
the fish are all new, and the probably fear us
us children of them have no clue of bluejays
sunshine rays, summer days, winter days
we know the seven-day week, slowly
selling our time away from nature, to work
reading, hammering, negotiating and selling
each of us hoping to fetch enough… something
at least enough to hang us over, and then
we hope and pray to be like them, and wake
with the sunrise, the creek sound, and real ground
to compensate for all the years ungrounded
people dumbfounded by the loss of lives
now buying lifestyles from magazines, trees
and convinced that nature never developed a clock
for waking all of her animals for free

“sneak upon the moon”

for now, i had just imagined my best friend’s eulogy
it was this crowd shrouded in disbelief
it’s quite a soul to take my god, mind you
he means what the light and night mean to you, oh god
and now you have us standing here beneath a tent
a hole in the ground with an iron wound casket without grace
his soul was beatiful, and like a voice shined springtimes
my god, what have you of it
i shall confess he wanted it to go to you
he desired, so strongly outright, that his soul, the soul
was to be buried near the roots of a tree, in which he would be
one day the last remaining piece of ember
that rests eternally in the back a cello
for yes, all the world, to hear him sing forever
yes and this is the soul you have taken
but oh god, have you paid any attention
he loved you, questioned you, and dreamed
and prayed to you while he was alone, mind you
sweet god he begged you, to exist at least
but you take him for a not worthy reason
imagine what you’ve done, you cowardly moron!
he is to harmony what your son is to man
and you scorn him! and kill him by your man’s hand!
by god, shame on you, twice of be whatsoever
so hear this song, and tell me if he wished not for you!
while he stood in a beatiful garden in mind
and chose to hide behind the sun, while you, mind you
stood baking and drenching in clouds and rain
he waited for you, dear lord, he waited
whistling a tune, sneaking on the moon drops
which only you, without the forethought, appeared
god bless you lord, but that’s all i give you
if you believe you have done what’s right, then be it so
but you will hear him singing
in the heart of a cello, so many ages
as a martyr to your troubles, your insecurities
dear god, if you cannot make this person into the bravest
if you damned him, some long ago, if you damned him
then damned be you, you son of a bitch
you’re a fine imposter, but a devil in mine eyes
come on, make the world happy
let this man play music, and we all live
god damn you, be a benevolent giver, if your give
give a song to each child that came from him
but for your own sake, my good lord
please, i pray to you, please let him live

“the garden dilemma of a flower”

it’s a pinch, a fucking pinch i tell you
it’s like asking every tulip to be the finest tulip
with awesome spottings, white and geometric
it’s like begging each rose to look about
to smell the roses, or take a glance at them
at themselves, the beautiful red flowers
or like telling them to aspire, or see in spirals
the twirls and shades of the finest rose
and to say “go there,” “to be is to be there”
ah you’re all wrong, we flowers are here
yes held by mere sticks and near-ground branches
a little good, a little bad, but holding us here
and i don’t mind it, i think it’s rather fucking nice
my shades, my shape, my branches
yeah that rose is fancy too, but what?
does that flower not look down to me?
thinking “oh, look at their stems so green
so near the ground, the ground i’ve only seen
that rose there knows the tulips,
that rose probably laughs with the tulips
tells jokes with the tulips, about being red or white
and probably of me above their heads
with so little water above their lines
those flowers know fine, when i only can shine
it’s a pinch, a fucking pinch i tell you!”
even to be free in a garden is to be bound!
if i must worry about who is to get watered!
i want to bloom in a world where mediocrity
is what to be, the sound of friendships, rose-hips
one rose, a a stream nearbye, no wilting
to teaching, nothing to uncover, only safe-cover
stories with old family, a drink, a few drinks
to bloom awakeness and do it all again
not a flower ontop, but a flower with friends

“waking up with california”

california, i love it so dearly
so many times i’ve driven it, up and down
man, we’ve really trailed this place
but i can’t get enough
i just can’t leave too early
sometimes i dream of living off it
in a forest day hut, a family play hut
of waking from a night of drinking
scattered bits of books and papers
poems, scratches, half-burned roaches
stand up bareless and open my windows
another morning like a free new avenue
ah, and in california i would have a piano
and it would sit outside, and shine
so i’de sit bareless upon an oak bench
or maybe maple, or rosewood, yes rosewood
just staring down at those ivory keys
watch as the light hits a few of each
and light a dream, a half burned dream
then hold a pedal and major-seven D
ah, california! california, this is it!
if romance exists, then this is romance
if freedom is, then it rides above me
on the cloud that took a day to dance
what better? it just grows sweeter as
it fades away, diminished i’d say
but it’s just like wine, which i’ll finish off
ah california, let’s keep it this way
listen friend i’m here to stay man
i’ll ride the bullshit, i’ll fight if you need it
but otherwise, let’s just keep on rolling
let’s do this again california, i’ll arrange it
pass that over man, you grew it, i made it

“ode to the campanile”

oh campanille, carillon, play me a song
i’ll sit by your doorstep and listen not moan
like love made as sun sets
your bells do strike three
in the morning chime the moonlight sonata for me

do you remember that night?
i know that you do
i was walking past barrows with evans in sight
the bay had just bid the sunset adieu
then notes fell from heaven
and heaven was you
intervals, beautiful, dissonance two
a major, a minor, a seventh you threw
you knew it was my favorite
i thank you again
your hundred years point, so strong in the wind
a symbol of beauty, not political spin
to think you’ve seen movements, and intellect within
and yet stood with a point since 1907
oh campanille, carillon, play me a song
whatever you choose, you shall not choose wrong

“we are sickened and tired of crying”

what has the god and god child done to make us happy?
my lord, my lord, your all so mad!
you scream to children, and angels flutter
they can’t even burrow their wings in heaven
these men are wicked, mad, obscene

free will, my gods? what have you of it?
do you all just laugh while people cry?
do you feel sorrow, or make a bandage?
this book we have is lonely and confused
i want a book to be written, oh lord
please write it right! what was your adage?
there must be some, no sins and apples
surely you can rewrite it, make it sigh
or make it laugh, or heal the poorest
but instead we cry and someone’s dying

oh lord, what is your taste in woodwind music?
do you love strings, or voice in threes?
do you listen closely? and see that IT was good
i love it much, good job, but this your doing?
i am not so sure, the strings relax the people
your book is sad, dripping from steeples
say we all are bad from the first of moments
do you not care? free will so biting?
why must a child’s first words be cries?
each, and each, and every time
come in this world and start to cry
and I grow older and always cry
and grow to death, you’ve said but time
but god, oh god, oh gods, oh why?
you must all write a book that smiles
we’re sick of crying, gods,
we are sickened and tired of crying