henrylawsonsotherdog

The Hours.

2010-10-25T21:02:00.003-07:00

We all have to face the hours
every day of every year till nights end
coming out of nothing we return
to the nothingness
but afraid we run
trying desperately to hide our fears.
Wade into the river together
and feel the fish
wash by our feet
see light
from endless skies.

The Hours.

2010-10-25T21:02:00.001-07:00

The Poetess.

2010-10-25T20:57:00.001-07:00

Maybe together we can make mountains
steal the wind, weave a wild ocean
and cook the night without stars.

Maybe together we can make suns
steal the sky, dream a patchwork quilt
and paint a landscape of imagings.

We have wandered far from ourselves
unable to see the damage done
waiting for this memory to circle

Still it good lying on that big bed
you wearing your black fedora naked
lost in our bodies in summer.

St. David's Street.

2010-10-25T20:44:00.000-07:00

I heard from a friend that your life went out with a bang!
Brunswick Street had never seen anything like it:all jazz and light.
My rainbow man, holder of music deliverer of the blues.
A carriage drawn by graceful horses sang Dixie
past the greedy cafes.
Your coffin held under the blue surrounded by trumpets and song.
People danced and tripped down hipster town
past De Vincenzo and the Sila Cafe.
This was not a crying day for the lost
but a celebration for the man from St. David's Street.

I remember when I first met you,
you greeted me with your tough smile
and battered boxers hand
and held me gently.
We talked about the blues and laughed at the world.

Brassy Lena while pouring cold beer under the dim light
quoted Kazantakis,
"You want to know what life is? Its the full catastrophe
the whole damn thing".

Those nights packed in like sardines immersed in smoke
as I danced like the midnight oil.

Now I'm heading for New Orleans to find Doctor John
and while there I'll think of you
as the bourbon kisses my lips.

Better

2010-10-25T19:44:00.001-07:00

Better to go down by the sea at night and hear music
or walk the Grey Street
with the hookers and junkies high on light.

Better to walk the roads alone berfet of sounds
free-wheeling
into crazy mystic wandering morns.

Better to read Jeffers by lamp light
and read about stone and hawks
winging their way over Big Sur.

Better to see fog drift mountains
under a spring mist rain
listening to old Hank Williams

and better to have tried the poet's voice
than being nothing at all.

Sonny Rollins

2010-10-25T19:37:00.000-07:00

played like a fiery desert moon all bent and wild
blowing his saxaphone
making love and being free
he played those notes mad, crazy and beautiful
as if sweet to the beat where no Beats live
except Catfish McDaris who wrote cool moaning poetry
of his Mexico times along the Pecos..
then suddenly my feet lost control
dancing in the San Franciscan night
Berkley minutes of flame as my body swayed
in the heat sweat dripping to my chair
someone yelled out
"play it harder man"
it was like seeing God all black and free.

Run with the Hunted

2010-10-25T19:29:00.000-07:00

The maddening hallways
the lonely doors and screaming walls
and the blackened drunken rooms
were all part of this man's life once.
The daily trips up the Grey Street
to the the soup kitchen where the crucifix held
men and women standing on the cold wet stone
in winter hungering for a meal
hunting for conversations to make us real
and down the road stood the inn
named the John Lennon with its washed blood floors
where the one-eyed, one armed man stands a drink
and down the road is the cafe strip
with its Jewish cakes and thick Turish coffee
laughing mad crazy like as a Porsche rolls by
all mixed into one, a melting pot
of defiance of songs sung.

The Language Maker

2010-10-25T19:14:00.000-07:00

A windswept wild vision of God's song was your face
opened within the boundaries of time
now washed away
by the morning rain
leaving a clear pearl
untainted by life's rock
Your wounds came from a truth of lonely desert nights
by the Pecos River
with strange visions from the cactus
of light and night moons
of mescaline apparitions.
Creeley called you a prodigy, a poet called to write.
It was demanded of you
yet you turned away from language
not so bad I guess
and you dug deep in your garden
allowing the dogwoods to flower in spring.
But then that was a long time ago
and now you live in the hermitage by Big Sur
The waves crash onto the barren rocks
and cormorants bury themselves in the sea,
hunting......
You took me to Tor House to Jeffers home
by Carmel's shores to the poets circle of stone
and just then a shadow flew overhead
a hawk winging on the wind of memories
to the stone-cutters dream.