Tag Archives: poem

air and light and time and space

air and light and time and space

“–you know, I’ve either had a family, a job,

something has always been in the

way

but now

I’ve sold my house, I’ve found this

place, a large studio, you should see the space and

the light.

for the first time in my life I’m going to have

a place and the time to

create.”

no baby, if you’re going to create

you’re going to create whether you work

16 hours a day in a coal mine

or

you’re going to create in a small room with 3 children

while you’re on

welfare,

you’re going to create with part of your mind and your body blown

away,

you’re going to create blind

crippled

demented,

you’re going to create with a cat crawling up your

back while

the whole city trembles in earthquake, bombardment,

flood and fire.

baby, air and light and time and space

have nothing to do with it

and don’t create anything

except maybe a longer life to find

new excuses

for.

— Charles Bukowski

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Holding a Cup and Overfilling It

Holding a cup and overfilling it
Cannot be as good as stopping short
Pounding a blade and sharpening it
Cannot be kept for long

Gold and jade fill up the room
No one is able to protect them
Wealth and position bring arrogance
And leave disasters upon oneself

When achievement is completed, fame is attained
Withdraw oneself
This is the Tao of Heaven

– Chapter 9, The Tao Te Ching, translation by Derek Lin


July 23, 2013

One of my oldest and best friends, the poet and visual artist, Kurt Eidsvig, wrote this and sent it to me recently.  I think it’s a great poem and want to share it here.  Thank you, Kurt.

Women from independent coffee shops
can’t decide if they would rather star
in one of your next stories, the works
in progress organized around outdated
Ideas of love, separation, and detached
correspondence, or sit next to your blue
shirt on close booths, let eyes and finger-
tips begin tarot card readings about your
future lives together. There comes a time
in Boston Common’s monsoon variations,
July cracking in half toward August, where
the haves own umbrellas and the have nots
sprint past bus lines marked in number
signs. Hashtag reunion, hashtag words,
hashtag routes and unfamiliar motel signs,
hastag the creep away from constraint and
puddle swims to a three story home with
gargoyles to protect you. If our stories get
personal enough can’t anyone identify? The
girl again, she removes her headphones, leans
closer, hopes you’ll help the sky dry her mind
from the oceans you sail away on.