First of all, this is a poem based on a photo I found in a depression-era book. It shows a man in a saloon with a kitten next to him, in Craigville, MN (which may not be an actual town these days, I'm not quite sure). I love this picture because it says so much. I wrote this a few years back. It is one of my favorite poems that I have written. Here is the link to the picture.



http://www.old-picture.com/scenes-rural-america/002/thumbnails/Craigville-Minnesota-Saturday-thjpg.jpg

Kitten

The topsoil was thick with drought

It can make a desperate man thirsty

Thirsty for rain, thirsty for hope, drink

Craigville, MN in early October

Solace appears like light inside darkness

Rich men come to drink their money away

Farmers come to drink the drought away

On this night, no one understands

The barkeep mops up the remnants of fallen whiskey and vodka

Everyone has left for their homes, but one man takes no hints

His slurred speech has driven all listeners away

Can't they see, he has a reason?

Corn turned to smut and death

Wife turned into ex-wife

Winter is looming like silence at a funeral

October will soon harvest his depleted spirit

Desolate home now plagued with time

No one will call on him

Except for a sympathetic kitten

Who is also thirsty

Nudging his forearm

Saturated with drought

House servants to Shocking corn to Buddy Holly

Hey all,

These first two are an interpretation of Forestville, MN in the 1890's. The third one is about Buddy Holly. I hope you like them.

A Moment With Nellie

A late 19th century house servant, yes

but she cooks better than the old maid.

Hungry gentlemen like myself

come in from the fields.

She can cook six meals every day.

I make it a point to finish her

every fried tomato

every undercooked potato and

every last piece of raisin pie.

Whether precisely measuring flour for bread

or decorating the kitchen table,

I notice her every action.

I'm usually the last gentleman to leave

her kitchen.

Today she smiled at me.

No one else was in the room.

Declining in 1899

It's a good job, I am content with the $1 per day, and though the town is smaller than it once was, I am still happy here. I was in the fields all day shocking corn with the draft horses and you know, only during harvest time do I enjoy the sunsets in Forestville. The locals sitting on the porch eating tin wedding cake and drinking coffee are constant during this time of year. I know everyone here and they know my shyness only exists on my exterior. I don't hold back here, I can say what I want, within good taste mind you. The garden looks vibrant and maintained in this valley surrounded by oak. The river doesn't power the rundown mills anymore, but we are reminded by the sound of its current. Spare the greed and spoil the humble-natured; all 30 of us are spoiled with a good-spirited community. Maybe, when the smaller something gets, the more it is appreciated. I am afraid of what neighboring Spring Valley does with their 1,000 plus residents. Do they ignore eachother and live in selfishness? Do they even appreciate the railroad and the cheap prices it brings to their village? Do they have enough space to relax when the day is through? (long pause and a sigh). Well, I'll say with the trapped dirt under my suspenders, the band playing old union songs, the sun shying behind the tree line, her blushing skin and smile off in the distance; yeah, I thrive in this declining town.

Mankato Winter, 1959

They left for Moorhead

8 days after they played their radio hits

where the outside walls were of stucco and pink.

With no carpet, just dance floor

teenagers and college students crowded even the doors

of the Kato Ballroom on January 25, 1959.

They played on Chestnut Street

to a packed crowd ,

and for a dollar fifty you could see

The Big Bopper, Ritchie Valens

and Buddy Holly,

on the tour called

the Winter Dance Party.

After playing on that snowy Sunday, their next stop

Eau Claire, then Montevideo then St. Paul.

Day after day, they played another town until

the Surf Ballroom in Clear Lake on February 2nd.

Monday night for a dollar twenty-five.

"Dress right to feel right," written on the left

of the billboard.

The next day, Moorhead received the bus

but not the plane

while Buddy's guitar neck

angled inches

above Iowa snow.

A few poems

Nothing funny this week, just a few poems that I have written. The first one is of my grandpa and the remaining three are of the civil war (I don't know why, I just find that era in US history to be so cool). Tell me if they suk or not. If you like them, I have more so be honest in your critiques.

Sunset

Last week, we admitted another patient
whose passions lied within his family and farm.

Donne’s wife Marilyn cared for him
ever since their eyes first met;
she told me of how he smelled of corn and sweat.
She cherishes that high school dance.

Once the house was built,
a baby girl, Danette, came
along with the rain for his crops
of beans and corn.

A steward of the land,
Donne was appreciative of what he had:
a loving wife, bountiful crops, planted trees,
two girls and neighbors who would wave.

Marilyn remembers Donne shaking his head
when the Beatles made the girls scream
on the Ed Sullivan show
and in his living room.

Danette reminded me
that he likes to listen to the Twins
and to always keep a Bible
close to his bed.

Renee is having difficulty with this
and hasn’t visited yet.
Danette told me that her sister always needed space.

As a member of the Brethren church
Donne is a very forgiving and understanding man.
Small in stature,
but endowed with substance.

Marilyn tried to take care of Donne at their home
but couldn’t fake the smiles anymore
when he would walk outside
and stare at the trees.

He enjoys reminiscing, what he can remember, anyway.
His favorite memory
is the sunset he witnessed when he was 17;
middle October on the seat of his dad's John Deere.

Sinking To The Earth

A bearded rebel surrenders himself to death

on a silent battlefield,
two arms grasping his only leg.

The last Union bulletfound its last rebel target.

Though still alive,
he is next to death.

Thoughts of her ease their way inlike unsuspecting fog.

Clara is next to him, along with the wind blowing across his weathered face,
it wont be long.

Forced into the role of Rebel

his thoughts of Clara now accompanythe regret of not running;
no one will tend to his painuntil after he is dead.

Just one more face in a field blessed with anonymity.

That Aching Sunday

A little white Confederate church

all but empty except for a lone white dove;

its graceful flight seceded

by panes of North Carolina glass.

In between two shy, but curious souls

fearing the war and embracing the silence before Sunday’s service.

Eliza and William, before a lone cherry cross

in a humble white church

exchange a silent interest along potent gazes,

with the marriage of subtle dust and defiant sun

through four of its eight windows.

Perched on a pew, the dove lured to William’s hand

while an equally curious Eliza wished he wouldn’t go off to war.

An eager congregation, awaiting the fate of the dove and their Sunday service,

finally, the opening of the doors, Eliza and William, the dove

and a connection.

In the bountiful bosom of a Carolina mountain valley,

this church, a simple place of worship and song.

I will remember this moment
as I look to the midnight sky with a yankee bullet below my eye;

that aching Sunday with Eliza and a dove flying back to its origin

along with my spirit.

Beauty in the Waking: The Civil War Nurse

They come in so intermittent

the chloroform stench, the rage and sentiment.

We are unequipped to adapt

overcome by pain, infection, a seceded map.

Bullets in their eyes, shrapnel in their necks

still despair inside, almost wrecked.

They scream out for mothers and Sally’s

the last time their eyes will speak of sunlit picnics in valleys.

Their last vision while on their left knee

the advancing army and a distant Robert. E. Lee.

Under heavy and dank tents we aide

stitching small wounds while optimism fades.

We’re paid in stained dresses and final grasps of our wrist

the new ones cry, the seasoned just add the names to the list.

Many of us learned this from our mothers,

prepared now to care for separated brothers.

Wounds infected and skin of gangrene

for many of us, things we have never seen.

Nurturing their last words with our eyes

they are men in beds, ashamed of their cries.

Their last glance, a spirit breaking

our duty to find beauty in the waking.

Some might say...

I was riding along with some friends of mine this past weekend when all of the sudden, Fall Out Boy fell from the airwaves into our car stereo; some mightsay a catchy gift from the radio gods. I beg to differ, however. When I hear bands like this on the radio doing so well for themselves, I can't help but to roll my eyes and shake my head. Along with FOB, I will clump Nickelback and Avril Lavigne with this genre of music. It is so convenient that the music you hear on the radio these days are written (not by the band, in large part) for a simple reason--unchecked greed.

If you take the song "Rock Star" by Nickelback, most of us know that it wasn't written in hopes of conveying a message of love, peace or a relationship gone terribly wrong (all common threads that music has sewn since its inception), but instead to simply make money. I mean, who doesn't want to be a rock star?? Most of us at least have a tiny fantasy of being on a stage in front of thousands of fans who paid $50 to see us that random night in that random city. Again, how convenient for Nickelback to write such a song. They can't go wrong with this song? It caters to NEARLY EVERY PERSON who listens to it. I want a jacuzzi and 15 cars, but it is just a random thought that occasionally pops through my head that I don't take the slightest bit seriously. This formula=millions of records sold and dollars earned (hmmm, maybe earned is not the right word here). The trend these days is for an artist not to write songs like "Imagine" or "Blowin in the Wind", but instead to turn a profit for the band and the soul-less record company that represents these "hit" makers.

I find it difficult to believe that John Lennon, for example, would have written such a godawful song like "Rockstar." Luckilly, the world doesn't have to worry about Mr. Lennon sitting down with his guitar and typewriter and churning out crap that caters to millions. I mean, he wrote a song like "Cold Turkey" which was a song of his long battle of weening himself from heroin. Hmm, how many of us can relate to heroin addiction? I am proud to say that I cannot and most, no ALL, my friends can't either, although I am glad he chose to be so honest with his own demons. So why was he so successful in his music career? HIS HONESTY! He knew only a handful of people at the time (mainly rock stars) who could relate to this song, but he didn't give a shit because the song stemmed from his soul, not his wallet.

Another Lennon example would be "Mother." You won't hear this song at New Year's Eve parties or at wedding receptions. You can't dance to this song either and there really is no hook to be found. Instead, he purges his soul into his lifelong question of why his mother abandoned him at such an early age. Where does this song exist? Top 40 radio, not a chance. Greatest hits of the 70's, look a bit harder. That check out lady who always seems down at the grocery store, quite possibly.

Artists such as The Beatles and Bob Dylan (just a few examples) wrote their songs not caring whether it would sell millions of copies around the world. They were much smarter than that. They wrote their songs from the deepest fibers from within themselves, while at the same time discovering a unique and artistic niche of the English language in which to express their joy and sorrow. If a fan connects with that, then both parties are not cheated.

In stark contrast with the Beatles and Bob Dylan, Avril Lavigne makes her millions writing songs that are geared to mainly 14-year-old girls. Last time I checked , she was in her 20's. Let's do a comparison here:


Hey! Hey! You! You!
I don’t like your girlfriend!
That's Right! No way! No way!
I think you need a new one
Hey! Hey! You! You!
I could be your girlfriend

Hey! Hey! You! You!
I know that you like me
No way! No way!
You know it’s not a secret
Hey! Hey! You! You!
I want to be your girlfriend
--Not only are the rhymes poorly constructed, but she uses the SAME WORD as rhymes. That is generally a No-No in poetry (though this doesn't even come close to poetry). And yes, Avril actually needed more songwriters to help her write this monstrosity.

And for a comforting change of pace, a sample of Bob Dylan's "Mr. Tambourine Man":

Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind,
Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves,
The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach,
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow.

Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free,
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands,
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves,
Let me forget about today until tomorrow.
--And yes, just Bob wrote this song (there are 4 other verses like this one in addition to the chorus).

Now first off, comparing Bob Dylan to Avril Lavigne is like comparing the pyramids of Egypt to a Hello Kitty lunchbox, but my point is that these two artists are successful in their own right. However, one is far more influential and meaningful than the other. While Dylan is writing of the merciless and unforgiving change that time brings to all mankind, Lavigne is regressing into 7th grade love letters (or a text messages) so her song can be downloaded as a ring tone or get nominated for a meaningless MTV Video Music Award. And let's not forget that Mr. Tambourine Man was written by Dylan himself and was recorded with just a single acoustic guitar while Lavigne's little ditty was dubbed and overdubbed in a studio with mediocre musicians backing up a marvelously mediocre voice.

Music is at its best when a fan relates to a song that came from the artists heart. It doesn't get any better than someone connecting with a song that originated in truth and honesty. With this formula, both artist and fan get the heart and soul of eachother!

Some might say that I am music prude and that I take music too seriously. What I am trying to say is simply this: I want my music to be like Johnny Cash when he was abusing prescription pills; uncomfortable to watch, but painfully honest as the horizon in his voice.

A random passerby at Perkins.

So there was a man outside of Perkins the other day in Woodbury. On a sunny Monday, I was eating lunch with two very good friends (while waiting for my bleu cheese side salad; which Perkins believes should be "separate" from the gourmet Chicken Ranch Wrap and fries--aTRUE SIDE salad i guess) when there appeared a man who we will call "Barry." No, it wasn't Barry Williams from the Brady Bunch; I am quite sure that he works with the Applebees franchise. I'm pretty sure in menu design too. And even if it was Barry Willilams, I would have used a more ambiguous surname than Barry, (maybe Johnny Bravo).

At any rate, Barry was outside picking up trash around the building when I noticed him wording some phrase to someone. Probably one of his buddies helping pick up the paper cups and abused condoms that have found their way onto the Perkins premise. As the seconds ticked by and no one but Barry was present, I was beginning to think that maybe Barry was talking on his bluetooth, you know, that annoying little device that people put in their ears when they need TWO hands to talk to you on their cell phone.

Well, as it turns out, when Barry turned his head to reveal the rest of his head, sans earpiece, I realized that he either had an imaginary friend, or was one of millions of people in this country with a mental illness. Much like the brown carpet in my apartment, when one encounters someone with a mental illness, there always seems to be things far beneath the surface that one can't see with a quick glance. Does he have a home? Does he have a pet? Does he actually work for Perkins?

I hope no one gives him a hard time for something that may be out of his control. I hope he gets to have lunch with his best friends on Labor Day too sometime. But then again, maybe he makes reservations for 3 for a party of 1. I wondered these things as I left the parking lot, sans trash.