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    Collected Poems: Patterson Gap Poetry, #6
    Collected Poems: Patterson Gap Poetry, #6
    Collected Poems: Patterson Gap Poetry, #6
    Ebook432 pages1 hour

    Collected Poems: Patterson Gap Poetry, #6

    By Daniel Warren

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    About this ebook

    "Collected Poems" is a compilation of all poems written in the past fifty (something) years by the poet.

     

    The poems are wildly different in their subject and execution. This is to be expected as the poet also is "wildly" different than when he started. So if one poem doesn't strike you the reader perhaps another one will.

     

    And perhaps you will think that some poems are better than others.

     

    The poet understands and only wishes that you will find one that you like.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDaniel Warren
    Release dateMar 14, 2022
    ISBN9798201793395
    Collected Poems: Patterson Gap Poetry, #6

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      Book preview

      Collected Poems - Daniel Warren

      Dedication

      To

      Sarah

      To The Reader

      Collected Poems is a compilation of all poems written in the past fifty (something) years by the poet.

      The poems are wildly different in their subject and execution. This is to be expected as the poet also is wildly different than when he started. So if one poem doesn't strike you the reader perhaps another one will.

      And perhaps you will think that some poems are better than others. The poet understands and only wishes that you will find one that you like.

      A Centripetal Force

      If music isn’t life

      then life isn’t a play

      And there on opening night

      How does it begin

      A play of words?

      As curtain ascends

      A character on stage

      Brings music to a halt

      Treading words in a line

      The troop carries on

      til half-way at intermission

      I notice others in my row

      no one I know

      I half-nod in recognition

      And remove to promenade

      Paintings hang in light

      Careful crafts, ornate décor

      More than men have drawn

      this space

      in mind and on page

      than stand here in lobby

      or there on stage

      And now I have to ask

      Though some will never attend

      if line and staff and frame

      have not drawn them here

      What is the source

      they seek

      If not the word drawn line

      unless of course you think

      it just

      a centripetal force

      2/11/03

      A lasting day

      I stood

      for awhile

      against

      the currents

      of the day.

      Never

      making much

      ripple

      in comparison

      To the ones

      that ran

      to play

      their temporal days

      in the sun.

      I was blessed

      I guess

      by a different

      longing

      for a lasting day.

      4.7.12

      A life beheld

      She had dreamed once

      he had talked carelessly

      she had enjoined in the lyric-life

      he had described sing-song like

      She had life to enfold

      he had life to express.

      He had given his heart

      she had felt the change in tone

      he had not known until later

      she had known the moment,

      and ever-after

      She had life to gather

      he had life to cast.

      She could never dream anymore

      he could never change his dreams

      she had remanded her emotional heart

      he had lost his footing for sure

      She had life to cloister

      he had life to bestow.

      He had a past to forget

      she had a future to face

      he made a last slip of the tongue

      she took him at his word

      He had life to behold

      she had a life beheld.

      4.25.12

      A life with you

      I sit and am pensive

      then panic

      then despair

      then resolute, I continue

      The written letters

      not answered

      not shared

      not read, I fear

      I’ve only a slight chance

      less than that

      less than none

      less hopeful, I am

      As time passes quietly

      now quickly

      now a blur

      now stops, I dread

      Another moment without

      a love,

      a dream of,

      a life, with you

      1/8/07

      A lovely fire

      The heat

      of a kitchen

      in warm smells.

      The baking

      of a dozen

      voices that swell.

      The scorching

      of a custard

      turned dark to the sight.

      You burn

      the love

      into life.

      2/4/11

      A natural course

      What's the pulling force

      that brings the water up,

      through the trunk

      through branching limbs

      to the leaves?

      Does naming it

      explain?

      Do we always

      have to call it

      by name?

      Can we take up

      ourselves

      to such heights?

      How is it we can accept

      this pulling force

      and join

      its natural course?

      9/30/11

      A pound of justice

      Hey old man,

      you in jail,

      they gave you paper

      to pad your cell

      not to poem on.

      What were

      you thinking?

      Writing your

      epic

      when you

      should be

      sleeping.

      Hey old man

      what were you waiting?

      Some great

      awakening

      from a sleeping world.

      What were

      you trying,

      to poem off

      on the unsuspecting?

      Some modern wake

      for the

      just traditional?

      Hey old man

      take your meals

      and your exercise hour

      No one cares,

      your jailhouse epistle.

      What you

      think

      you in for?

      A pound

      of justice

      not manuscript.

      7/20/03

      A reminder of ashes

      The ash-grey men

      perform their duties

      in punctual

      efficiency.

      As the wind

      blows life

      through the valley,

      the ash-grey men

      shutter their stares.

      And on the winding

      green lawn

      of a summer place

      the delicate iron

      window-keepers

      swing in the breeze

      While inside

      the great live

      as a fire

      of dying ashes

      flares briefly

      from a poker

      wielding butler.

      Out the chimney

      some glowing embers

      cross the space

      between valley and home

      On their journey

      to an ash cemetery

      far from the

      summer place

      they have known.

      The car starts

      in the driveway

      and speeds

      towards the valley

      curve

      The ash-grey men,

      remiss in remarking

      its passing

      until the crash

      brings a flutter, and

      a reminder of ashes.

      4.16.12

      A Southern Smile

      Chair, the room with

      white walls

      Come... sit down to fry.

      My body balloons with

      a fever

      Mother somewhere, cries...

      My man sits down to break-

      fast

      sits down to food-feast.

      My body longs a drink to health

      longs a sad sweet sleep.

      Rest easy my man I drift

      by-e

      All hail your toast and jam,

      I taste your last bit of Oran-juice

      Such soft shoulders in my hands.

      A flip of wrists; neck-twist,

      feel sadness,

      a Southern lady screams in pain.

      I’m drawn away to face the

      day

      looks like a sky-rain.

      All is lost my body tossed

      on a cool linen sheet,

      Must have been a dream my friend

      One dreamed quick before I sweet-sleeped.

      It was in all the papers,

      said the man,

      "So fine a Southern belle,

      the same morning he was

      fried, God rest him –"

      —he smiled—

      God rest him in hell.

      A synthesis of love

      Being a (man) is sometimes

      (bipedal creature of unique intellect)

      being gentle

      Being a (woman) is sometimes

      (bipedal creature of unique intellect)

      being firm

      Not till you can peer over the edge

      of your own abyss

      and see my broken (life)

      (an aggregate of local-energy

      probabilities)

      and forget self

      and lose self

      to (save) mine

      (ignoring the random and unwanted        factors introduced ... selflessness)

      And there high above

      extend a hand

      and pull another life-form up

      from (misery, superstition, and spite)

      (mans local sphere of influence, ie...       Earth)

      will you know what being a man or a

      wo-man truly is

      Not till you rise above

      can you know (love)

      (the act of grace or the act of

      receiving grace)

      A Winters Death

      When father died

      it seemed to cry

      snow

      from a blank sky

      that first day

      of death.

      Second day

      the snow itself

      in a melting rain

      revealed the

      barren ground

      where we buried

      dreams.

      And it seems

      even in rows

      a-kilter

      something

      wants to grow

      as a thistle weed

      shoots up from

      the snow.

      On the third day

      of death

      I gathered

      a handful of weeds

      and scattered

      their seeds

      in a silent arc

      of renewal

      for the coming spring.

      On the fourth day

      I rest

      as I'm sure

      the best

      I can hope for

      is the continual

      effort

      to out wait

      a winters death.

      2/04/11

      Absence

      Where the blinding light?

      The threatening sky at night, the

      clarity of dawn.

      Where the song

      that warns?

      On what morn

      did the quiet fall?

      When could we

      no longer

      hear?

      And what answer

      could we give now

      if we could?

      9/30/11

      All life is dialogue

      All life is dialogue

      told by a brown toad

      Down by a pond

      I scream past

      racing the road

      and truck my load

      to the next

      fence post.

      There I begin

      to mend again

      the broken wire

      that sings in the wind

      And the toad

      I hear keeping time

      in momentary a-cappella

      in my mind.

      We all listen

      at times to the singing

      and at other times

      we beg quiet

      busy remembering

      a singing toad

      talking really,

      when the sun was higher.

      10/18/10

      All souls

      Have you sat in the evening

      with the sun going down

      Maybe with the

      curtains drawn?

      As the light empties and

      flees your grasp and

      darkness enters

      the room.

      Have you seen the shadows slant

      as they move almost alive and

      wondered if there was

      some connection.

      How is it that there are moments

      such as the fleeing light in

      evening that makes a

      Stop, in your life?

      A barely perceptible knowing

      that there’s more than

      meets the eye

      here under

      heaven.

      A palpable sense that you

      could grasp the last rays

      and hold a moment

      regardless of the

      flight of time.

      I mean at that moment an

      essence is with you,

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