no untoward loitering
so one must place one foot
in front of the other
(no jaunty angles)
be dignified
the above action not to resemble “dancing”
unless one is within a licensed dancing
establishment
Dave Wilson
waldomaui
For about 27 years my adult life has been enriched immeasurably by my friends and co-conspirators in the Maui Live Poets Society. It is through these exceptional folks that I've blossomed as a poet. Best of all, my loving wife Cindy Albers and I met through MLPS. Cindy--a truly accomplished writer and poet--and I both will be pounding out poems on our respective laptops here on the windward shore of Maui. (Already I feel the need for a nap.) Once again, thank you to Caitlin and Jacob and the other volunteers for this sterling opportunity! Good luck to us all! Big Group Hug, waldomaui (sometimes known as Bear)
Hour 11–Chinese Melodious Laughing Thrush
she sings a wildly original tune
repeats it precisely
then never again
endlessly
Hour 10–Ugh
I thought I had so many ideas
feeling empty now
brief nap
Hour 9–Arguing With Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that goodnight. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
[Why? Huh? That’s what I want to ask. Shit, I’m dying! Don’t tell me to pull back. You moron, I’m a toddler in the doorsill. Don’t tell me to change direction. You think you know more about this shit than I do? What the hell? Why shouldn’t I go gentle into that goodnight? To please you? It’s always gotta be about you? Fuck! What more lovely way to go than to go gently? What comes next? You don’t know any more than I do. Don’t tell me how to do it. Why do you get to define what experience I have? It’s dishonest. Why should my dying be about you? Get out and don’t tell me how to die. I was halfway there, and you pulled me back. Don’t tell me to rage. I’ve fought, I’ve struggled all my life. This is my time to relax, shithead. Get real.]
Go ahead, feel free if you like. Go gentle into that goodnight, embrace as you wish the dying of the light.
Hour 8–Hunger
We need Denny’s to deliver breakfast
We need scrambled eggs and roasted red potatoes with onions and sausage and peppers, ya know, their Ultimate Skillet
We need Starbuck’s to deliver coffee, strong coffee
We need ideas, maybe even useable metaphors (if we dare)
We need to remember we’re in this thing together
Hour 7–Church
Sleepy heads carefully
balanced on necks
eyes closed
sermon kept at bay
Hour 6–The Hesperus Wrecked
It was a tragedy.
She was the captain’s daughter. She was found in the dim surf tied to the mast of the wreckage. Her bosom was white and her long hair swirling. I was 12 and a boy and the bosom thing is mostly what I remember and she was dead. Her father had tried to save her and thus killed her.
And I was dying up in front of the class. Miss Hepburn as our English teacher had made us each memorize two thousand lines of poetry. We had to recite on command. Procrastinator, I, I faltered badly there in the surf with the captain’s daughter. I couldn’t rescue her or myself. I couldn’t remember the words.
As if I had a choice I chose the greater humiliation. I broke down and sobbed there at the blackboard. Miss Hepburn told me to take my seat. I did so sloppily. Relieved it was over, I cried quietly at my desk. My colleagues were embarrassed. They backed away. Fear of contagion. The whole school would hear.
It was a tragedy. It was my introduction to poetry.
Hour 5–Meaningful Employment
Yes indeed cats like me
I come home from work
with fur on my pant legs
Hour 4–Modern Age
looking up from my salad
four out of five people sitting at the next table
gazed at screens
cupped in hands
my cell phone rang
Hour 3–Small Fry
Dad wasn’t there that day
wouldn’t have been interested
so Mom filled the role gladly
did the dad-thing by
renting a row boat
she took us boys fishing
because boys needed to do things with worms and hooks and poles
and feel the thrust that oars made against water
it was a lake near a discount store with a highway going over
not exactly Nature
not exactly fish fish
sunfish
little ones
even smaller in the frying pan