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Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

There is something we share;
it is an idea, a thought,
a dream.

We call it a nation.

We dream that it is as real
as the earth beneath our feet,
as eternal as the stars.

We recall histories of its birth,
tell sagas of its darker days,
make plans for its future.

We believe that as it is now,
so shall it always be.

It is the same with
other peoples,
other dreams.

But we are wrong.
All of us are wrong.

These dreams are fragile, ephemeral,
dew-dazzled hopes of gossamer.

These dreams can break, vanish,
burnt by cruel suns, torn by raging winds.

All it takes is another’s dream, another’s will.

One person’s dream of power can destroy
an entire people’s dream of peace.

If we let it.

If we let it.

 

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we are
eight billion quilts
fashioned of threadbare cloth
stitched by blind hands
in a darkened room
uniquely alike
consistently different

or

are we
eight billion pieces
of patchwork pain
and remnant joy
a masterwork revealed
only when we see
not the threads of our lives
but the pattern of our existence

 

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she’s a night owl
and I rise before dawn
which gives us both
a few hours alone
to miss each other

 

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My sword is bright
it lights the path ahead
through treacherous times
shining

My sword is sharp
it cuts to the heart
the dissemblers’ lies
seeking

My sword is strong
it survives unfazed
the illogic tide
standing

My sword is my vote
it points the way forward
for right and for rights
singing

——

k

 

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the ether screams
headlines blare
so many voices
shout

warning taunting
upscale vaunting
always wanting
me

to fear to hear
to see to go
to buy to know
as if

my happiness
my meaning
my purpose divine
needs

their secret their special
their proven hack
their inside track
when

what I really want to do is

stop

lean back, feet up
feel the cat’s rumbling purr
taste the wine’s memory of summer
smell the coming rain
hear my lover’s laugh

k

Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

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From waterfront to high market
the climb wends upward through the city’s memories,
from old brick painted with faded names
to new concrete laid at the feet of giants.

Gulls cry below, scudding along the shore’s hungry limit,
wings suspended on the taste of salt and kelp,
while above, the rumble of metal and power
and the chatter of caffeinated urbanites.

My breath rasps with each tread
as I climb the twisting caverns,
Orpheus returning to the light
through tunnels rank with piss and sorrow.

From beyond the turning, a note sounds,
pulled, tightened, anxious, lonely,
until another twangs in, rising too,
birthing tentative harmony.

The notes repeat, nearer as I climb,
others come to shimmering life,
intervals congealing out of tortured dissonance
as sympathetic strings pull into focus.

At stairs’ end, a cavern of poured stone;
a sunbeam paints harsh shadows of two men,
one seated, one who steps close,
beckoning, wide-eyed, his smile broad.

The seated man shifts,
and his guitar catches the light,
its varnish a Renaissance craquelure,
its strings twelve lines of fire.

I draw closer to the player, unsure;
his companion encourages me
and with beatific confidence instructs,
“Listen, and believe.”

When the chord is struck,
the world retreats, sirens stop,
pistons grow still, the machined ostinato
becomes a heartbeat bass.

We three form a tableau,
the creator, the disciple, and the skeptic,
as the divine is released by dirty fingers
and earthen hearts are lifted.

 

 

 

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just put up a poem

she said

when I complained

of having no ideas

as if it was

the easiest thing

to do

and so

I did

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