Poetry Service/Onshore Business…

I’m gonna start a Poetry Service
for all those that are nervous
and don’t want a last-minute
Hallmark or dimestore card of any kind.
Say their Grandma is having 
a wisdom tooth or younger one extracted,
and their favorite family pooch
has something seriously impacted –
For a very small fee,
like half of their life savings,
I’ll start waving inspiration 
to the ground and give them a verse 
and a graphic that will both stop traffic 
and do them both justice –
Hand printed with Artsy letters
so that no one will have to say 
they squinted just to see it.
It may be such a rousing business success,
that the Chamber of Commerce will 
applaud it with Awards several years straight, 
and Poetry and Graphic Design competitors 
from miles around will follow the sounds, 
and follow us home to the Spare Lair & Office
just to see how we do it and where we bury
the gold bullion payments.
Banks? What for? We’re not 
manipulating the economy, this is serious 
Onshore Business.
© Peter Bray, 3/21/2014
All rights reserved
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Grief Came In…

Grief came in like 
a hacksaw, chainsaw,
SawZall and jackhammer to my soul –
Disrupted my bed, my head,
tossed around my furniture;
muddied up my days,
and created a haze 
that left me mute and cold.
I wept at Starbucks,
when there was nothing left to do.
I invented a way 
of talking to my daughter
like she was still 
riding on my shoulders daily.
I hugged her as I fell asleep at Stony Creek.
Heaven is just another door and window 
in my head. I am now a breeze 
and she is every feather and tree 
I ever knew.
I hang on to my wife, 
friends and family
and my son Chris like he is
a rock in my River Earth 
and I am a loose pebble tumbling.
©Peter Bray, 3/10/2014 All rights reserved

Download from God…

She said she was young when 
she received her download from God.
I knew exactly what she meant.
When it happened to me in the early 1970’s,
it was better than KFC, my favorite hotrod car,
counting my money, even sex.
So I wrote:
 
 
New Found Grace
 
And in my greatest elation,
ascension came by leaps and bounds,
and I was found in that holy place,
in a new found grace
and I started to wonder
just where I’d ever
been before.
©Peter Bray, 2/27/2014 All rights reserved

Bus Ride…

Poetry is sometimes like
riding on a bus going nowhere,
until you find some sleeping,
homeless type in the back
smelling of urine and really
shabby clothes and as you
offer him your last apple
from a tired brown sack,
he quotes something brilliant
he wrote 40 years before
and suddenly you’re his best fan
and vice-versa.
©Peter Bray, 11/21/2013 All rights reserved

Poems From the Edge of the Bed.

I have no clue, they just arrive.
So I lay here and like a freight train
pulling into the station,
I hear the whistle from a distance,
hear the labor of the engines,
the bristling of the warm wind as it approaches,
the side to side rattle of the heavy-laden cars,
and I can’t remember all their lines
or their destination, east, west, south, or north,
so it’s all I can do to get up,
go downstairs, put on the tea water,
fire up the computer
and write them down…

Or it’s like working at a grocery store
and the goods arrive on the loading dock.
It’s somebody’s job to put them away.
Some are dry goods, some are cans and bottles,
some are fresh produce, and you can’t
just leave them here in the dark in a box,
some have to go into storage,
some get trimmed of their transient debris,
and some get immediately stacked
on the shelves by either the day or the night crew.
Tomorrow’s gonna be another day
and people come to buy this stuff
or stay away and go hungry
and there’s plenty of both these days…

Or it’s like being Zorro working at some
isolated Intergalactic Way Station up in the frozen tundra –
I’m watching the weather station dials and gauges,
manometers, and thermocouple wires,
and then suddenly the keyboard begins to tick.
Some kind of message is coming in,
what the F’ language I don’t know,
it’s just arriving, but it’s my job to throw the switch,
listen to the numbers, try to identify the code,
and record it as fast as I can.
Somebody somewhere is sending this stuff
and one day we’re gonna find out who that is
and maybe make them CEO, President,
or just another guy or gal sleeping under a bridge
with just enough clues and sense
to get out of local traffic and also harm’s way.
©Peter Bray 11/18/2013 All rights reserved