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
©Peter Bray, 11/21/2013 All rights reserved
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
The mainstream is mediocre,
the religious right is far too whacked
and I’m just an old suburban mutt
who got screwed repeatedly
by the corporate system, so I upload
my poems and songs and graphics
to the Internet winds hoping to find
something I haven’t yet found…
So far the winds and constellations
are way too slow to answer…
©Peter Bray, 10/29/2013 All rights reserved
I am a weed
in your corporate concrete.
I’m the stain
that won’t go away.
I‘m the light to and from
that crack in the wall.
That writing on the wall
that you may not be able to read.
I’m the light in the tunnel
Get used to me,
I’m gonna be around
for a long, long time.
©Peter Bray, 9/20/2013 All rights reserved
Grief’s a hard river,
it’ll maybe take you down,
bouncing along the bottom
and hoping that you don’t drown.
Remembering their last moments
and all the memories before,
gotta go to work
and so it’s hard to close that door.
I used to think that Harry
being a special cat,
knew something about being feral
and could link me somehow to Cat’.
But it’s all too absurd,
knocking on Heaven’s door,
all their artifacts are around,
but still I’m wanting more.
Grief’s a hard, hard river.
©Peter Bray, 9/18/2013 All rights reserved