By definition

Laughter in splinters
The dead died down
Uprooting happiness
All the lost winters
The door mats remove
And the staples are stolen
Under the knees
And the walkings stick
Laughter in splinters
All out of underline
The undefined shuffle
You
And me
By definition
Googled is gone
They discover we're not there
Uprooted
New old
Lost found
Perhaps a glitch
The floor mats remove
You're not hiding
By definition
You are there
Googled is gone
Sifting through lines
Through cracks
Of your lives.

Denis Streeter 12/26/11

might be

loosely inspired by a children's book by william mayne called a glass ball...

might be

i was walking down the street when i
picked up a quarter
it was a shiny quarter
so i spent it
on a blue marble
but it ran away from me
so i chased it
down alley ways over roof tops down gutters
until it rolled into the ocean
a fain of magic
a whole world contained
if i had searched its universe
gods would be present
making sure i would not know
too much
searching the soul
of a marble
that might be ticking
growing
might not be blue
might be my heart

denis streeter 12/18/11

Trite and true

The original title was "Blank slate", but after talking to my drunken best friend last night and reading this piece..."Hold on a minute...if you're going to read it to me, I'm going to need a beer"...he thought it was trite...not bad...but trite. So I said "how about 'trite and true'?" He liked that title a lot...actually so did I...it's so


Trite and true

This is the blank slate
The empty towel
Words, food place mats,
Perhaps even a blown nose
Yeeuck...better be thrown out
Words are sometimes like that
Better thrown out
Others come in, write themselves on this towel
Words changing as experience changes us
This is the blank slate
The empty towel
Waiting to be filled
Refilling our perceptions.

Denis Streeter 12/16/11

You want my money

An angry poem...

You want my money

You
You want my money
What will you do with it
Use it to pay your electric bill?
Once you have my money
You'll use it on whatever you please
You
Quit asking for my money
Just do it the old fashioned way.
Rob me at gunpoint or a knife to my throat
Then you can have my money
That way I'll know
It's not for rent, the baby, the bills
That way I'll know
You'll use it any way you please
I won't ask you to spare my life
You will have to answer to that
You
You want my money
Do what you need
But remember
The repercussions.

Denis Streeter 12/9/11

There is no more

I had a really tiring day at work...so to help me unwind this is complete nonsense...

There is no more

Toothpicks of saunter earning their keep
By brooming sticks dry of leaves
Shadowing ways to sheltering havens
Where the rugs pop and the tiles glow
The aftershock of mittins and towels
When bowels exploded on the scene
First in sonnets, add bandersnatch of wine
And the songs ended selling one pellet at a time
Just as the ice cream had noticed and stopped believing
The tonics dressed up and went out for dinner
With a little floss and gingivitis
Exploring chlorine wells before rinse and spit
But the trowels dug up the rest
Just between the covers where the toothpicks drop
And the sidewinders wind branches for words to explode
But the aftershocks dropped the towels for dinner
When the slumbers came a meal worm away
Hoping for dust while the shelves reverberated
The rings turned their laps into flower beds
Announcing eclipse while rugs tiled doors
In rafters of smoke goading tarnations
Of labrador drawers and finger foot puppets
The decent thing to do was hide the fritters
Under rotting cabinets and wing tumbled doors
While picnic baskets cried "There is no more."
Morse out cat door
In sing songy dashes right under the floor.

Denis Streeter 12/3/11

Beard growth

The stubble is now one week old...

I look in the mirror
I looks like someone spackled
Some snow stubbled gravel on my face
And I didn't know gravel grew
To fill in roadways, ditches
That hole in my chin
I want to fill in
A face filled with sparse
And more dense growth
It could be all be the same
Or trimmed or clearcut
Or let the snow stubbled gravel
Grow its own truth.

Denis Streeter 12/2/11

Averted eyes

Who knows why
Comes by surprise
So many faces
Wander by
Averted eyes.

Tilt your face up
That pretty face
Has caught your eye
Has caught your eyes
Averted eyes.

Perhaps tattoo
Some visual cue
Oh what to do
She's caught your cue
Averted eyes.

It's no surprise
It might be wise
To recognize
The otherwise
Avert those eyes.

So many cries
To recognize
So many shys
That smiling face
So many tries
Averted eyes.

Could be some pain
Deep in those eyes
Some hidden pain
You can not feign
Averted eyes
Not asking wise.

Then by surprise
Averted eyes
Will tell you whys
In several tries
To listen is
Revealing prize.

Denis Streeter 11/30/11

Life: An Exploding Diagram...by Mal Peet

The very best stories resonate in your mind and interact with your life long after the story has ended. This story follows three generations of a British working class family from WWI to the Cuban Missile Crisis. It is an excellent portrait of a family trying to find its way...through wars inside the family...and outside. The focal point of these three generations is upwardly mobile Clem...struggling with school, love, and war. The writing is so searingly honest I could feel myself gasping in recognition. This paragraph gives you some sense of the character of Ruth, the mother of Clem...trying to make sense of her mother Win's past...

Sentimentality and nostalgia are closely related. Kissing cous-
ins. I have no time for nostalgia, though. Nostalgics believe that
the past is nicer than the present. It isn't. Or wasn't. Nostalgics
want to cuddle the past like a puppy. But the past has bloody
teeth and bad breath. I look into its mouth like a sorrowing
dentist. (page 26)

Mal Peet weaves pieces of generations together...with insight into the human condition. Ages 12+. This is one of those special books for all ages...personal yet universal...where the power of stories will continue exploding into your life.

Two mythologically startled

Mythologies

Down tribal tunnels
Distant lands
Exploring unknown
Timid stand
Counting blessings
Distant lands
Crying panes
Shards of selves
Justification
For what can not be
Rationally explained
Asking questions
What is belief
What is core.

Denis Streeter 11/18/11


Startled

You
You're honest enough
You're also secretive enough
I don't know where to place you
I love and hate you.
You don't tell an outright lie
Sometimes you tell the TMI truth
And I can feel my body shake
For I wonder
What TMI truth I've told you...
I wish I could remember
My mind a wave of memories
I look up
You're startled
I'm sorry...
What was your name?

Denis Streeter 11/19/11

Lisp chronicles

I got talking to a co-worker today and discovered she too had a lisp growing up. We mostly grew out of it. I had a speech therapist for a year or two in grade school. In an odd sort of way, this may have developed the importance of choosing words...perhaps even the preference for nonsense. I choose words for the way they flow from my tongue, not necessarily whether they make sense. As a fun exercise, she said I should make up lispy words and turn them into a poem. I was up for it...

husky (hufty)
with (wiff)
thank you (sank you)
thought (fought)
teeth (teef)
lisp (lift)
merchandice (merchandife)
yes (yef)

So...with apologies...I made up the following...

Lisp Chronicles

Me: I'll help you wiff that.
Them: Sank you very much. I'm also looking for that dog merchandife.
Me: Oh...you mean the hufty merchandife.
Them: Yef.
Me: I would have fought upstairs.
Them: What are you saying?
Me: Oh...sorry...I can't get my teef around it. I have a lift.

Denis Streeter 11/17/11

A plus shaped zero

The heart is a plus shaped zero
Metaphor breathing beginning
Growing changing experience
Between loving and loneliness
The head hides the heart
Then searches tunnels for excavation
Blending counter-intuitive
Some crosses some plusses
Beginning again
Connecting to
Breathing through
Complex possibility.

Denis Streeter 11/11/11

Greeting cards

I think that's how I first started writing poetry. I was trained at an early age to write thank you notes for everyone. The problem was finding the appropriate card for the occasion. Most cards were incredibly sappy. I found myself gravitating to blank greeting cards and collecting...like the Mary Engelbreit cards of the early 1980's...before her stuff got over produced. I developed a greeting card collection of about 200 cards. I would specially pick out each card to match the occasion or personality...and write some corny rhyme or limerick. People seemed to like them, so I continued. I never really thought of what I was doing as poetry. In fact at the time, I didn't think very highly of poets. When I thought of poets at that time, I thought of Emily Dickinson...which didn't sit well with me then. Only now am I appreciating her works more. I was more fond of riddles or puns...you know...the groaners. Most of my earlier poetry...say 25 years ago...were all rhymes. Then I started writing nonsense verse...often in rhymes...and more recently in free verse with some internal rhymes. I think writing nonsense helped me make sense of an often crazy world. Playing with words for multiple meanings is fun...as is just making words up. For a while, my nickname was "Moonshine" at open mikes. That still somewhat fits, but my work has broadened and deepened. I feel like I write about everything...that connects us in often odd ways to each other. It's not conventional, but it is real. I cover philosophy, theology, psychology....and lighter general stuff. I love exercises where I'm given a number words and told to spin a poem. I write a lot of poems...possibly 500/year recently. Most I don't share. I'm definitely an editor in progress. I'm learning to appreciate the fine art of editing...through writers, readers, poets, non-poets...anyone who will give me feedback. I'm aiming for a better edited style that's incredibly loose and free, yet real and accessible...in my own unique voice. Don't know how that's going to happen...but I feel like it's already beginning... It's strange to think that writing poetry started with greeting cards...but...hmm...maybe that's not quite true. Even when I was nine or ten, I liked riddles and palindrones...always reading the humor section of the Reader's Digest or Boy's Life. And I still like Bennet Cerf...whose wonderful corny pictures and verse always made me laugh as a ten year old.
"What's big, red, and eats rocks?"
"A big, red, rock eater."
This verse and picture always put me in fits of laughter during my tenth birthday party...though not everyone was amused.
So...maybe it was Bennet Cerf who got me started in poetry...

Grocery list

A co-worker left her grocery list behind. That was her first mistake. Her second was me finding it. I wrote this piece, attached it to her list, and taped it next to the schedule. Wonder what she'll think on Thursday...

Bread
Milk
Red sauce
Spinach
Jam
Croutons
Green onions
Garlic
Sour cream
Bagels
Pesto?
Apples
Edamame
Chicken
Veg-oil
Cottage cheese
Bananas

I fed the bread
Milk and red sauce
But it was the spinach
That put me in a jam
The croutons and green onions
Sent the garlic away
While the sour cream
Apple pestoed the bagels
But the edamame
Chickened out
It was allergic to
The vegetable oil
While the cottage cheese
Shrugged its shoulders
This grocery list is
Bananas.

Denis Streeter 11/8/11

Aint farm

Swallowing waspish tunnels down sesame seed holes
Watching organizers eat beans
Wandering the funny farms of time constraints
And all the aints
When the wishing wells were dry
The tin pools were laughing their dinner
Tin pan hats drinking corn husk fees
And the slumbers snored
Waking the distant hours the shadows were removed
Like an unpoached egg, only different
The shaving cream hunted for water
But the ice skates were removed
Placed in something dishwasher safe
With the tin pan hats and the corn husk fees
There's no getting used to it
Spectacle backwards,chins tucked in
You know what I mean
And the grass tucked backward
What to do
I'd lost my sense of taste
I'd lost my sense of aint
When the tins aint green beans
Time slipped away but I heard it pant
The lights out one snip at a time
Two tubes away and sent them to dinner
Returned with a cat, fish, and a nose
I gave up smelling after that except when fishing
I could always smell them a thousand feet below
My pole a smelt divining rod
All covered in felt and garbage compacted
The whole thing seemed silly so I gave up fishing
Just below the surface where aloe veras
Willing the ellipticals into circles
And burns are never the third degree
Egging on the circles, the choke holds came
They're never around when you want them to be
I invited them to dinner but they were all choked up
Some pundit shook his finger at me
Centrist
I wove the ellipticals into circles
Blessed the food and went to bed
The next day the owls were sprouting.

Denis Streeter 11/3/11

Four words

At Duvall poetry tonite we were given four words at the beginning of the first set...to spin into whatever we want! Then we could share them during the second set go-around.

Pelican
Salacious
Endgame
Stock exchange

Okay...so technically they aren't four words...but who cares!
And...I have to admit to not knowing the definition of "salacious", but luckily it was looked up...so we were given a working definition.
Fun exercise! Try it yourself...doesn't have to be these words.
What I came up with and read...

The pelican salacious(ly) answered my question
I'd been fishing for...
"Are cockles and mussels alive, alive oh?"
"Wouldn't you like to know", it answered salaciously...
And opened its mouth to swallow me down.
"What kind of endgame is this?"
"Yours..."
I read it New York Times Stock Exchange reports until it fell asleep...
Then I flew away.

Denis Streeter 11/2/11

Silence

Don't know what this means
Though I was up a ladder
To change a light bulb
I didn't fall, but
It didn't turn out...


Sabbath toothed
The banner came down
Full of luck turned upside down
Nor'windward
Following scent of the sun
Ladders up feelings follow
Waiting mist open embrace
Sensing temperature change
Snored the door, ladders no more
Ladder puppets jump
Nor'windward
Then
Silence

Denis Streeter 11/1/11

Halloween

It's Halloween
And to me
There's nothing more frightening than
A password change.
Blogspot made me do it twice
Chase Bank made me do it twice
Why I don't know
And why today?
I know for a fact I typed in my passwords correctly
I had them written down because of my own absentmindedness
A password change
Sends chills up my spine
Anger through my body
Helplessness to my core
As if to say
We'll change your password so many times
You'll doubt your ability to think at all
Then we'll change it again
What will happen when I want to post another piece
Or check my bank account online
I don't know.
Pretty scary.

Denis Streeter 10/31/11

Raisins and brown sugar

Stirring in
Tommorrow I will be out
Of raisins and brown sugar
The ingredients of my oatmeal
Ground raisins, oats, orange rind,
And brown sugar
Hot water brewing in my coffee cup
Tipping grounds into cereal bowl
Adding vanilla or almond extract
Adding powdered milk
Grinding oats and remaining raisins
Tipping grounds into cereal bowl
Hot water ready
Pouring over cereal
Stirring and adding soy milk
Just a routine
Stirring in the ingredients or our lives
Tommorrow I will be out
Stirring in
More or less.

Denis Streeter 10/30/11

Undercurrent

The buckles released their shadows on shading hooks
Hoping their silence would be remembered as light
As the sheep kept counting no shepherd could be found
And the light bent extremities into new orbits
Hoping to reach the coats of satisfaction
Some all-weather tires retired
And the oceans flooded the gates the buckles held back
Flooding the shoes to-do list
Trees waved plankton, flooding roads
Gutters swept and wept
Buckled to some returning pavement
Some shepherd of satisfaction
Shadows and wet light
And the sheep kept counting.

Denis Streeter 10/28/11

New slippers

Old slippers
Tape mended
Lost soles
Wandering garbage
New slippers
Warm and cling
Don't say much
Like old flappers
Lasted five years
Four dollars a year
New will have to last
Eight years
To be as reliable
What new stories
Will they tell
I only hear them speak
When they flap apart
Perhaps if I listen
I will discover
The new way
Soles speak.

Denis Streeter 10/25/11

Time's relative

I was hanging out with
Time's relative
I was 50, he was 4
We talked about
What connected us.

I was hanging out with
Time's relative
I was 50, she was 12
Talking about our lives
How we fit
In this world
Time's relative.

I was 50, he was 50
Long time best friends
Discussing the ways of our lives
Waves of understanding
Time's relative.

I was 50, she was 25
Discussing what's known, what changes
Distances together
Apart
Time's relative.

I was 50, he was 79
We talked about what we know
What we expect
What's unknown
How we define that mystery larger than ourself
Time's relative.

I was 50, she was 90
We talked of poetry, events shaping our lives
Have shaped our lives
Our souls feeding each other nourishment
Time's relative.

I was hanging out with
Each of you
Opening myself
What connected us
What distanced us
Discovering that mystery larger than ourself
Time's relative.

Denis Streeter 10/22/11

Connection

The night woke me up
Or maybe the chamomile tea
Watch reading 4:30
Seventeen minutes fast
Chest cold
Place hands on chest
Warm
Off...cold
Warm, cold...
Thinking of condo meeting
My downstairs neighbor
Becoming more persnickety since his health is deteriorating
To the point where I wonder if I'm being too loud
At night or in the morning
Walking on eggshells
I believe is the expression
Waiting for his angry call
Which does not come anymore
The current board president
Brought up how much he has actually done over the years
Kind of like our condo grounds keeper
But he is not able to help much now
I know it feeds his frustration
His independence fracturing
I'd like to help him
But I don't know how
Warm...cold...
His frustration feeding my frustration
Keeping me awake
Something I know is lacking
Connection
And the work day starts and ends
I talk to a condo board member
Discover what I do not know...
His cutting back on smoking and
Recovering from two heart attacks
I feel a better understanding...
A closer
Connection

Denis Streeter 10/20/11

Where we're at

Some of you may have noticed I've trimmed this way back...

Down the rabbit hole
Someone tries to tell you
Believe in God not people
I'm thinking God works through people
Doesn't matter who
I could quote scriptures, but that doesn't mean anything
It's how you live your becoming in this world
Being careful not to cast the stone
For all of us have moments of weakness
I like to think God works through all
Proof doesn't matter
We know in part
Pray for understanding
The highest kindest truth...and
When anger rabbit holes your day
Know the difference
I pray that I may know the difference
So that my anger may bring positive change
And that my empathy
My light
That some may call a vehicle of God's spirit
Might shine on others.

Denis Streeter 10/18/11

Knocks keep knocking

A rearrangement of previous poem "Silence speaks"

Tunes in my head
Driftwood in bottles
Washing icicles from my bed
Frozen dreams wake
Under sand blossoms
Sandpaper restless
Itchy to sleep
Snores keep vigil
Rest left behind
Dream scrape
Known your known
Tourniquet bottles in junkets of sand
Pulling your essense, sanding you smooth
Clear as moon nails
Unknown grows
Scraping moonscape
Reflection below
Sleep wake don't know
Driftwood in bottles
Your keep your keep
Driftwood your sleep
Where the knocks keep knocking
You know you know
The pearl in sand
Just out of reach
Drift to remember
Catch to feel
Reminder remember
Drift rearrange
Tune to retune
Lessons to know
Knocks keep knocking

Denis Streeter 10/17/11

Remembering

At what point
Does the bad outweigh the good
You may say
Our legal system determines that
But there's something deeper
Some moral compass that can guide or derail our lives
You guide two nineteen year homeless youth
About a mile to a church shelter
You feel good.
But in spiralling downward moments
When you voice vindictive thoughts about family and co-workers
You feel bad...and in better times wonder
What drove you to voice such thoughts
Was it just venting?
Wanting to get attention?
Loneliness?
Sometimes I feel driven to express
The inexpressible
The forbidden
I don't quite know why
Maybe it's to keep the bad from outweighing the good
But I worry of the forbidden expression impact on others
I need to express myself
Selectively
On that ever changing continuum of human nature
Remembering the repercussions
Remembering the good
Love

Denis Streeter 10/15/11

Awakening

I'm trying to figure
Different ways of saying the same
So you'll understand
"Follow the yellow brick road about half way
On the left is the land of index cards."
Writing defective slips
"This little notepad
Lost its back
I'm sad to say
It's lost its tact."
I'm trying to figure
Different ways of saying the same
So you'll understand
It's not in the words
It's in your awakening
And mine

Denis Streeter 10/14/11

Tension

Written after my Eclectic Cloggers practice...

Tension enters the neck
Travels down the spine
Works its way into buttocks, behind knees, and calves.
Dance makes me forget
The tension I feel
Then I sit and it all comes back
Get up, walk around, and it goes away
I'll never take a desk job
Too restless
I'll get up
Let my mind dance
Let my body dance
Let my soul dance
The tension away
At work
At play.

Denis Streeter 10/11/11

Slippers

The right slipper fell apart
During morning exercises
Sole flapped off
During achilles heel stretch
I got out
My clear duct type
Wrapped it up
Not quite ready
To buy new slippers
Not quite ready
To slip into the new
The old familiar
Still gripping my feet
Now bandaged
Mind soul
The old familiar
My war zone
Mind soul
Still gripping
Wanting replacement.

Denis Streeter 10/10/11

Panic attacks

Words that come to me in my sleep
Torment my dreaming
Exactitude in remission
Total escape
By the time the finishing begins
Just off the roof tops
Into the tommorrow engine
White caps off black caps on
Turn the transmission
Up the stakes
Remove the tent
Your own making
Overhead
You always have that way of snowing
Catching some breeze of leftovers
You never knew behind
Foresight left you
And your fears
Grounding you restless
Sure as the stick picks the cheese
And you are done
Writing restless
Hoping cohesion
Into your late night mind
Gridding what may be inside
Your night
Not really wanting to know
That birth of such restlessness
Maybe it was that afternoon nap
Bringing night hours at your disposal
Hoping to make sense
Of those tommorrows you have not seen
But you have experienced
Those panic attacks of unknown
Or maybe they are known
Some cummulate trigger
Some changed password
Fueling inner turmoil
All your frustration
Into one furious wrapped up moment
And when asked why
The answer answers but does not explain
Why you repeat what you always do
Why the answers add up to one lonely moment
The you that is not you
Answers in reply, but
The password has changed.

Denis Streeter 10/9/11

Music and sandpaper

Wandered evening spread out its posts
Into the belly of life's darkness
Where the kangaroo pockets lie
Like some dark hole
Some space you can't escape
And in your wanderings
Space gives flight
To your doughnut holes
And other flying objects
Tuna in reversal
And the tin cheese on top
Filled with ice cream for the lactose intolerant
As the rubber duckies whine
No more gerbils for dinner
Just as the justice rolls
Out the back door into the oven
Quality buys food stamps
Shoves them into the microwave
Out comes a micromit
Kind of like a micromite
Without the bite
And the shadows grow
Over the stuffing out the door
Until your peace ends in a blast
Just before the shovels arrive
And the civility breaks
The ocean floor opens
You awake
You sing the songs your words
But no one hears
It's much better that way
It's what conscience say
But wording off
Try again with capitals
Still no good
No good
And the beasts open the door
You don't let them in
Or do you it doesn't matter
How'd you get so moralistic
It aint no literature
Lit erture
No nurture
Just get out the buns
No dinner tonite
Just the bones
Toss me the bones
It's music with all the sandpaper.

Denis Streeter 10/9/11

Double jointed shadows

Under castles chocolates die
Crabs of fingers start to cry
Laughing loops of silvery blue
Into bats of fu manchu
Fields wandered river cries
Tuning meadows into thighs
Sinking capsules to the moon
Under twenty-one balloons
Laughing seagulls joined the storm
Litter boxes not the norm
Into creeks the shadows crept
Under moss where shackles slept
Large as bottles thick as skulls
Sanding seas to season gulls
Scamper hamper in the wind
Pampered parrot porter pinned
Large enough to seize your why
Under table saws of sky
Wandering where chocolates die
Tunes tommorrow never lie.

Denis Streeter 10/7/11

Incomplete

The highlight of my day
Was one transaction
That disabled four registers
Leaving me, the supervisor, the manager, and tech support
Scrambling for what to do
It turned out
That one receipt added on to her husky card
So she could get her 10% patronage refund
Was added incompletely
It was that incompletion
That shorted out four registers
That stressed countless employees
Held up customers
But soon got fixed
By tech support
In twenty years
Of cashiering
I've never seen
Four registers disabled by one transaction
Now I know
Just a little more
We are all
Incomplete.

Denis Streeter 10/4/11

Poetry last night

I read my piece "Shadow breakers" at poetry last night. It went over really well! Some thought it was really deep and others saw its humorous side. I love it when a piece affects different parts of each personality. It was a really strong night of poetry and music. The muse was definitely there. It was great to make acquaintances with old and new friends. I hope they return. Poetry is a unique expression of all life...what shapes us...through music, dance, work...any expression of ourselves. I felt that all taking shape last night.

Resonance

Today I got enough sleep and my back is much better, though now it's migrated to my right shoulder. Pain is like a human map. It likes to travel. I wonder if it's sucking down a daiquiri now... I'm at the library...photocopying my "Shadow breakers" piece. Think I'll read that at Monday night poetry. I'll let you know how it turns out. Turned in "Donnie Darko". I won't spoil it if you haven't seen it. I remember when I first saw it 23 years ago. It was intriguing to me then, though it didn't make much sense. I wanted to see it again...wondering why it has become a cult hit. I think I kind of understand why. It has a quirky mysterious element where the world is a dark place...and great late 1980's music lends it atmosphere. It also has a social 911 parallel darkness...where a large object hits the house of the protagonist. I like the psychological drama between his family and school friends...how it relates to the small community. I knew the ending, but it still surprised me. It's an uneven movie, but I still recommmend it. In a post 911 world, it resonates today. Time to leave the library. I'll see how "Shadow breakers" works reading aloud tonite.

Shadow breakers

Sunday was a good day of dancing with the Eclectic Cloggers in Issaquah. Fun performance and the comfort of being with good friends. Then I watched "Donnie Darko" and the tv series "Breaking Bad" at 10 PM. Perhaps the totality of this went into...

Shadow breakers

Until the rooms went into hiding
The dragons went out
One by one
Soon as fossil fuel
And the dinosaurs raged
Their reserves dried up
Wandering ghettoes
Full of unharnessed rage
Contradictions
And the people came
Filling their rage
With the rage to come
Full of unfulfillment
Expectations diminished
Contradictions
And the cattle prods stop
Human cattle from excremating
The excrement from their mouth
Full of wonder
How it got this way
And the ghettoes opened
Much the same way
With bee stings and ivy
Hope attached to the osprey
And the wings hovered
Not large enough to fly
And the sea anemones sank
The ocean floor drank
The litter box below
Until there was no more
Until it opened up
The tranquil peace dissolved
The war begun
In the middle of the desert
To present itself
To its oppressor
Just when the snake appeared
In the garden of Eden
Appearing in our lives
The worm holes of regret
The futures we see
But do not understand
Never seeing the whole picture
Just a part of the human experiment
What we call love
What we call hate
And all inbetween
Some balance beam
Some Jimmy Beam
Why whiskey you say
It's hard and it's easy
It knocks you off your shelf
To some unrefined self you think is real
And then you are full
And don't know what to do
But you keep trying don't you
You keep trying because there's nothing left
When you wonder
There is no God
Only drink
And your mind
You can control your mind 80% of the time
But what of that 20% of the time
What will you do with that
What will that do to you
I guess that's what friends and therapy are for
20%
It's just a number
How will you control that
When there is no one around
Not even your God
What will you do
To turn that 20% around
It's just a number
But you made it up
Turned it on
Gave it energy
Let it go
What will you do then
What will you do now
I'm just a prospector
What are you speculating
Your fears
Your powers
Your words
What they lack
How will you hold up
What is there
What is you
I feel your fears
They are baseless
You don't know
They are emotions taking over your rational mind
Fear is an emotion, but
Emotions are not fear
It's not some commutative mathematical equation
Your just becoming
More aware
What will that awareness
Become you

Denis Streeter 10/3/11

Lullaby

Slick as a raft and harder to follow
The hedgehogs kept at bay
Hoping the spiders would sleep them away
But the bobcats kept threatening the raptors
The rafters were sent overboard
Slithering away
Until the driftwood twigged out
What rafters were after
Capturing the twiggy goldmine
Some benevolent Arthur Rackham
Twiggy arms of protection
Pulling them ashore, awaiting their reward
That no one knew
That no one knew
Then oceaned again into the swirling waters
Time and again
Until they knew they knew what they did not know
Rocking away
Caressing arms touching again.

Denis Streeter 9/2/11

My OCD month

It's been a long month in my posting world. I have 21 posts for September. My previous record was 17 in February for a 329 page views. I figured I needed to have 353 page views this month to break my record...calculating average page views per day and considering this month has 2 more days...which I'm sure I will do. Don't know why I feel compelled to put out so much. Must by my OCD. I know...not only am I a word nerd, I'm also a number nerd and dance nerd. Got back from contra-dancing and my back is still intact. Feel like I'm about 75% better. Hopefully will be okay for the Eclectic Cloggers performance in Issaquah this Sunday. This week has been crazy busy, but I feel better...calmer amongst the back to school Fall Rush storm. With my back better, I still feel the need to pace myself...push myself but know when it's too much. It's an exciting time of year...new faces...old faces...figuring ways to genuinely connect with each person...while finding space for myself. It's very easy to go into overdrive...so I have to remember that slowing down to really listen shows respect of others and yourself...naturally giving better service. Next month I won't be so obsessive about posting quantity...but who knows. OCD may kick in again. I only hope my writing improves with each post.

Sly humor

I'm still reading William Mayne's "Sand"(1964)...such wonderful writing you have to read it slowly. His humor and characterizations are so sly you have to pay careful attention. The writing made me laugh out loud, which doesn't happen much...

Some background: The boys in this story found a small railway hidden under the sand for hauling gravel at some now defunct gravel company. They want to unearth the tracks, but it passes through a neighbor's property. The neighbor does not want their property dug up. The boys figure a way around this...

"'Dear sir,'" read Bobby. "'I regret I cannot allow you
to expose the rails under the road to my house. Yours faith-
fully, N.Merriot.'"
"I wonder what he means, exactly," said Harold, look-
ing slyly at Ainsley, to see whether he appreciated the joke.
"We could say we thought it meant something else,"
said Ainsley. "But it would be a waste of a good lie."
"We should have let Guy read it," said Bobby. "He
could make it mean anything."
They went out to see what Guy could make it into. Guy
read it, and without any prompting he decided that to
regret you cannot allow something means that you are sorry
that the thing is not being done, and therefore if anyone
wanted to do it, they would be welcome.
"You must be right," said Harold. "We ought to have
made you do it in the beginning."
"We caught ourselves," said Bobby. "Who would dare
to explain that we mean what Guy means." (page 127, "Sand")

A deceptively funny story...and yet another reason I continue to read William Mayne.

Better

Ibuprofen, ice, elevate
I'm told to alleviate my lower back pain
Bring the swelling down.
I started after clogging class
I want to dance at full capacity
By Sunday night
For my Electic Cloggers performance
And contradance Thursday night
With minimal pain
I like having that as my goal
I love to dance
I love to write
The rest will follow
And sleep...
I want to sleep without pain
Breathe, relax
Ibuprofen, ice, elevate
Rest
Sleep...six hours...much less pain
Better...about 35% better
I can feel my body reallign
Freezer pack the pain points
Today will be the busiest day of the year
I feel
Better.

Denis Streeter 9/27-28/11

Some nerve

I must have known
Sleep wake through the night
Rolling for comfortable position
It would be a night of pain
Sides and tail bone seizing up
Some nerve
Rolled out of bed early
5:30
This will be the busiest week of the year
I have to be ready
Body tilted to the right
Left side more pain
Some nerve
Tilting me
Walking to work will help straighten that out
Nerve pain
Must effect appetite
Like some food suppresant
Pain...
I'm still trying to describe it
More like my mid section has been squeezed in
Won't quite let go
And my exercises
Can not flatten my back
Limited extension
Slower it was
Slow
Some nerve.

Denis Streeter 9/27/11

Slower

I could feel it this morning
Mattress carrying lower back pain
Concave holding tension in
Roll out of bed
Walk to sink to shave
Bend at waist and feel my back give slightly
So I bend my knees to keep back straight
I feel its weakness
Finish shaving, saline nose, put dishes away
Lie down in bed
Trying to figure the pain
It's the same but I don't quite have words for it
That feeds my tension
I hate not having words for what I feel
Turn on computer
Write out these words
Look out my window...
Rain...
Slide open window to hear its roof patter
Slide window back
My back...a weather barometer of change
Wondering...
How much will I be able to do
How much should I try to do
Feeling physical toll of last week
Every movement has its measure
Every thought takes its toll
Every typed word takes time away
What will the day bacome?
I don't know
Take it slow.

Denis Streeter 9/26/11

Lift

Watching pieces fall into place
Like some puzzled friend frightened by what might happen
When the wind changes to confuse me
Wind me up, make me winded
And the word play with no emotional depth
Still elluded what I desparately wanted to say
But thought better keeping my mouth shut
Thinking is honesty really the best policy?
Being taught
"Always the truth, but never an unkind truth."
It just doesn't work that way
The way we learn to hide
And then when your truth is revealed
Do you really know whether it is kind?
What bothers me is that
It almost makes a case for concealment
Of course there seems to be
Shades of grey where sharing is okay
But when do you know
Open and shut is how I feel
Some sort of emotional continuum
Feeling out each situation...
What is appropriate?
Why do I resent having to think about
What is appropriate?
I'd rather just bluster out what I think
But there's always the repercussions
And I really want everyone to be happy
But I need to protect myself from being sad
And resentful of taking on burdens beyond my own
But aren't we all called to lift each others spirits?
Yes...but when we are able
When we are able
And to be aware
When others are there
To lift our spirits.

Denis Streeter 9/25/11

Later

Are you writing just to write?
Or is there a reason for this?
I don't know.
Yes you do.
Are you writing to get 10 views a day?
So you can average 300 for this month?
What justice does that do you as a writer?
Do you want to break February's page view record of 329?
Yes you do.
But what's the point?
It's better to put out quality over quantity.
And this is the busiest time of the year at work.
If your creative juices are suffering a bit
Why don't you forgive yourself?
Your mind and body don't have to be on work overdrive.
It's effecting your sleep
It's making you too restless to be truly creative
So you put out creative intellectual nonsense exercises
Some people like them, but I know I can do better
There's not enough emotion in them, not enough real
Maybe there's enough real and emotion at work
That it's cutting back my best writing
I don't know
I'm told to be kind to myself
That's a hard lesson to learn
Even this poem with reality
Has trite written all over it
Write from your living
Connect with me
Tell me what's going on
Just tell me
Give me an example
Just one example
I would but I'm too tired
Has trite written all over it
Just tell me one thing
No pity party
Just one thing
Later.

Denis Streeter 9/24/11

Bells of a ball fed tune

Try reading it aloud.  I think it has a haunting quality.

Sand dust shells started weaving their spells
Before the August moon of one late afternoon
When the quells were quiet and the sands were silent
All in the bells of a ball fed tune
All in the bells of a ball fed tune.

And the shores were shuckled and the birds were buckled
Leaving the land of the listening loon
Where the seagulls tripe riding home on a bike
All in the bells of a ball fed tune
All in the bells of a ball fed tune.

When the quays fell away under foot under clay
And the sand crystallized to the moon
Leaving shells to demand moonlight glow from the sand
All in the bells of a ball fed tune
All in the bells of a ball fed tune.

When the bells in sashay fomed a line on the quay
And the land shuckled tins to the moon
Then the clay sank away when the shores were at play
All in the bells of a ball fed tune
All in the bells of a ball fed tune.

Denis Streeter 9/23/11

The persnicketies

Persnicketies, persnicketies
Will put you ill at ease
Just like some haughty Pyrenees
That you will never please.
It always will correct itself
Though not the way you do
It's critical of everything
It hopes you take its cue.
Persnicketies, persnicketies
The Pleiades of stars
They constellate just perfectly
Correcting who you are.
Persnicketies, persnicketies
Excessively precise
For you will not quite measure up
You will not quite suffice.
Persnicketies, persnicketies
Are sometimes you and me
Precision missing everything
What you and I could be.

Denis Streeter 9/20/11

Lassoed fire

Into the fire where words open flies
Wandering meadows in glossy old ties
Washing the wakefulness double dot quick
Salmons of noodles were making me sick
Sick as a raft when I rubbered the sand
Quick as a dirt monkey quite in demand
Surface to surface the glide monkeys grew
Soon until raisins were dirt into stew
Slide into slide into slid into id
Washing the trash just to do as I bid
Ibid the page but on page forty nine
Mayne ibidology cease to decline
Oodles of more and disturbing they're meant
Wondering wandering where my mind's sent
Bushwhacking stools in search of a chair
Stooling chairs for the words that aren't there
Sugars of cotton in struedels of dumps
Oxygen cans messing garbage can pumps
Up in the fleazit the counterbounce comes
Figuring fees with the foes and the fums
Tempting the sugar when whistles went out
Loading up thistles for tempting some trout
Out in the grounding the hopscotch at bay
Served in a trigger sent out in a tray
Gathering fingers meant guns in decline
Measuring triggers to ounce out a dime
Figuring field mice jumped to the chore
Up to the seasons to figure Al Gore
Open the door let the lettuce inside
No use in hiding in formaldehyde
Senses of uses were wandering floors
Up to the rain when it's figuring pours
Up to the ounces to rain in the pain
Sharpening shadows to shade in the game
Gimbles of louses to threaten the stairs
Given a feast of the devil me cares
Up to the liars where criminals sit
Over the jungles in acres of spit
Into the johns where the civilness waits
Deploring doors into devil mint cakes
Lassoing silence that familiar game
Harder to swallow but easy to tame
Under the junctures and under the threes
Cripples of ice cream made up for the cheese
No more no less when the difference comes
Comes with the fives and the foes with the fums.

Denis Streeter 9/19/11

Word puzzles

A friend gave me a number of words to spin into a poem...

daunted haunted vaunted
impassive agression
incumbent recliner - a lazy boy
aphoristic prophets
ill-used allusions

I had no idea what I would create, but that's the fun.

A lazy boy

daunted aphoristic prophets with
impassive agression met
ill-used allusions
haunted by vaunted incumbent recliners.

Denis Streeter 9/18/11

Window

Days shift
Warm to cold
Heat on
First in month
Remember
Forget
Waves
Shutter lives
There
Gone
Connect
Last
Shift
Core
Love
Heat off
Maintain
Core
Shift
Waves
Remember
Forget
Connect
Off on
Often
Love

Denis Streeter 9/18/11

Moonshine

The trees whistled candles their canine tunes
Into this mess we call foul with dreams
Ever hopeful in the floundering living
Opening boxes the garage left behind
Harpsichords chase the ladders away
And all that's left watch littered lambs
Stringing together the quadratic formula
When the plates come down and template to tea
And the streams pop tunnels hoping lids will fly
Atrractive as not when the wind breaks through
Too comfortable for the precipitation fires
When there's not enough gold for the central bar
Where the pumps want to go but are not seasoned
And the bridges collapse without enough water
Where the mud sands the dunes where the water ran dry
Pumped into plates with the stingers intact
Tectonic plates whistled canine tunes
The water collapsed before the moon lit up.

Denis Streeter 9/16/11

Unexplainable

Over in the yard
Unknown yet set
In the living room tommorrow
The bees bumbled in
All too human
Archie Bunker bluster
All the senses forgotten
Out the window buzzying busyness
Thinking the last line was clever
But it wasn't
Something on the line of
"There's nothing new under the sun"
Most commonly associated with Ecclesiastes
Well then call me ignorant
I like to think there is something new under the sun
Poetry expresses everything
In every unique form and expression
As long as there are poets, artists, musicians
There will be something new under the sun
Of course there's always the possibility
That they're saying the same thing
Just in a different way
If it's a unique genuine expression
It's justified
There is so much out there that is
Just unexplainable
I want to explore the unexplainable
The hope of the spirit, the emptiness of darkness
I want to merge with conflict and feel whole
I want to feel the unknown terrain
Without fear, without anger
I want to learn to love what I don't understand
But I don't know if I can
It's too much
But I can with you
I want to love you
But I can't always do that
It's just not there
It's not platitudes I want
It's your reality
I want to explore your reality
I want to explore the unexplainable
No explanation love.

Denis Streeter 9/13/11

Musings

We live in a finite world
Our existence on this physical earth
Born, pay taxes, and die.
We live in an infinite world
Where what we say and do
Has repercussions
We love
And sometimes in love
We make errors
That seem so large
As to be unforgivable
But that is a lie
Love is also
Learning, sharing, understanding
Listening...
I believe in God
A God I believe I can share
The totality of myself
And that includes my unbelief
I believe in a God that understands my contradictions
Maybe God already knows everything about me
That doesn't matter
It's a checking in
Sharing what's close to me
My love, my distress
Just checking in
See what shakes out
It's a sort of prayer
Call it what you will
Something shakes out
Carries me on my way
Through my day
Through my anger, understanding, love
Through all lifes contradictions
Something carries me
I don't see it
I don't understand it
I feel it
It's there
Wisdom, care
Share and love
Something beyond

Denis Streeter 9/12/11

Interpretation

This occurred today when I was helping an international student...

"Mug for scripture?"
"What?"
"Mud for scripture?"
"Can you write it down?"
I direct him to a scratch pad
And he scrawls out...
"Mud for sculpture"
"Oh...you mean clay."
I direct him to our 25 pound blocks of clay
He chooses...
Now I see mud as clay
It makes perfect sense
My eyes are opened
"Mud for scripture"
Hmm...

Denis Streeter 9/9/11

Sand - William Mayne

Some of you may know that I plan to read all 100+ books William Mayne has written. "Sand"(1965) is one reason I read his books. He has a style of writing that you may recognize in my poetry.

The first paragraph from "Sand"...

The shirt was made of cold cloth and frozen buttons. It
lay on Ainsley's bed like a drift of snow. The cold spring
wind blew the curtains and moaned under the door.
Ainsley stroked the shirt. It had been starched with ice.

He has such amazing imagery...and the ability to make the ordinary extraordinary. I close my eyes and I can feel myself there. Someday I hope to be able to transport my readers with such images that it dwells within all their senses. Until that time, I will continue reading William Mayne.

alzheimers

diamonds in the rough
gridding oil wells
cheaper by the ton
find out when they're done
the baskets are ready
ready to be tied
soon with the hummus
better off fried
or is it tofu
i cant remember
which has flavor
which does not
all the confusion
all the time
except some of the time
distant past
some present past
alzheimers
ask for it by name
when the pros go prose
when the prose go pros
dont know
confuses me
dark alley
where you melt down
your facts
to call them
shades of grey
no way
your facts your facts
why throw them away
your a bean ball counter
entrusted this way
today today
they flounder away
must get away
from all this
rhyming nonsense
and write something
tried and true
but the bats in my cobweb
got in my way
today today
rhymes go away
let ladders replace
all these bad rhymes
teeter totter
the lads up a
fine lead roof
where the worms are warm
where the beds are fine
and the squirrels leap
all over time
some nutshell
squirrelled up for winter
some nut job
squirrelled up for time
and the little ones say
laugh laugh the squirrels dead
and i say
where did that come from
but the walls keep coming in
doce does of wind rats and sails
blundering the parking lot
blending the gold
the god you could not commit
the winter of your understanding
half awake half asleep
you know your better off that way
just when time permits
you set the safety off
and all the other runners
run in place
but theres no place
for this
no place
for this
and the standard cams wind up
just before the blossoms explode
when the diamonds were missing
the check stands awake
all for a bunny
a dress stand
and a coffee mug
you were standing
there
i was standing
here
some dual
checkmate
and my soul let out
a sigh
and yours
and yours
and yours
alzheimers
a blended medicine.

denis streeter 9/5/11

No rhyme of a lime

Wrappers at mourning untesticly well
Drifting on lawnward toward some ocean bell
Matters of distancing baffling knees
Upping resistance of shattering trees
Over horizon some deafening splat
Looking glass mirror discovered a bat
Flying above us in litters of sound
Littering silence no uncommon ground
Perturbing coffees when perks drifted in
Some cry awake in the slip of the gin
Comfort surrounding the dangers at bay
Always the anger inviting the way
Wandering conflict you choosing the cues
Some black or white are just meant to confuse
Shades of inversement in rhyming this crime
Sense in reversement no rhyme of a lime.

Denis Streeter 9/4/11

Nearly asleep

Fly swatters bat off farms
Leaving vegetables fending for free
And the toaster ovens clapped their hands
Freeing farms the way bats bite butter
The way licorice count, the ounces were empty
Too tongue tied tired, the rest went thirsty
When then wine racks delivered what the names had forgotten
Two times ten and the rest of the knees
Just before the florist had forgotten the ketchup
And the whirlwinds coming, two by two by the ark
Where the lands shore horns and the lassoes grow
Too late the fate of the straight and narrow
And all the damage between a hotspring tailspin
Luggage out, dimes to do
Feeding the vegetables in a land of worms
Reading backwards luggage wrappers
Tidily dressed out for dinner
Lessons in reading
Time to feed the catelope for a change
Lumber down
Shhh....they're nearly asleep.

Denis Streeter 9/3/11

Safety

This came from seeing all the repaving on 15th near the Ave while walking to work...


Road crew trucks
Faces front
Under grill
Safety cones
Sets of fangs
Hang below
Candy corns
Set safety zones
Traffic unknowns
And in the night
Safety cones
Candy corns
Chase your night
Dreaming zones
In out safety.

Denis Streeter 9/2/11

Silence speaks

Tunes in my head
Driftwood in bottles
Washing icicles from my bed
Before dream keepers wake
Under sand blossoms
Snores keep vigil
Rest left behind
Tourniquet bottles in junkets of sand
Judging the jury
Out for the night
Clear as half moon nails
Unknown grows
Reaching dream pastures
Where the knocks keep knocking
Storm catchers release
Just before the unknown ties up
All the loose pieces
Junkets of sand
Tourniquet bottles
Drift wake
Rest left behind
Silence speaks

Denis Streeter 8/30/11

Commandment castles

Sanding on granite
The spores of tommorrow
Heat waving day
Sending suffragettes out hunting
Hunting for huns
Or whatever equivalent
The masks take
The swallows taken
Arthur's ransoming task
Amazons of reasoning
Shark tooth tasting
Unpleasant to breathe
Untesticly well
Beyond the footbridge
Breeds the rabbits
Leaving feet behind
For some lucky winner
Some unlucky winner
And the truth maligns
A minor tour
And the rats begin
First one bed then the other
Until there was no escaping them
Food for the foder fuhrer
Some spiegelman advice
And the gustus restored
Some here some there
Until there was no escaping them
Just one rat trap after another
Scream permitting
But that was part of the joke
Just when one path parts
Robert takes the frosting
Divergent animals of another brain
And the coke hat winds
The interpretations wrong
The hats wrong
So I sent them swimming
Up the mats down the aisles
Until their eyelets open
The string cheese wins
Trusting the brain to market strategy
Opening casket just in time
Dropping flowers blow by blow
And the capers kept sinking
Under floorboarding wasp nests
Needling pavement
Exploring the door
Thinking of diving
Thinking no more
The cat escape opens
Dog engineered
When commerse commensed
A laughing face
A punched nose
Putrified waters
An unclean hand
A bible left behind
Interpretations wrong
In a washtub of sand
In a washtub of sand.

Denis Streeter 8/24/11

The pieces intact

The rhythms rolled
Out lagoons into tunes
The head played 
Over the oceans grove
Spinning for cover
Where the canyons run deep
And the souls flee oceans
When the towers spin 
And lagoons spit tunes
Just when the laughter stops
As if it weren't there
Where the wash tubs end
Hitching a rhythm the ride left off
Reaching under plates for some old cartoon
But the cartons were leaking some sea in a sieve
Leaving Lear on the lerch
Over the remainder building, nothing left
But ladder sliding sleeves
When the laughter stopped
Startled again
Some species unmixed
Some glaciers unmelted
Some glue for you
The pieces intact.

Denis Streeter 8/21/11

Ashtrays out

My first job
Royal Fork Buffet
1977
Cleaned and set up the tables
All the same way
Some strange billiard game...
Sugar shaker first, pepper on right, salt on left
And the glass ashtray inbetween...
I still remember
Stacking about thirty dirty ashtrays on a rack
Hosing them down before sending them through the dishwasher
And now I wonder...
Are there still places like that?
I miss the glass ashtrays
Even though I don't smoke
Some bygone era...

The ashtrays were out
Some winked glass wondering what to do
Feeling like some head shop accessory...
They look yearningly
At empty beer cans
Caressing hot ash butts
Winked glass wondering waiting
Some butting return
When smoking parties were fashionable
Winked glass
Looking yearningly
No ifs ands or butts
Re-fashioning death
Some bygone era
Some prodigal son.

Denis Streeter 8/19/11

Wait

The world is way larger than we can imagine
The tree outside your window
Housing birds, creating oxygen, privacy
Your world is way larger than I can imagine
My world is way larger than you can imagine
Trust and love...
Connection...
Our worlds collide
You share
I share
I feel your world...
It is so large my heart can not take it all in
I want to have enough love to take in your world
But I can't. My heart expands. It hurts too much.
But I can't stop my heart expanding.
Please let me know when it is too much...or not enough...
I'll let you know...I'll try...
Sometimes I shut down
It's not you...but yes it's partly you
You and me are more than I can take in at that moment
Please wait for me
I love you
Please wait for me

Denis Streeter 8/15/11

No does not mean yes

People hear what they want to hear
All the wishful thinking they want
And log their thoughts in
Hoping you'll log your thoughts out...
At the library computer
I leave to print out my poem
Poem still up on my screen
He asks me if I'm finished
I say "No" and leave to print my poem
While I'm printing he's logging me out
To start his log in session
I come back
"I'm still working here"
"I thought you said 'yes'."
"I said 'no'."
"Oh...sorry."
"Don't worry I'll log you out"
And so I log in again
People hear what they want to hear
I hear this poem...

Denis Streeter 8/14/11

Slipshod manner

The signs of running
Running narrow made
Tip top narrow faced
Purses guessing the bill
Guessing hats as feasts gather
Hatting two by two
Just when the purses weren't coming through
And the time crunch stopped
Sailing earthen vessles to guessing jars
Guessing sinks waiting to be overturned
One thread decibel away
One threaded horn throw
And the horns turned on each other
Two by two
Two by fours guessing walking the plank
Guessing bills the purses left behind
Nursing grudges walking plank
One south sea behind, opening doors in slipshod manner
Shoring disasters hiding in stores
And when the shimmering waits
The shoe shines come lumbering in.

Denis Streeter 8/12/11

Sense and dreaming

Dreary loading the setting sun
Eyelid window tilted
Fishing downstream
Nonsense meadows
Sense walked out the door, but came back
Drew up my covers with Harold's purple crayon
Rest my eyes, dream of flying
Sensible came back. You can't do that.
Close my eyes and dream...
I'm at a friend's house and they won't let me leave
I'm already two hours late for work...
Why do I have these anxious dreams
I'm never late for work
But that was last night's dream
What will I dream tonight...
Angels and sparrows and and cottonwood rest in my head
Drovers of bows and pent up pistols lay their nests
Wonder and sensible work my dreams
Questioning my sleep
Dreary eyelid window tilted
Dreams of flying
You can't do that
Why not...

Denis Streeter 8/10/11

Just another expression

All the lights
And none of the shadows
Make for a Christmas tree of madness
The engines roar
Blue Angels above
The cheering of Seafair
The noise I've come to hate
Interrupting my thoughts
People come to be entertained
They don't want to think
Just forget their day
Let the roar of the engines
The wow of activities
Lull their brain to sleep
I hate Seafair
I hate the Blue Angels
I hate people
Well...okay...I don't hate people
It's just...well...forget it
Have another drink
Enjoy the festivities
Don't let me
Rain on your parade.

Denis Streeter 8/6/11

Silent wake

Whispers in the silence
The night walks in
Sinewy and dark with dreams
Dripping sound barrier
Castles crumble
Ounces wait
Oceans fracture their depth
Into tunnel causeway dreams
And the shadows roar sleeps silence
Deaf to wandering castles
Dream syndicate clarity
And the faultiness of waking hours.

Denis Streeter 8/3/11

Fathers

I thought I would write a piece about fathers
About dying fathers
And try to make it non specific
And universal enough so you could relate to it
But personal enough so you would understand.
But it was too complex
You said "Try me..."
Okay...
My father...
Brilliant, absent-minded, bi-polar, deviant
Caring, manipulative, honest, deceiving
Now wait a minute...
You've just made a list
Nothing personal, but that tells me nothing
Okay...
What do you want me to tell?
Who are you? Who was he?
That's complicated...
Just know that
I knew him better than anyone in the family
Strengths and frailties
Nothing personal, but that tells me nothing
Okay...
I'll deal...
He's dead, through his own hands
I'm living, dealing with friends
Customers relationships
I'm still becoming...
That's still pretty vague
Who are you? Who was he?
I am...he is...still becoming...
Story.

Denis Streeter 8/1/11

Overboard

Writing while the fires went out
Two by two down the street
Down where the effigies grow
Overboard in the sattrap sun
Sattrap neutral dimpster dived
And all the laughs the lips could find
Overboard
Talking the answers that would not hear
And the reasons that would not reply
Stamping out the folds the abysmals left behind
Rehydrating kites in the gates of winter
Waiting for the shoguns to arrive
Just before the nymphs of noon
Craftware crockery peace for sale
And orchestras tamed teutonic tunes
Plates for awakening dimpsters of fools
And the calls lapsed leaving trains waiting
Fooling the trees that would not arrive
Leaving orchestras tincturing tunes
Into the waves just before the silence
And the roar

Denis Streeter 7/31/11

Fault lines

Bridges pass windows
That empty display
More than tool boxes away
Under stars shadowy shine
Walking distance disappears
Under rafter laughter
Too shy for tunes
And after after
One beat at a time
Words meet
Everything you think
And the removals begin
First a word then a line
Blurring passing
Bridges windows
Addition subtractions
And the coats let
A little night out
Blurring your bridges
Moating your eye
Blessing and cursing
Rewording each line
Some prayer along fault lines
Some peace you do not know.

Denis Streeter 7/29/11

Again

Stoic as ice water
The gradual retreat
From wilderness reality
To the tongs of testing.
Resting in times
The zeroes and ones
And all inbetweens
Set their universe
Beyond divine
And the channels kept flipping
Their routine way
Made of marmelade and madness
Some quaint phrase hesitated
To offer advice
Knowing it would be ignored
And the floor boards rambled
Talking in tongues the cries submitted
Over where the ocean blows
Saltwater becomes you
Stoic you're made
Contradictions conflict
The gradual retreat
Warm to cold
Waiting for warm again.

Denis Streeter 7/29/11

Reknitting the sun

Satarlee the Saturdays passed by
Opening kitchen byrooms of sound
Sure as a shoehorn dipping surprise
And underneath the sunshine broke through
Shattered shards leaving ground of light
Some combusted coalbeque
And the lightning rods shot and the rain paned
Removing glasses from head and walls
"Tupperance", one said, but no one knew what he meant
Went on with his carving meatballs from ivory
Satarlee the Saturdays passed
Sandblasting wine early winter fall spring
And when it was over the tulips were picking
Straws from the raspberries, none of the kissing
The lamps the windows from head to walls
And the ramps were over, the curbs were done
Satarlee passed reknitting the sun.

Denis Streeter 7/22/11

Popcorn toothpaste

I came up with this poem from my supervisor's comment of "I need to brush my teeth." I'd been eating from a bag of popcorn in the office the past few days and just put the two together...in that way I have...

Popcorn toothpaste

Brush your teeth with popcorn
Find it may not work
Chunks debris between your teeth
Much wash rinse and spit.
Brush your teeth with popcorn
Head will corn your cob
What that makes so little sense
What is in your gob?
Brush your teeth with popcorn
Pop and rinse your dreams
Toothpaste mixed with popcorn
Not quite what it seems.

Denis Streeter 7/22/11

Green soldiered dust

Revised from a year ago...


Hot on the tin
The roof disappeared
Leaving tracks of trail dust behind
Behind in the rafters
Stood an ancient army
Of cobwebbed disasters
Waiting to be played
Green soldiered dust
More at peace with the spiders
Green pumped up adrenalin at rest
Memorial Day in the rafters
The kids are grown up
Fighting their own battles
Green plastic soldiers forgotten
Except in the rafters.

Denis Streeter 7/15/10

Captivity

Written during my 5-6 PM Friday dinner break...and read aloud at closing. It was a strange day that didn't make a lot of sense...so...

Captivity

I eat the flat furnaces when the basetubs go down
Opening wire to eat the cheese
Attacking the gerbils with one open line
Eating the green hoses before the dawn went down
I am weary of holding it in
Smelling decaffeinated shells to dream in the night
While easter chocolates are burning holes in canoes
Washing over the surface in crimson signs of four
Wash tubs overflowed blocking all exits
I am weary of holding it in
Shouts of garbage can lids line the halls
Disappearing as rat traps raced wire cages
Flat as a pineapple with all the garlic
Longing to shadow the supper of gates
Twin fold and hiding the leaves in shadows
Out of depth, out of time, out of money
Leaves in the money mills out of business
Snarking up soup kitchens an ocean away
When the flat furnaces collapsed, no resuscitation
Just an air hose, a lime, and two breath mints
Soaring on the food of tommorrow's debasement
I am weary of holding it in
And when the tracks stopped, the soup flies scattered
I open my arms to let them in.

Denis Streeter 6/26/11

You do

Written while watching the somber "Revolutionary Road" (2008), a Sam Mendes film based on the 1961 (my birth year) novel by Richard Yates...with Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet.

You do

Sometimes when the plans go wrong and the lights turn spurious
You wake up the night and let it in
Cold seeping through chest only a hand will warm
Cold warm cold warm sleep a sporadic dream
And you wake knowing you are missing something besides hours of sleep
You go through your morning rituals but
Something is slipping. Is it your mind?
Something needs changing. You know it. You won't name it.
And a work day goes by. You can feel it slipping. Is it your eyes?
And the tears flow. And you don't know why. But you do. You do.

Denis Streeter 6/18/11

Still searching

Stardust roads memory my life
Down the causeways of colliptions
While welters say hi and toss their hat
Dreaming of orange rinds to grind tommorrow
Under the screen down yesterday's bottle
Opening underwear tops with screwpost bottoms
Burning shoes under decisive chairs
Watching them blow up some cauliflower disaster
As hooves ate hooves and jelly ate jelly
Just another time bomb for the peppermint moons
Just watching the news the jelly of fools in
Taxidermy shells of oystering confusion in
Tads of washing when the sins went singing
Just break out the wine the walkers went crawling
Down main street lip avenue husking the fools
Of change and crab daddies watching the sun go down
Of tiggers and tabbies and shining the moon
But it won't go away. Oh no it won't go away
And the shells went on singing although it's too soon
Catching sugar shells in baskets in oceans of moons
Just drinking scotch tea with the caps left open
Some figure of fancy that fought was for free as the
Bells collapsed baskets of wells the
Tuning forks left behind just to let the colliptions
Collisioning my heart down stairwells of souls
Still searching still searching still searching.

Denis Streeter 6/11/11

Tidal shifts

Laws of copper chairs bent bicycle spokes unspoken
Resting assured the knees were in hiding
Just before the balloons began the tidal rise of the moon
Hiding in bushels to dusk the dawn
As shadows hid shoe strings behind their head
Chipmunking sparrows in sages of change
Moon topped meadows oceaned buttery shores, as
Laws of copper chairs bent beating in place
Shoes sinking knees at quicksand ready
Just as the arms length approved
Light shaking shadows to seize some reprieve
Warm as dreams in a warning learning
Bicyle spokes some unspoken surmise
Tidally sinking and rising in dreams.

Denis Streeter 6/11/11

Lessons

Originally written on the back of an old usher schedule. I had no idea which direction this would go.

Dressing gowns coming
They came before dawn
In gowns chirp and honey
Stream dripped before they're gone.
Lassoes shot ready
Night noon behind
In creamery cannery
Night driving blind.
Shadows to shepherds
Lost in the tombs
Flight of disasters
Laugh of the loons.
Dressing gowns coming
Turin night day
Threes into coming
Miracle pray.

Denis Streeter 6/10/11

The plaintives

These are two in a series of twelve poems I wrote in one day...that my best friend called "the plaintives"...probably also because it sounds like plaintiff...which oddly works.

Bedposts

Wandering up bedposts
I choose some new wine
I don't know what it does
I don't I don't
Curiouser and curiouser
Plagiarism plague
Some plaque to be removed
Your teeth your teeth
Wandering up bedposts
Your lies are dreaming
Your lies are dreaming
Your truth in new wine
And when you get up
Your dreams are laughing
Wandering seeming
Or is it your bedposts

Denis Streeter 6/7/11



Swallow breathe

Starter shelf
Shifting buttons
Yours and mine
Plaintive see
Open door
Yours and mine
Your debate
Makes no sense
Push another
Wait and see
Buttons open
Out your sleeve
Makes no sense
Seems to flow
Makes no sense
Push again
Swallow breathe.

Denis Streeter 6/7/11

The bugle

All you had to do
Was view the bugle
To know the sound
Inside your head
To recreate
What you know is true
Fingers touching tones
Blowing breathing
And in your rest
You know you know

Denis Streeter 6/8/11

Happy Birthday!

No it not my birthday, but a co-worker's. I often write rhyming verse inside co-worker's birthday cards. It's fun for me. So this is for everyone...for your special day.

Fireflies awaken
Magic your day
Leaves wave wind
Your day at play.
Chamomile sighs
End of day, sleepy eyes
Drifting drifting sleep
Your day to keep.

Happy Birthday!

Denis Streeter 5/26/11

lassoes of whiskey sprouting

seventeen spells of easter
over the flying zone
i didnt do nothing wrong
just didnt get travelling right
overhead i saw the zone
clear as a clockwork sky
battery acid trip
out of counters out of space
where the blades go out for dinner
rocking in their wake
their usefulness spent
the washtubs dry
camels in the furnace
daniel at the y
tmi doing the preaching
lesser than one son away
afterwards there was nothing left
just a checkstand or two
a few fountains overflowing
rabbits in the bin
chicken out the stew
water trickling over
the news stains of night
eyeballing washtubs full of innuendo
and the rocks cracked where the roads met
pigging up iron rolling like steam
there was nothing in their removal
except for me, except for me
spaceships ask why
punctuation litters the sky
sauntering sideways leaning on the bricks of the exchange
washing swimming pools dry
missing the casual hi
as boats boad disaster
angels speak the holy ghost
and hint makers take odds
bringing the steam together tying up trucks
there wasnt much of a beating
just two or three and the lettuce
no rest, supplies are long long gone
its just an expression of my impression
wandering fields wondering where to land
as the fights came fishing sideways
never before noon with the kickstands
setting houses on fire
picking nostrils of their mind
bringing up the damage
in pails of water
washing buffoons slip bananas
looking for ordinary language when
complex dont flow
upstream downstream my naughty dream
the doors were left open
there were lassoes present
into the shade where the grasshoppers lie
clear winter moonshine sensitized gums
bristle with mud and lake forest streams
toads croak the rocks dreaming
and the chair receding
holing up for the night
just receiving
as the wine grew hot and the ground grew cold
lassoes of whiskey pouting
its time for bed
spine tingled covers rope the night
as the sky walked out.

denis streeter 8/8/10

Intuitive

This little intuitive piece seemed to fit perfectly on a smooth 3x5 illustration board sample at the book store.

Orange orange yellow
Into the bees of trees
Awaiting clipping
Knees escort in sandals
Brushing orange yellow tongues
Into the sandscape blues
Wandering tidelands
To escape fresh air
While the dwindles diminished
Lights out purple blue
All awash as the kindling grew
Just for you. Just for you.
Orange yellow
Blue.

Denis Streeter 5/20/11

Beard to Bald: 3 months later

I started the bald to beard experiment 1:30 PM Sunday February 6th...over three months ago. No more bald to beard. It's beard to bald. I never got used to the itchiness. I'm heading up on 50 on June 30th...hmmm...half way through a century...half way through a year. I shaved just below my ears and left the round area under my nose, lower lip and chin. Don't know what to think of it yet...looks weird to me. I think I'll shave the whole thing off and shave my head on my 50th birthday. What do you think? Any votes on that?

Two

These are two poems I read tonight at Ravenna's Casa d'Italia. Afterwards I was told by a poet I respect, how he likes it better when I read my own works. This is no H.E. Bates, but perhaps it is more the essense of me...that he and others seemed to deeply appreciate.

Middle of the night

The middle of the night woke me up
Tapped on my shoulder
I turned, rolled restless
Awake, like the
Middle of the night god
Displaced my shoulder
Leaving me with my dark gods
Spurning sleep
Into some sort of readiness
I could not understand or judge
Awake my toss and turn journey
Recreating reality known and unknown
Sleep comes, morning wakes
Tapped out
Tapped in.

Denis Streeter 9/19/10


Untitled

I saw you from the outside
I looked inside
To see what I saw
Outside matching inside
See what I love
You call me judgmental
I am.
Experiencing life as I have
Is a delayed process
Down my rabbit hole
Sorted next minute, hour, day, month, years...
After it is no longer an issue for anyone else
Discarded like some used tissue
"Been there, done that"
Already processed and moving on
"Next!"
I saw you from the outside
I looked inside
I wasn't ready yet.

Denis Streeter 5/4/11

The Ox

That is the title to a brilliant yet depressing short story by British writer H.E. Bates. I was born in 1961, the Year of the Ox, according to the Chinese zodiac. It is the first story of his collected "Thirty-One Selected Tales"...written in the 1930's. Yes, it is the same author I raved about from the short story "Fuchsia". In this one there is an understated emotional resonance that just got under my skin. The plot unwinds like a slow moving ox, but it has a power that sucks you in, keeps you reading because his words sparkle the plot like gems. A plot synopsis does not do it justice.
The first two paragraphs...

The Thurlows lived on a small hill. As though it were
not high enough, the house was raised up, as on in-
visible stilts, with a wooden flight of steps to the front
door. Exposed and isolated, the wind striking at it
from all quarters, it seemed to have no part with the
surrounding landscape. Empty ploughed lands, in
winter-time, stretched away on all sides in wet steel
curves.
At half-past seven every morning Mrs. Thurlow
pushed her great rusty bicycle down the hill; at six
every evening she pushed it back. Loaded, always,
with grey bundles of washing, oilcans, sacks, cabbages,
bundles of old newspaper, boughs of wind-blown wood,
and bags of chicken food, the bicycle could never be
ridden. It was a vehicle of necessity. Her relationship
to it was that of a beast to a cart. Slopping along beside
it, flat heavy feet pounding painfully along under mud-
stained skirts, her face and body ugly with lumpy
angles of bone, she was like a beast of burden.

She lives with her husband who was injured at war and has a silver plate in his head. He was a hedge cutter, but often his silver plate would cause such pain as to create a madness, driving him to drink. They had two sons, ages nine and thirteen. They secretly dispised their mother. She saved money for their future...by hiding it under her mattress. The money was everything to her, like a limb of her body, a part of her soul. Then her husband kills a man in a drunken rage and steals her money. He is caught and pays the penalty for his crime. She decides to have her boys stay temporarily with her brother's family and his mother "with shrill eyes and ironed-out mouth who could not hear well." Her boys decide to stay with her brother. She keeps asking her incarcerated husband "where's the money?"He looks at her with blank unknowing eyes.  He does not know. Her brother does and exclaims in a rage "Done with it? What d'ye suppose he done with it? Spent it. Threw it away. Boozed it. What else? You know what he was like. You knew! You had your eyes wide open." And through all of this, losing her husband, her two children, she continues on exactly as she always has for the last fifteen years. After she hears from her boys that they want to stay with her brother, she make the long trek home with her bicycle. The last page is heartbreakingly beautiful...

She went out of the house and began to push the
bicycle slowly home in the darkness. She walked with
head down, lumbering painfully, as though direction
did not matter. Whereas, coming, she had seemed to
be pushing forward into the future, she now felt as if
she were pushing forward into nowhere.
After a mile or so she heard a faint hissing from
the back tyre. She stopped, pressing the tyre with her
hand. 'It's slow,' she thought; 'it'll last me.' She
pushed forward. A little later it seemed to her that the
hissing got worse. She stopped again, and again felt
the tyre with her hand. It was softer now, almost flat.
She unscrewed the pump and put a little air in the
tyre and went on. 'I better stop at the shop,' she
thought, 'and have it done.'
In the village the cycle-shop was already in darkness.
She pushed passed it. As she came to the hill leading up
to the house she lifted her head a little. It seemed to
her suddenly that the house, outlined darkly above the
dark hill, was a long way off. She had for one moment
an impression that she would never reach it.
She struggled up the hill. The mud of the track
seemed to suck at her great boots and hold her down.
The wheels of the bicycle seemed as if they would not
turn, and she could hear the noise of the air dying once
again in the tyre.

Writing like this is why I'm taking a temporary break from writing poetry.
I have so much to learn...

Fuchsia

That's the title to a short story by British writer H.E. Bates...from the collection "Thirty-One Selected Tales"...mostly from the 1930's. I had never heard of H.E. Bates until I listened to Tim Bowler's recent "Bolthole Bulletin". Tim Bowler has been writing some of my favorite psychological suspense novels with a degree of depth that is astounding for any writer. He talks about his writing, questions from readers, and what he is currently reading...H.E. Bates short stories! So I took his word and checked out five collections of his short stories. I've only read three of his short stories and it was amazing writing! It was after church and I was on my way to return nine library items, but I picked up one of the nine...yes...you guessed it...and randomly flipped to one of the shorter tales called "Fuchsia". I sat in the parking lot with the window rolled slightly down and read...
"He wanted to put his feet up on his own fireplace, but
he was aware that twenty-eight weeks of idleness
had lost him that privilege."
That's the first paragraph. It somehow sucked me right into this world...
"He was a heavy-boned man, with loose grey flesh and
awkward hands rather like dead crabs. Twenty-eight
weeks ago they had laid him off at the tannery."
This is the story of a man who feels he is losing his wife and his twenty year old daughter is now the bread earner. His daughter's angry "who do you think you are" sets him walking and thinking...but it is his encounter in the market place...with a single fuchsia flower "ballet girl" that holds his attention...
"For two or three minutes he held the flower in his
large crab-like hands and looked at it. The slender
upper petals, of clear cherry-red, were turned back-
wards. The lower petals were gathered thickly to-
gether like a skirt which swung lightly under the
vibrations of his unsteady hands."
And this beautiful story ends with poignant depth...
"He was looking straight before him into space, his
eyes alight for a moment with happiness, with a
momentary illusion it was clear they could not sustain."
I didn't have the heart to return this short story collection yet. I could tell there are so many more treasures to discover...

Superfluity

What is Superfluity? Do you need a flu vaccine? It's a large rummage sale that University Congregational Church puts on once a year. Countless church members and volunteers find time, connection, and fun putting together this huge extravaganza. It's a great opportunity to connect with others, get rid of stuff, and pick up what you might consider a treasure. Who knows what you might find. Perhaps that special book, a complete badminton set, a clarinet, or maybe a blender. It doesn't matter. Whatever captures your heard and mind. I came away with eight books, a movie, four folk CD's, a coffee grinder, and a blender. For me, the treasures are the books. One was The Kingdom and the Cave by Joan Aiken of The Wolves of Willoughby Chase fame. Her first book at age 17! What I really like is discovering books I've never heard of particularly from the 1940's to 1970's. Books like The Half-Crown House (1956) by Helen Ashton has a Greene Knowe L.M. Boston strong sense of character and place. Lovely in the Lee (1945) illustrated and written by Robert Gibbings and Lost Island (1944) beautifully set in Ireland and Polynesia. Sleep till Noon by Max Shulman (1950)is wonderfully illustrated by Bill Crawford with some very funny comic writing. I feel like my heart and mind is going to combust with excitement. Hmm. Maybe you shouldn't go after all. I want to read all the books I will collect,but I suppose it would be wise to get some sleep!

Check it out but make sure you're not too combustible.

Bald to Beard: 8 weeks later

The itchiness has lessened, and I just trimmed everything back at at the same level. It's still itchy...so all the people who say you get used to the itchiness are lying. It's just grown thicker...and not much longer. It feels like steel wool embedded into my skin...scratchy enough to scour a frying pan. I haven't figured out how to download my beard pictures onto this site, but I believe there's a couple on my facebook page. I do think the beard has changed my personality some. I'm more prone to crankiness, spontaneous and sometimes unwanted honesty, spontaneous generosity...and I'm not likely to give a reason for the good or bad I do. It does feel a bit freeing. It's odd to think that I might not have written "Blasphemy" without the irritation of my beard. I sent that to all my pastors...and one of them sat beside me while I was ushering at church this Sunday and tongue-in-cheek whispered "Heretic"...then went on to express how much she liked it. Heretic...hmmm...I oddly like the sound of that. Maybe the beard as an irritant can be a catalyst for change. In the meantime, let me know if there are any fry pans my beard can clean for you. ;-)

Blasphemy

I don't like April Fools Day. The whole pranks thing it's just for fun don't you have a sense of humor. Yes I do, but it feels more like emotional cruelty. And once you prank, the other person retaliates. Count me out. So I was not in a good mood...plus it rained all day...making me feel worse. I may regret this...
On that note, here's

Blasphemy

When Adam & Eve conceived God
The world was without form and void
So Adam & Eve conjured up in their minds
Something to blame of everything
And that was called God
And it was very good
Then God raised Caine
Created a flood to wipe out the earth
Tortured Job as a game with the devil
What Job didn't know was that God was the devil
Then God had a three way
And called it the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost
Just to confuse the hell out of everyone
For God was Hell
And Adam & Eve felt bad conceiving God
Especially when God conceived Jesus
Who he tortured by killing him on a cross
And confusing countless generations
When Adam & Eve knew
The world was without form and void.

Denis Streeter 4/1/11

Latitdes

Perhaps you were the landmark
North south west east
I didn't know
My barometric pressure was down
My internal weather
My lost compass
Searching the known
I didn't know
Some hour
I needed to know
Stored away
Next time
And the many sorries
Memory lapses
Will you
Seventy times seven
No
Your human watch
Drifting time
The coming chances
Trusting latitudes
Seen not ignored
Explored

Denis Streeter 3/30/11

Unless

Poetry is supposed to do something
At least have some line the reader can follow
At least be relatable
So the average person will say
"Oh...okay I get that"
If you write in riddles or obscurity
Maybe a few literary critics will get it
But who cares about them
I want everyone to understand my work
The problem is I'm not willing to let that happen
Who is going to understand a phrase like
"The toothpaste the tonsils pulled out"
It makes no sense and wastes your time
And if your poetry is filled with phrases like that
It will leave people scratching their heads
Some may even laugh uncomfortably
Like someone told them this was funny
What if poetry just was
What if poetry flowed out
Just because
My poetry flows out
Just because
It's not for you
It's for me
Unless...
You feel some flicker of recognition...

Denis Streeter 3/28/11

Time metronome

Perhaps you knew from the sign
What kind it was
What kind of leverage it had
When it pieced me together.
Perhaps you knew when it cried
I was fine
You knew better.
Saturday the time
A calm front
Eyes burning into head
What does that mean
Eyes burning into head
It means...
Whatever keeps you up at night
A Saturday less sleep
Set metronome to three
Hours sleep
Perhaps you knew
When I cried
Tick tock
Time pendulum
Switches back and forth
Is it alarming
Only morning knows
And there was afternoon
And there was evening
Noon.

Denis Streeter 3/26/11

More or less

Texting the nickels
Till they slid down stream
Oceaning some floor
Till the ceiling opened
And the deserts released their cavernous echoes
Just before the cellars replied
Open ended, denouement free
Just as I expected
No solution
More questions
Slid down stream
Washing mud from my boots
Oddly cleaning
More questions
More clarity
More or less
I'll try a text
Could you nickel me in

Denis Streeter 3/25/11

Clear sight

Waking and sleeping
Into this present world
Sorting and slinking
Away sometimes thinking
Some highway of thought
Startled into drifting
You entered my thoughts
Wanting examples
I could not come up with
Would not come up with
Wander down the spring
Watering what I do not know
But I really do
Just hoping my lie will surface
Float free become my truth
Detachment recognition
No moat no beam
Clear sight
What you mean
What you mean

Denis Streeter 3/19/11

No question marks

Okay...this is an odd one...
It starts as a rhyme...then turns into a dialogue...

Over by the shingle box
Where the crab grass grows
Lies two little mingles
And a pair of toes.
Now what are mingles, you say.
I don't know.
And what of the toes.
I don't knows.
Then why waste my time.
Because it shows.
Feeling snarky aren't you.
Well...okay...the answer to the question is no question marks.
Besides I wanted to rhyme grows and toes.
Why did you want to do that.
I don't know.
Probably the same reason why there are no question marks.
If you end with a question mark, the assumption is an answer.
I don't want to provide you with an answer.
Only the mystery.
Why don't you want to provide us with an answer.
Why do you want mysteries to go unsolved.
I didn't say I want mysteries to go unsolved.
No, but you did say only the mystery...
Well...okay...you got me mister semantics head.
Perhaps that's not quite what I meant.
Some mysteries I want solved...
You know...
Like where are my car keys.
Where is my pack.
Where is my wallet.
I hope I didn't leave them on top of my car again and drive off.
Okay...those mysteries I want solved.
But mysteries like who am I becoming.
Who will I connect with.
Those are mysteries I can live into.
What about the mystery of no question marks.
Oh...just leave it alone.
What did I say. Did I say something sensitive.
No. I'm just feeling a bit rebellious...
And I don't want to end with a question mark.

Beard underbelly

Well...yesterday I couldn't take the porcupine quills under my chin any longer...so I shaved them off...the chin underbelly. It is much happier now. It no longer dreams of lazy aging porcupines looking up at my chin...and in a fit of boredom shooting my neck full of quills...before getting run over by a Mack truck. Hey...it's my dream! For over four weeks my neck was aquivered. Perhaps someone who is more photo savvy than myself can post a picture of what I look like now. But I suppose it would have been good to have the bald picture and then the beard picture. It feels much more comfortable and I'll keep the beard thing going for at least another week...then do some trimming...don't know what yet. But for now...my neck thanks me...yet I feel more vulnerable to vampire attack...but...well...I guess if they were really hungry they wouldn't let something like a neck hair get in the way.

Distress signals

Shots came night walking
Setting their distress signals
Wandering streets for sound
Of eggs and washers ringing
Soundings off
Heard unknown
Two drifters with top hats and red scarves
Drinking by the totem pole counting the notches
Drifting the side street for eggs and washers
Picking up their beer and coke
Drinking at the lithia fountain
Swilling and snorting and thinking rhino
Buffalloed their toes, tripping again
Flat again two drifters flat again, float
Counting notches to totem their heads
Shots came night walking
Slipping alleys through causeways
When no one was looking
Drinking at the lithia fountain
They disappeared into a breath of relief
Morning broke relief, but held its breath
Scampering into sounds of the living
That wayward morning cry of day
Opening drifts through the unknown
When no one was looking.

Denis Streeter 3/8/11