Jims Poems Nov 2011
Dec 01 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
The Secret Life of Jesus #4
On the first Christmas Eve,
Mary was in labor
A good many hours
Before Jesus was born.
Jesus was sorry
But who could blame Him
For taking his time.
He knew what to expect
When he saw the light of day,
And it wasn’t gold,
Frankincense or myrrh.
Lonesome Cowboy
A cowboy in Wyoming
Was shooting stars
To while away the time
Around the campfire.
He missed at first
But after adjusting his sights,
He started shooting them down
Like bottles on a fence.
They’d drop and flame out
And go dark,
Far out on the range.
The cowboy didn’t care,
Which was a shame.
Stars fall out
Of the sky’s pocket
A signal of something.
They should be gathered up
Like dead dreams
And autumn leaves.
Stars should be given
A proper burial.
The Secret Life of Jesus #8
When Jesus was born
All Mary wanted
Was a little sleep.
But company kept coming over.
Shepherds and Magi,
The innkeeper and his wife,
A host of barnyard animals.
Jesus was very tiny,
Mostly interested
In keeping warm
And eating his next meal.
Joseph was pleased and proud.
He marveled at
The little fingers and toes,
The incredible lightness of the child,
The incredible weight
Of his new responsibilities.
He wondering how he was going
To keep his family fed.
Jesus could have told him, of course,
But that’s just not
The baby way.
Heracles and the Amazons
Heracles stands frozen
In a fight with Amazons
On an urn
At the Legion of Honor Museum.
His black sinews bulge
On a background of rust colored pottery,
The three Amazons hectoring him
Right and left
With drawn swords.
I ask myself
Who painted these myths
With such precision,
The protaganists circling the urn,
Heracles’ eyes aflame
With masculine rage.
As the Amazons toy with him.
But isn’t that always the way?
Men thrashing beneath
The taunts of women
Like maddened animals
At the bullfights.
I don’t remember how the myth worked out.
Did Heracles fend off the women,
Or did they slay him?
I suspect they all left the field of battle,
Licking their wounds,
Like a paint brush on a vase,
For here they all are,
Thousands of years later,
Daggers drawn
Around a Grecian urn,
Where Heracles still stands at last,
Like all old men,
An exile from the past.
On the first Christmas Eve,
Mary was in labor
A good many hours
Before Jesus was born.
Jesus was sorry
But who could blame Him
For taking his time.
He knew what to expect
When he saw the light of day,
And it wasn’t gold,
Frankincense or myrrh.
Lonesome Cowboy
A cowboy in Wyoming
Was shooting stars
To while away the time
Around the campfire.
He missed at first
But after adjusting his sights,
He started shooting them down
Like bottles on a fence.
They’d drop and flame out
And go dark,
Far out on the range.
The cowboy didn’t care,
Which was a shame.
Stars fall out
Of the sky’s pocket
A signal of something.
They should be gathered up
Like dead dreams
And autumn leaves.
Stars should be given
A proper burial.
The Secret Life of Jesus #8
When Jesus was born
All Mary wanted
Was a little sleep.
But company kept coming over.
Shepherds and Magi,
The innkeeper and his wife,
A host of barnyard animals.
Jesus was very tiny,
Mostly interested
In keeping warm
And eating his next meal.
Joseph was pleased and proud.
He marveled at
The little fingers and toes,
The incredible lightness of the child,
The incredible weight
Of his new responsibilities.
He wondering how he was going
To keep his family fed.
Jesus could have told him, of course,
But that’s just not
The baby way.
Heracles and the Amazons
Heracles stands frozen
In a fight with Amazons
On an urn
At the Legion of Honor Museum.
His black sinews bulge
On a background of rust colored pottery,
The three Amazons hectoring him
Right and left
With drawn swords.
I ask myself
Who painted these myths
With such precision,
The protaganists circling the urn,
Heracles’ eyes aflame
With masculine rage.
As the Amazons toy with him.
But isn’t that always the way?
Men thrashing beneath
The taunts of women
Like maddened animals
At the bullfights.
I don’t remember how the myth worked out.
Did Heracles fend off the women,
Or did they slay him?
I suspect they all left the field of battle,
Licking their wounds,
Like a paint brush on a vase,
For here they all are,
Thousands of years later,
Daggers drawn
Around a Grecian urn,
Where Heracles still stands at last,
Like all old men,
An exile from the past.
THE MAN WHO NEEDED NO ONE
Sep 13 2011 Filed in: Poem
THE MAN WHO NEEDED NO ONE
He wanted to need no one, not
love or thirst, not even sunrise
and the sweet amulets of water
that fall from the heavens.
No, he wanted to be an island
of self-sufficiency, to sleep
with his arms around the pillow,
a jack-in-the-pulpit alone on his throne
in the damp woods, singing to himself
beneath his curled umbrella.
And this is how he lived for many years—
a solitary song, a soliloquy
spoken into the small mirror
that hung above the wash basin,
with its blue towel and basket of dead flowers.
But something remained wrong—
a dull ached whispered from below his voice
where his heart should have been, a seed
rumbled in the pit of his stomach as if to suggest
a tree that had never grown, a stone skimming
the surface of water once and then sinking.
He grew old this way, never knowing
it had been need he had needed all along—
the sound of his own small voice
asking for a light to see by, a match
to retrieve his heart with from the widening dark.
~Michael Blumenthal
He wanted to need no one, not
love or thirst, not even sunrise
and the sweet amulets of water
that fall from the heavens.
No, he wanted to be an island
of self-sufficiency, to sleep
with his arms around the pillow,
a jack-in-the-pulpit alone on his throne
in the damp woods, singing to himself
beneath his curled umbrella.
And this is how he lived for many years—
a solitary song, a soliloquy
spoken into the small mirror
that hung above the wash basin,
with its blue towel and basket of dead flowers.
But something remained wrong—
a dull ached whispered from below his voice
where his heart should have been, a seed
rumbled in the pit of his stomach as if to suggest
a tree that had never grown, a stone skimming
the surface of water once and then sinking.
He grew old this way, never knowing
it had been need he had needed all along—
the sound of his own small voice
asking for a light to see by, a match
to retrieve his heart with from the widening dark.
~Michael Blumenthal
Embarcadero
Aug 01 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
Embarcadero
It’s getting hard to wrap
My mind around my mind.
I’m sitting at the Embarcadero,
Inhaling saltwater inspiration.
Sunglazed Californians debark
From Sausalito ferries.
Grey pigeons wander
Beneath my feet,
Searching for food.
Maybe all of us are pigeons,
Waiting for food to turn up,
Scavenging our surroundings
For crumbs of meaning
Beneath a chorus
Of screeching gulls.
I embrace the Embarcadero.
I like the name, evocative
Of my next departure.
The sound of the name
Glides on hopeful waters,
Waters that lead to adventures
On other shores.
The Bay Bridge is clean,
Painted with a razor on blue sky,
The five o’clock sun
Falling just right on the tops
Of eighteen wheelers,
Crawling to San Francisco
Like savage pilgrims
From Oakland.
That sailboat below the cliffs
Of Treasure Island,
The distant bells of cable cars,
Are miles away. I have no idea
Why I’m sitting at the Embarcadero.
But it’s my kind of place,
Full of edges and water,
Bringing messages
From across the sea.
Bells in the tower
Chime the hour,
And it’s time to awaken
From daydreams
On the waterfront.
With sorrow I shrug
And let the moment go,
Like another pigeon
With nothing to show
For his hour alone
At the Embarcadero.
It’s getting hard to wrap
My mind around my mind.
I’m sitting at the Embarcadero,
Inhaling saltwater inspiration.
Sunglazed Californians debark
From Sausalito ferries.
Grey pigeons wander
Beneath my feet,
Searching for food.
Maybe all of us are pigeons,
Waiting for food to turn up,
Scavenging our surroundings
For crumbs of meaning
Beneath a chorus
Of screeching gulls.
I embrace the Embarcadero.
I like the name, evocative
Of my next departure.
The sound of the name
Glides on hopeful waters,
Waters that lead to adventures
On other shores.
The Bay Bridge is clean,
Painted with a razor on blue sky,
The five o’clock sun
Falling just right on the tops
Of eighteen wheelers,
Crawling to San Francisco
Like savage pilgrims
From Oakland.
That sailboat below the cliffs
Of Treasure Island,
The distant bells of cable cars,
Are miles away. I have no idea
Why I’m sitting at the Embarcadero.
But it’s my kind of place,
Full of edges and water,
Bringing messages
From across the sea.
Bells in the tower
Chime the hour,
And it’s time to awaken
From daydreams
On the waterfront.
With sorrow I shrug
And let the moment go,
Like another pigeon
With nothing to show
For his hour alone
At the Embarcadero.
Paul Revere
Aug 01 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
Paul Revere
After Paul Revere warned
The people of Boston,
He kept on riding,
Down to New York City, crying
“The bankers are coming,
The bankers are coming.”
But the people of New York
Were sleeping, or pretending to,
And soon Manhattan was infiltrated
By bankers, and brokers,
And scoundrels of every stripe.
So Paul Revere rode on,
Rode through the night
And through the next day,
Rode to Philadelphia,
Where the Continental Congress
Were gathered.
“The bankers are coming,
The bankers are coming!”
He cried, “and soon
They will own America,
And its politicians, too!”
But they just stared back
In amusement and said,
“They already do.”
After Paul Revere warned
The people of Boston,
He kept on riding,
Down to New York City, crying
“The bankers are coming,
The bankers are coming.”
But the people of New York
Were sleeping, or pretending to,
And soon Manhattan was infiltrated
By bankers, and brokers,
And scoundrels of every stripe.
So Paul Revere rode on,
Rode through the night
And through the next day,
Rode to Philadelphia,
Where the Continental Congress
Were gathered.
“The bankers are coming,
The bankers are coming!”
He cried, “and soon
They will own America,
And its politicians, too!”
But they just stared back
In amusement and said,
“They already do.”
Barbie (For Claude) When Claude bought his house, His wife had room to unpack Her collection of Barbie dolls, And I tried to imagine them In their infinite, pink variety. Not just plastic, model-slim, Rodeo Drive Barbie’s, But real life Barbie’s, With other possibilities. Soccer mom Barbie With her SUV and a stack Of good report cards. Trailer trash Barbie With a few extra pounds, A broken tooth, And screaming, plastic kids. Dumb as dirt Barbie With her jaw hung low. Kept woman Barbie With lots of jewelry, And a half dead rich guy To play with In a tiny wheel chair (Sold separately.) And then I got creative. Barbie in her 80’s With an accessory botox kit, Barbie with her own tanning box, And Barbie with tattoos And little piercings Not suitable for children Under eight. Anchor woman Barbie In her TV studio, Her face and make-up melting Under the little hot lights. Third World Barbie, Complete with little sacks of meal And kids that would fit In your pocket. Fitness Barbie, Gleaming and wet From her exertions. Of course there were Barbie the doctor Barbie the lawyer Senator Barbie Barbie the corporate CEO With her tiny Leer Jet And all the feminist promises Of power and style. Barbie the bowler, Barbie the figure skater Miss America cheerleader Barbie Barbie the movie star Barbie the cowgirl Barbie the lesbian. Amputee Barbie Acne Barbie, With a jar Of Barbie cream. Barbie the bag lady With tiny dirty socks. Barbie the prison inmate Barbie the virgin Barbie the wife Barbie the mother Barbie the adultress Barbie the whore Complete with little Anatomically correct Sex toys. Barbie the hairless cancer patient With wigs like thimbles. Barbie on a mortician’s slab Barbie the surfer Barbie the nudist Sold without accessories Except for tiny flip flops And a purple mask. And I thought to myself Who is Barbie anyway? Is Barbie a soldier Returned from war Struggling to fit in? Why does she smile No matter what? Barbie the waitress With a tiny four a.m. alarm And sturdy shoes. Barbie strung out on meth. Barbie in drag Lady Macbeth Barbie. Why doesn’t Barbie Just slow down? Grandma Barbie With fake teeth Mastectomy Barbie Divorced Barbie Welfare Barbie Battered Barbie. First Lady Barbie, Radical Barbie, Realtor Barbie. Junior High Barbie, Dressed like An overstuffed sausage. Hairless Barbie Jungle Barbie Taliban Barbie The Widow Barbie. Morning-after Barbie. Barbie with too many choices. Barbie with no choice at all. Like a matryoshka doll, Dreams nesting inside dreams, Barbie unveils herself, Smiling, Smooth, Hard.
Jun 30 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
Barbie
When Claude bought his house,
His wife had room to unpack
Her collection of Barbie dolls,
And I tried to imagine them
In their infinite, pink variety.
Not just plastic, model-slim,
Rodeo Drive Barbie’s,
But real life Barbie’s,
With other possibilities.
Soccer mom Barbie
With her SUV and a stack
Of good report cards.
Trailer trash Barbie
With a few extra pounds,
A broken tooth,
And screaming, plastic kids.
Dumb as dirt Barbie
With her jaw hung low.
Kept woman Barbie
With lots of jewelry,
And a half dead rich guy
To play with
In a tiny wheel chair
(Sold separately.)
And then I got creative.
Barbie in her 80’s
With an accessory botox kit,
Barbie with her own tanning box,
And Barbie with tattoos
And little piercings
Not suitable for children
Under eight.
Anchor woman Barbie
In her TV studio,
Her face and make-up melting
Under the little hot lights.
Third World Barbie,
Complete with little sacks of meal
And kids that would fit
In your pocket.
Fitness Barbie,
Gleaming and wet
From her exertions.
Of course there were
Barbie the doctor
Barbie the lawyer
Senator Barbie
Barbie the corporate CEO
With her tiny Leer Jet
And all the feminist promises
Of power and style.
Barbie the bowler,
Barbie the figure skater
Miss America cheerleader Barbie
Barbie the movie star
Barbie the cowgirl
Barbie the lesbian.
Amputee Barbie
Acne Barbie,
With a jar
Of Barbie cream.
Barbie the bag lady
With tiny dirty socks.
Barbie the prison inmate
Barbie the virgin
Barbie the wife
Barbie the mother
Barbie the adultress
Barbie the whore
Complete with little
Anatomically correct
Sex toys.
Barbie the hairless cancer patient
With wigs like thimbles.
Barbie on a mortician’s slab
Barbie the surfer
Barbie the nudist
Sold without accessories
Except for tiny flip flops
And a purple mask.
And I thought to myself
Who is Barbie anyway?
Is Barbie a soldier
Returned from war
Struggling to fit in?
Why does she smile
No matter what?
Barbie the waitress
With a tiny four a.m. alarm
And sturdy shoes.
Barbie strung out on meth.
Barbie in drag
Lady Macbeth Barbie.
Why doesn’t Barbie
Just slow down?
Grandma Barbie
With fake teeth
Mastectomy Barbie
Divorced Barbie
Welfare Barbie
Battered Barbie.
First Lady Barbie,
Radical Barbie,
Realtor Barbie.
Junior High Barbie,
Dressed like
An overstuffed sausage.
Hairless Barbie
Jungle Barbie
Taliban Barbie
The Widow Barbie.
Morning-after Barbie.
Barbie with too many choices.
Barbie with no choice at all.
Like a matryoshka doll,
Dreams nesting inside dreams,
Barbie unveils herself,
Smiling,
Smooth,
Hard.
When Claude bought his house,
His wife had room to unpack
Her collection of Barbie dolls,
And I tried to imagine them
In their infinite, pink variety.
Not just plastic, model-slim,
Rodeo Drive Barbie’s,
But real life Barbie’s,
With other possibilities.
Soccer mom Barbie
With her SUV and a stack
Of good report cards.
Trailer trash Barbie
With a few extra pounds,
A broken tooth,
And screaming, plastic kids.
Dumb as dirt Barbie
With her jaw hung low.
Kept woman Barbie
With lots of jewelry,
And a half dead rich guy
To play with
In a tiny wheel chair
(Sold separately.)
And then I got creative.
Barbie in her 80’s
With an accessory botox kit,
Barbie with her own tanning box,
And Barbie with tattoos
And little piercings
Not suitable for children
Under eight.
Anchor woman Barbie
In her TV studio,
Her face and make-up melting
Under the little hot lights.
Third World Barbie,
Complete with little sacks of meal
And kids that would fit
In your pocket.
Fitness Barbie,
Gleaming and wet
From her exertions.
Of course there were
Barbie the doctor
Barbie the lawyer
Senator Barbie
Barbie the corporate CEO
With her tiny Leer Jet
And all the feminist promises
Of power and style.
Barbie the bowler,
Barbie the figure skater
Miss America cheerleader Barbie
Barbie the movie star
Barbie the cowgirl
Barbie the lesbian.
Amputee Barbie
Acne Barbie,
With a jar
Of Barbie cream.
Barbie the bag lady
With tiny dirty socks.
Barbie the prison inmate
Barbie the virgin
Barbie the wife
Barbie the mother
Barbie the adultress
Barbie the whore
Complete with little
Anatomically correct
Sex toys.
Barbie the hairless cancer patient
With wigs like thimbles.
Barbie on a mortician’s slab
Barbie the surfer
Barbie the nudist
Sold without accessories
Except for tiny flip flops
And a purple mask.
And I thought to myself
Who is Barbie anyway?
Is Barbie a soldier
Returned from war
Struggling to fit in?
Why does she smile
No matter what?
Barbie the waitress
With a tiny four a.m. alarm
And sturdy shoes.
Barbie strung out on meth.
Barbie in drag
Lady Macbeth Barbie.
Why doesn’t Barbie
Just slow down?
Grandma Barbie
With fake teeth
Mastectomy Barbie
Divorced Barbie
Welfare Barbie
Battered Barbie.
First Lady Barbie,
Radical Barbie,
Realtor Barbie.
Junior High Barbie,
Dressed like
An overstuffed sausage.
Hairless Barbie
Jungle Barbie
Taliban Barbie
The Widow Barbie.
Morning-after Barbie.
Barbie with too many choices.
Barbie with no choice at all.
Like a matryoshka doll,
Dreams nesting inside dreams,
Barbie unveils herself,
Smiling,
Smooth,
Hard.
When Claude bought his house,
His wife had room to unpack
Her collection of Barbie dolls,
And I tried to imagine them
In their infinite, pink variety.
Not just plastic, model-slim,
Rodeo Drive Barbie’s,
But real life Barbie’s,
With other possibilities.
Soccer mom Barbie
With her SUV and a stack
Of good report cards.
Trailer trash Barbie
With a few extra pounds,
A broken tooth,
And screaming, plastic kids.
Dumb as dirt Barbie
With her jaw hung low.
Kept woman Barbie
With lots of jewelry,
And a half dead rich guy
To play with
In a tiny wheel chair
(Sold separately.)
And then I got creative.
Barbie in her 80’s
With an accessory botox kit,
Barbie with her own tanning box,
And Barbie with tattoos
And little piercings
Not suitable for children
Under eight.
Anchor woman Barbie
In her TV studio,
Her face and make-up melting
Under the little hot lights.
Third World Barbie,
Complete with little sacks of meal
And kids that would fit
In your pocket.
Fitness Barbie,
Gleaming and wet
From her exertions.
Of course there were
Barbie the doctor
Barbie the lawyer
Senator Barbie
Barbie the corporate CEO
With her tiny Leer Jet
And all the feminist promises
Of power and style.
Barbie the bowler,
Barbie the figure skater
Miss America cheerleader Barbie
Barbie the movie star
Barbie the cowgirl
Barbie the lesbian.
Amputee Barbie
Acne Barbie,
With a jar
Of Barbie cream.
Barbie the bag lady
With tiny dirty socks.
Barbie the prison inmate
Barbie the virgin
Barbie the wife
Barbie the mother
Barbie the adultress
Barbie the whore
Complete with little
Anatomically correct
Sex toys.
Barbie the hairless cancer patient
With wigs like thimbles.
Barbie on a mortician’s slab
Barbie the surfer
Barbie the nudist
Sold without accessories
Except for tiny flip flops
And a purple mask.
And I thought to myself
Who is Barbie anyway?
Is Barbie a soldier
Returned from war
Struggling to fit in?
Why does she smile
No matter what?
Barbie the waitress
With a tiny four a.m. alarm
And sturdy shoes.
Barbie strung out on meth.
Barbie in drag
Lady Macbeth Barbie.
Why doesn’t Barbie
Just slow down?
Grandma Barbie
With fake teeth
Mastectomy Barbie
Divorced Barbie
Welfare Barbie
Battered Barbie.
First Lady Barbie,
Radical Barbie,
Realtor Barbie.
Junior High Barbie,
Dressed like
An overstuffed sausage.
Hairless Barbie
Jungle Barbie
Taliban Barbie
The Widow Barbie.
Morning-after Barbie.
Barbie with too many choices.
Barbie with no choice at all.
Like a matryoshka doll,
Dreams nesting inside dreams,
Barbie unveils herself,
Smiling,
Smooth,
Hard.
When Claude bought his house,
His wife had room to unpack
Her collection of Barbie dolls,
And I tried to imagine them
In their infinite, pink variety.
Not just plastic, model-slim,
Rodeo Drive Barbie’s,
But real life Barbie’s,
With other possibilities.
Soccer mom Barbie
With her SUV and a stack
Of good report cards.
Trailer trash Barbie
With a few extra pounds,
A broken tooth,
And screaming, plastic kids.
Dumb as dirt Barbie
With her jaw hung low.
Kept woman Barbie
With lots of jewelry,
And a half dead rich guy
To play with
In a tiny wheel chair
(Sold separately.)
And then I got creative.
Barbie in her 80’s
With an accessory botox kit,
Barbie with her own tanning box,
And Barbie with tattoos
And little piercings
Not suitable for children
Under eight.
Anchor woman Barbie
In her TV studio,
Her face and make-up melting
Under the little hot lights.
Third World Barbie,
Complete with little sacks of meal
And kids that would fit
In your pocket.
Fitness Barbie,
Gleaming and wet
From her exertions.
Of course there were
Barbie the doctor
Barbie the lawyer
Senator Barbie
Barbie the corporate CEO
With her tiny Leer Jet
And all the feminist promises
Of power and style.
Barbie the bowler,
Barbie the figure skater
Miss America cheerleader Barbie
Barbie the movie star
Barbie the cowgirl
Barbie the lesbian.
Amputee Barbie
Acne Barbie,
With a jar
Of Barbie cream.
Barbie the bag lady
With tiny dirty socks.
Barbie the prison inmate
Barbie the virgin
Barbie the wife
Barbie the mother
Barbie the adultress
Barbie the whore
Complete with little
Anatomically correct
Sex toys.
Barbie the hairless cancer patient
With wigs like thimbles.
Barbie on a mortician’s slab
Barbie the surfer
Barbie the nudist
Sold without accessories
Except for tiny flip flops
And a purple mask.
And I thought to myself
Who is Barbie anyway?
Is Barbie a soldier
Returned from war
Struggling to fit in?
Why does she smile
No matter what?
Barbie the waitress
With a tiny four a.m. alarm
And sturdy shoes.
Barbie strung out on meth.
Barbie in drag
Lady Macbeth Barbie.
Why doesn’t Barbie
Just slow down?
Grandma Barbie
With fake teeth
Mastectomy Barbie
Divorced Barbie
Welfare Barbie
Battered Barbie.
First Lady Barbie,
Radical Barbie,
Realtor Barbie.
Junior High Barbie,
Dressed like
An overstuffed sausage.
Hairless Barbie
Jungle Barbie
Taliban Barbie
The Widow Barbie.
Morning-after Barbie.
Barbie with too many choices.
Barbie with no choice at all.
Like a matryoshka doll,
Dreams nesting inside dreams,
Barbie unveils herself,
Smiling,
Smooth,
Hard.