I write and talk too much. I write and sidekick for the nationally syndicated Weekly Rear View Radio Show. I co-host the regionally syndicated “Everybody’s Cooking” on public radio. My fourth cookbook is in the works. I just completed editing and retranslating (with the author) the war diary of a 12-year-old Bosnian poet (published in two languages in Europe and being typeset for US publication.)<\/p>\n
When I grow up wanna to be a poet; a journalist for the soul.\u00ca<\/p>\n
The Fiddler and His Lady<\/strong><\/p>\n He made his fiddle a lady As the drums and strums She cooed and sighed til she bit us with her pain But he knew his lady so well Her chorts so loud they drew a curious boy At closing time van Gogh Says<\/strong><\/p>\n van Gogh says to God “I do not like You make the starry night breathe You pottered a flawless conch shell what were you doing during post impressionism?”<\/p>\n do they?<\/strong><\/p>\n it’s the pebbles boulders when i gaze deep If I had one strong wing Burned so bad All looked upon this tiny charred shell If I had one strong wing I could fly away Someone heard Operation They failed But the cleverest magician If I had one strong wing But I have two near-fingers No Tomorrow<\/strong><\/p>\n I have no tomorrow I live life as “last times” each last time is a gift I’ve seen fate every conversation final every question concluding every moment dying Strings<\/strong><\/p>\n I still hear his footsteps His criticisms were so matter of fact Money couldn’t understand him Strings were last resorts All would be done<\/p>\n He knew I’d have to learn Now I’m cursed to wonder: Time Hates Love<\/strong><\/p>\n Time<\/p>\n hates love erodes the potency steals each lovely detail from another always makes “forever” But if Time turned every word it would make no difference<\/p>\n if somewhere The Relationship<\/strong><\/p>\n She.<\/p>\n He.<\/p>\n She, He,<\/p>\n She? He? She:He He; She He.<\/p>\n She.<\/p>\n The Bubble<\/strong><\/p>\n All of life His little breath gave it life A twisted rainbow danced It glided I know now for sure but as a child The Day Reality Asked Dreams For a Dance<\/strong><\/p>\n On the day Reality asked Dreams for a dance. Reality straightened his tie with the fate prints. “You never Dreams folded her arms. “Today yes. Reality snickered “You always talk Dreams turned her eyes. “He will. For I Reality stretched Dreams looked Reality straight in the eye “Yesterday Reality tugged his cufflinks “But “Sipping,” murmured Dreams, This affliction of poetry: there is no cure. It was only in remission all these years I’ve written humor on a nationally syndicated radio show. Through the numerous articles printed in Writer’s Digest Magazine where my cartoons have appeared as well. Even through the passion of writing three cookbooks. Why do we write poetry: because he have to. I thoroughly appreciate those involved with the Web poetry movement which is putting the most real of things back into our virtual world and giving us an electronic brick wall to spraypaint the graffiti of our souls.<\/p>\n all poems copyright 1997 by J. Kevin Wolfe. Author gives web publishing permission for free public viewing. J. Kevin Wolfe<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I write and talk too much. I write and sidekick for the nationally syndicated Weekly Rear View Radio Show. I co-host the regionally syndicated “Everybody’s Cooking” on public radio. My fourth cookbook is in the works. I just completed editing and retranslating (with the author) the war diary of a 12-year-old Bosnian poet (published in … <\/p>\n
\nin the exhaled haze of a Dingle pub<\/p>\n
\ndanced the clack of Keryl’s spoons
\nthe old men scratched their violins
\nBut not Maguire’s lady<\/p>\n
\nas his chin so gently rested on her body
\nHis peaceful touch drew across her
\nlike a warm breath through hair of silk
\nThen the rogue Jim made her weep<\/p>\n
\nand a drip of tears seasoned the Guinness<\/p>\n
\nThe instant he smiled and her hopes took wing
\nShe laughed like he’d never made her grieve<\/p>\n
\nwho jigged on the stains of the floor
\nShe giggled at the jests of Macguire’s bow
\nand the boy floated above the hardwood
\nhis feet occasionally tapping the floor<\/p>\n
\nJim laid his lady in her worn velvet bed
\nand locked her away
\nas if she only wanted to sing to him
\nHe hugged her under his arm
\nprotecting his rare lady from the damp chill
\nof the Irish summer night.<\/p>\n
\nyour gawky use of trees in your landscapes so
\nI made my own.<\/p>\n
\nbut do not show the dynamics except
\nfor in creeping shadows of leaves.<\/p>\n
\na billion years ago but<\/p>\n
\nthat make life insurmountable<\/p>\n
\nwe expect
\nbut too much gravel
\nwe trip on<\/p>\n
\nit’s so black all day has ceased
\nwhen life is as bleak
\nas bleakest jet
\ni lie back
\nlook to the core
\nof the charcoal night<\/p>\n
\ninto the soul
\nof the ancient pitch
\nand ask “do
\nthe stars still shine tonite?”\u00ca<\/p>\n
\nOne Strong Wing
\n(for Christian)<\/strong><\/p>\n
\nI could fly away
\nsaid the boy with the stolen face<\/p>\n
\nthat death was a hope
\nhis eyes were the only thing left beautiful
\nthe only thing left human<\/p>\n
\nand could not see a boy
\nEven his parents disavowed his once-life
\nnow a vagueness of scars<\/p>\n
\nI could feel the soft breeze
\nand not this confusion of sense
\non what was once my face<\/p>\n
\nthe quiet wail
\nHe still had no wing
\nbut he flew 5000 miles
\nHe flew to where surgeons
\nwere sculptors of flesh
\nand potters of noses<\/p>\n
\noperation
\noperation
\netc.<\/p>\n
\nto make his face a child’s<\/p>\n
\ntook two toes
\nand made two fingers appear
\non the once of a hand<\/p>\n
\nI could lift a discarded life
\nand make it seem mine again<\/p>\n
\nso I cant feel anything again
\nanything
\nexcept my face<\/p>\n
\nbut I rejoice
\nI know that life is but a candle flame
\nthat can be snuffed by but a wisp<\/p>\n
\nthe last time I’ll see a friend
\nthe last time I’ll kiss my children
\nthe last time my love and I entwine<\/p>\n
\none more gleaming chance
\nto hear the quiet groan of a lumbering sunrise
\nto sip the last drop of a melting sunset
\nto pocket a falling star
\nsomewhere in the coat of your soul<\/p>\n
\nand it is but a rice paper partition
\nbetween boisterous life and voiceless death<\/p>\n
\nmake sure all is said<\/p>\n
\nask what you really want to know<\/p>\n
\ncup it tight
\nand peek in to see the flicker
\nof a firelfy called life<\/p>\n
\nThey scuff slowly behind me in uncomfortable shoes<\/p>\n
\nas if they were never mentioned
\nbut sharp praise always tasted of pride<\/p>\n
\nJust his presence made life an overwilling marionette
\nFor me, my father never pulled strings<\/p>\n
\nHis talk danced a circle
\nand a smile would cameo at the right place<\/p>\n
\nto pull strings for myself
\nI thank him for that<\/p>\n
\nis he pulling a few for me now?
\nThe talk has stopped
\nbut I hear the shoes<\/p>\n
\nTime<\/p>\n
\nof “I love you”
\nwith each repeat
\nTime<\/p>\n
\nwe burned to praise
\nTime<\/p>\n
\ninto the fattest lie<\/p>\n
\never spoken in love
\ninto a hoax<\/p>\n
\nsomewhen
\njust one kiss
\nwere true<\/p>\n
\nShe! He!<\/p>\n
\nHe:She<\/p>\n
\nHe, She,<\/p>\n
\nseemed to be in the tiny bubble
\nhe had just blown.<\/p>\n
\nas it grew and lifted
\noff the wand.<\/p>\n
\nin the thin soap sphere
\nas it rose.<\/p>\n
\nout a window.
\nIt sheened in the sun.
\nAnd floated into the bluest of skies
\nuntil it vanished.<\/p>\n
\nit died
\nin a sudden burst
\nnot far from the window.<\/p>\n
\nyou could
\nnever convince me of that.<\/p>\n
\nBut Dreams declined. “You are often
\ncrude and would step on my hopeful feet.”<\/p>\n
\ntake a chance. This
\njoyous dancefloor awaits us.
\nWould you let a few
\nsore toes get in the way
\nof becoming yourself?”<\/p>\n
\nTomorrow maybe”<\/p>\n
\nof tomorrow like he’ll walk in the door,
\nkiss your hand, and
\nspin you endlessly.”<\/p>\n
\nam a passionate kiss. And you Reality,
\nyou are but a cold fish handshake.”<\/p>\n
\nhis neck in the stiff ivory collar. “Then I
\nshall dance with Yesterday.”<\/p>\n
\nknows only one dance.”<\/p>\n
\nshe knows it well. And once again
\nyou’ll just sit here and watch.
\nGuzzling up
\nall the punch of Life.”<\/p>\n
\ncasually looking away, “slowly sipping”.<\/p>\n
\nAll rights reserved by author. One time print rights available by agreement.<\/p>\n