Ode to a Bean

Ode to a Bean

for Dan and Dan of Fojo Beans

 

I found a poem in a cup.

It was hot, I drank it up.

When the poem was smooth and brown,

it was good.

I drank it down.

When the poem was hot and black,

it called to me.

I threw it back.

When the poem was sweet and mild,

I held it gently, like a child.

The poem flowed – gentle, quiet –

moving moments, day from night.

It warmed me and it woke me up.

I found a poem in a cup.

 

 

 

Birthday

Today is my birthday.

My mother’s voice sings,

“Happy Birthday” from my voice-mail.

When I was a child, she said

“You don’t get older until someone

sings the song,” and I

fight the absurd urge to shout,

“Stop!  You’re making me older!”

***

Such is the weight of a mother’s words.

My sons sing, “Happy Birthday” to me,

their three wee voices

intertwined in disharmonic joy, and I

clap, joyful…thankful, with

the weight of my power coiled peacefully,

for now, in my gut.

**

Untitled

This one is at least 20 years old. That’s all I remember.

*

Untitled

*

This is the death that walks.

This is the void that talks.

This is the stone that bleeds.

This is the soul that needs.

This is the dark that sees.

This is the bond that frees.

These are our hopes and dreams.

This is our life.

Mason Jar

This one is old and appears to have been meant to be a song.  I don’t remember anything more.

————————————————————————-

Mason Jar

*

Billy was the kind of man that reason couldn’t reach

Billy was the kind that all the schools could never teach

And he spent his time asking ‘why’ but no one ever cared

a partner full of combat but no one ever dared

so he shut his mouth and shut his mind

and got into the car

one day he put his life away

into a Mason Jar

*

He sat alone with his disease

sitting at the bar

He told me sadly of his life

in its Mason Jar

*

Every night he turned out the lights

so the neighbors couldn’t see

Mostly he talked to himself

But he sometimes talked to me

*

He sat alone with his disease

sitting at the bar

He told me sadly of his life

in its Mason Jar

*

The Hunter

This is another one that was meant to be a song.  I almost certainly wrote this in highschool.  It is rewritten here, with apologies to Brian Hunter, who taught me how to love my brain.  This, rather peripherally, reflects a philosophy we’ve both long since outgrown, but it still has a few familiar echoes.

*

The Hunter

*

They’ve made up your mind for  you, they’ve set up all your rules.

You can make your own creation if you do it with their tools,

So you turn within yourself but know there is no peace.

You let them bind you with their standards and now there’s no release,

So you sit staring inward and you see what you have done.

You let them rearrange your soul and now you are no one.

*

Find yourself within yourself,

Face your fate undaunted.

Blow your brother’s mind away,

Death’s all he ever wanted.

*

And the hunter is the hunted

in the annals of your mind.

I can’t teach you how to see;

you’re already blind.

Don’t search for true reality;

it’s something you can’t find.

*

What was born within you, you long ago let die

You did it to be normal but you’re living out a lie.

You let yourself be limited because they said you were.

You’d fill yourself with cyanide if they told you it would cure

the empty hole inside you but you did on your own.

You changed to fit society; you’ve never been so all alone.

*

When you lose your own uniqueness

to walk where sane men tread.

You’ve joined our fine society;

you’re already dead.

*

And the hunter is the hunted

in the annals of your mind.

I can’t teach you how to see;

you’re already blind.

Don’t search for true reality;

it’s something you can’t find.

Mainline

Just came across this. It was written in the mid-80s.

Adult langauge ahead. My apologies in advance to any offended readers; I couldn’t revise it and still express the rage this poem contained. It is not about a woman.

*

Mainline

*

She can hear

the rain sing

to the Sun Kings.

She can see

the Silence

through the haze.

She can dance

in Darkness

throwing shadows,

and reach within you,

touch your blood –

tiny dancing dizzy flood.

*

She is bouncing in your scream.

She leaves you lost

within a dream.

She takes your eyes,

leaves you blind.

And then your heart.

And then your mind.

Stumble, nodding rhythm.

Exploding time.

Is she so fucking fine?

(Is she so fine?)

*

Incomprehensible

I have no idea when I wrote this.  Could have been early 90s.  Could have been late 90s.  I can be a slow learner.

Incomprehensible

 

Some level of irrepressible

satisfaction

bouncing bouncing

never stopping

never thinking

laughing, mindless

boundless, blinking

squashing

smashing

fun fun

funfunfun

  

but the wonderful thing about him

is he’s the only one

 

Within

This is the sequel to Call It Courage.  It was written years later.  As I read it, I can see the influence of college on the content. 

It was quite a serious poem at the time, but it amuses me now.  I take myself far less seriously these days.  Yet I am also void of poetry now.  Perhaps I’ll find a cure for that soon.  I wonder if Bushmills would still work for that?  If not, at least the prose still overtakes me.

Enjoy….

Within

a poem d.b. mcneill

 

 

It’s been years since I was whole.

  He put his finger through my soul.

I am caught beneath the wheel

  never knowing what to feel.

Still walking westward with the rain,

  I seek new ways to speak my pain.

The Earth sucks muscles down my bones.

  I suspect I’ll be alone

when I die.

 

All my life and lives before

  the rich could always eat the poor.

Unable to break the silence screaming,

   unable to wake the world from dreaming,

velvet here, he waits within.

  He has crawled beneath my skin.

 

No claws or knife can dig him out.

  So greet the dawn with strangled shout.

The howling light, the colors streaming,

  all the world will still lay dreaming.

Never having strength for peace

  A man can only seek release.

I watched the orgasm of his death,

  heard music in his dying breath

and it’s been years since I was whole.

  He put his finger through my soul.