Casual Poetry
Written without forethought
Or intention, caught off guard
And waiting for the next word
Like we wait for sunlight
And whether the feather
Will fall within or without
The circle drawn on the table.
Odds are that it will leave
No lasting impression, either
On the table or on my mind.
But the easy flow of word to ideas
Is a joy to follow, wondering
Who invents either, and what
Required the writing and
Where the time went.
© 2012 Chuck
Puckett
Ennui
Who would rather ennui? Not me.
I would rather in woe to go.
Better to be in love, I’d druth.
Even down to despair I’d dare.
Were I drowned
sans hope, I’d cope.
Elation could be swell as well.
If I’m only filled with manic, no panic.
And panic could hold a thrill, so still
I say please keep ennui from me.
© 2000 Chuck Puckett
Fortuitous Twins
We are sometimes siametic, you and I:
Connected at the heart
With occasional loss of hearing.
It seems normally strange,
This back and forth and on and offness
That we have. Weaving a line
Between undiscovered joy
And partly hidden rage.
We'd rather be special fools, not mundane.
They stutter in their parts,
Not knowing what line is said by whom.
Better this "You are" and "I am"
Where each can draw the lines
Of selfness, making pictures
Of each other in the dust.
Still the angry words break against
The shore that bounds our hearts.
Then swollen waters swiftly flow,
Erasing some sweeter patterns.
So may we pause, between these times,
And find each other's eyes
Answering yet, "I love you".
©
1988 Chuck Puckett
Giles Again
It’s hard to be as still as this place requires
To be as quiet, to make the heart beat slow
And the breath not so deep or raspy
So as not to disturb the incredibilty.
It’s hard to be as here as this place needs
As far away from, and yet as close to,
All that should be.
The attempt to give it names
Intrudes on its silence.
It’s better if it’s only a faraway dove
Or hawk or deer or something in the woods
Or a voice on the next ridge,
Uninterrupted by my thought,
Unquickened by my desire,
Unnecessary for me to be
Anything other than here.
©
2000 Chuck Puckett
Giles Requiem
In this turned away corner, the world quiets
itself.
The grasses wear a green that really has no name,
Lie on the hills in hummocked fashion,
Small wavelets, echoing the earth's bones.
Those Oh! so ancient stones beneath,
Those bones of the eldest, from a time before even
Light had broken Heaven.
Twilight sang in these rocks before
Grass sang over them.
Through this often stillness, the waters speak themselves.
The streams drink rain, and drink without ceasing,
Until they rise, majesty unconcerned,
And cleanse the rounding fields. Death
May, and death may not: the waters do not care.
Their carelessness is sure sign of God,
Who works through them.
Agents not imbued by wisdom
Work without remorse.
"Beauty" is a trite word, when placed against its true mark,
As "green" is a misnomered sign
For what shines through the grass.
The insides of the hills know the true names -
And never speak them,
Except when they accept
Another soul for keeping.
Their comfort folds from whispered names,
Their ancient twilight holds them close.
"If a man has sight, he sees only things,
But if a man has vision, he sees through them."
"If a man makes money, he spends it, still clutching.
But if a man earns wealth, he uses it, building."
As a pallette for one's vision,
Wealth will resist its darker side.
In this place, no vision may redeem,
Unless these stones surround the pitted face.
In this place, wealth may grow extreme
Unless these waters give it by their grace.
The balanced tableau, the even-winged mind,
Has remembered past and beauty and set them
Against the step of progress. He who would allow
The future purchase here, would not at once forsake
A heritage sublime, upon whose stones
Tomorrow takes its proper place.
When visioned eyes are silver-sealed,
And lowered in the ground,
Their vision rightly is revealed
And made at once profound.
When in this place, the flooded streams
Escort the body home,
The grass will pace in endless dreams
By twilight on the stone.
© 1989 Chuck Puckett
How Deeply May We Feel
Beauty?
Would I love the Aegean more?
Would I be more deeply impressed by icebergs
Calving in an Alaskan bay?
How deeply can the human spirit appreciate beauty?
This perfect and infinite beach on the Gulf
Is as perfect as perfection allows
On a day like today, in the evening
With the sun westering away
And the yellow flag waving,
The waves capping and foaming
Out further, then in close,
In such infinite and wonderful complexities
That no human mind can possibly contain or explain.
Is beauty deeper a mile or two down?
As deep as the ocean,
Off the continental shelves,
Where, though not lifeless,
The life is totally alien and altogether inhuman,
And not decipherable,
Is mental and cold and foreign.
Human beauty exists up here in the shallows
In the warm top waters,
Where we live, as deep as the human spirit
Is now and is possible.
These are wonders,
These are aching beauties,
These are hopes,
Borne in sudden comprehensions
That brook no darkness
And admit only the westering sun.
© 2010 Chuck Puckett
I’m Resting Up
I’m resting up this morning Got my coffee, got the news
Read the funnies, read the sports
Read the op-ed and the views.
Did the Sunday crossword
Not in pencil, but in pen
Some clues made me think.
Some clues made me grin.
Saw what movies might be on.
What TV might be seen.
Read the front page, then the last
Read the pages in between.
Rested up this morning
With my coffee and my toast
It’s the kind of Sunday morning
That I dearly love the most.
© 2011 Chuck
Puckett
Le Monde Sans Pity
I was stronger, I was braver, I was sure.
But not like this, no not ever, not like this:
Pieces broken, spirit dragging, watchful eyes.
Life is merciless, it drags you through the mud
It has a price, it takes a toll: all you have.
I could have chosen to ignore the vital signs
And kept it safe, taken nothing, never played.
Pity plays a paltry part in the grand design
It’s a crippler, an enabler, its own crutch.
Memory takes a back seat to what transpires,
Gives its comments, it makes excuses, redefines.
There’s only what has truly happened that matters now:
Etches meaning, outlines purpose, lends intent.
I could deny the past, pretend the past was dead.
But things live on, and on and on, no escape.
Don’t want you to remember what comes next:
The failing eyesight, the weakened will, dimming light.
The law of entropy’s an arrow, unswerving force
Eroded canyons carry continents away
Eroded minds have no capacity to save
Hearts of ashes; souls are vanquished, pity cries.
The world is better by an unimagined clearness:
Stand in mirrors, decipher truth, live unbowed.
© 2011 Chuck
Puckett
Like Father Like It Or Not
I have tried my best to be my own man.
I am aware of many shortcomings,
Though infinite self-awareness is the realm of God
And mortal limits are concrete and steel,
They retain and constrain and demand obedience.
Still, I can see where I fail and fall and fulfill prophecy:
The acorn falls close, genetic gravity pulls me in
Like Shoemaker-Levy to Jupiter. Escape velocity
May be as infinite as my awareness is not.
Knowing what I need to be is not sufficient to be
it.
Nevertheless, it is necessary to know the goal.
My father was not a bad man, nor a paragon.
Like the multitude of men, his times begat him.
It was not a time to introspect, nor reflect too long.
The concrete test of steel will was “succeed or
fail.”
I have tried to pay attention, sense love and feel the world
But too often my best effort is only knowing when I do not.
Even this moves the acorn farther from the father,
A small victory, a quark-sized victory
Measured against a multitude of sensitivity
defeats.
I have tried to become a man beyond the man I am,
Tried to test the boundaries that DNA and upbringing raise.
I can open a door and see myself leaving across the room
But I can never catch up nor escape recognition.
I aim for an end that is still bound by its
beginning.
The years leave no room for regret, or else
We’d all go filing down the halls prepared to succumb
To inertia and entropy and genetic imperatives.
I am like him, and not, and I must like where life
Has led and left me: with some knowledge, much
hope.
A place where I will ever rearrange myself.
© 2011 Chuck Puckett
Magic Buttons
First sip, the morning ritual’s crown.
Before, the careful measured spoon
And then the tamping down, even grounds
In a steel basket, precisely leveled.
Check the water level and add at need.
Warm the heater until lights glow green
Press the magic button and watch the brew
Spurt and chaotic flow into the cup,
Brown like monks’ cowls, crème of crème.
Pour the half and half, a fingers’ width
And wait again for the light’s okay.
Another magic button press and steam
Excites the milk and me into a froth.
Carefully decant the brown into the white,
Then clean the gleaming steel, wipe it off.
Magic buttons bring us modern marvels
And now we have our witch’s brew to taste.
Like velvet in the mouth and down
First sip, the morning ritual’s crown.
© 2000 Chuck Puckett
Merlin Sartoris
I remember meeting myself
en
route,
Walking back
from the Tull concert,
Feeling thick as brick,
And warning
myself not to go in.
There would
be issues
With Lloyd
Bridges
Appearing as
Aqualung.
But maybe that was all an artifact,
Side effect
of the sacrament of the day.
Now I
remember 2012, Mayans
And Olmecs
and Mesoamericans
Without end,
suddenly ending
Everything on
the solstice, lining up with
Galactic
Central, Sumerian deities
On the phone
and calling about
Our overdue account, and when might
We be able to
make a payment?
I think I
recall the heat death of the cosmos,
Entropically
winding down and looking back
To better
days. Well, really, they were
all
Better than
this infinite sameness, right?
I had been
hoping the arrow of time
Was instead a
boomerang, with
Emphasis on
the Boom, and positive
Curvature
would crank it all back up again.
C’est la vie.
It’s an early memory,
And thus may
be a little off.
You’d think
the difference between
A recurring Big Bang and utter Dissolution
Would have
had a bigger impact.
I’m looking
forward to Arthur,
That will at
least be worth a story,
Though the
aching of my joints
In the past that waits
Will still be
painful.
© 2009 Chuck Puckett
Momentary World
It’s not the world’s end
But the day’s end:
That’s the one to watch for.
It sneaks up, sometimes
In colors and clouds,
Sometimes in rain or sun.
In any guise it comes,
But never gives a thundering goodbye.
It is quiet is its cloak.
Since it’s only a day,
Then no regrets when it is lost.
There it goes: another hour
Without meaning to, still means
Another hour without meaning.
Having let it slip, only a sigh
Marks the passing chance.
Too late. Passed by now.
Ended in dusk, then night
And disguised as simple day,
Not marked for what was lost:
Each moment means the world
Was made and then was crossed
And then thrown into the void.
© 2000 Chuck
Puckett
New Year’s
Resalation
January 1, 1995
Do not ruin that delicate knowledge
Like a snowflake it falls
To be tongue-tasted
And in the self-same act,
Consumed and lost
The thick life drowns it.
There is no air,
It cannot breathe.
When touched by too much age
It folds into itself.
If it would be saved, then stop.
But brake not overmuch.
Caution is a cure
Though can be a deadly dose.
Standing still why flying is best.
©
1995 Chuck Puckett
Pardon The Mess
Pardon the mess, I’m remodeling my
mind.
I confess I’m a little embarrassed.
I’ve let it become a tad unkempt,
A disarray of some contradictions
That have sneaked in over the years
And lodged themselves between
The lofty aspirations of my youth
And the hard truths of my older age
Those partitions there, for instance:
Flimsy though they are, they do block the view.
Was a time I could see clearly what
Mattered most and what was not so much.
But those corners are darker now,
The light’s been blocked by experience.
And speak of which, those piles of opinions
That experience brought in and dropped,
Unexamined and self-refuting,
Need sorting out and rearranged.
And some deserve the trash heap
Of my personal history.
Those dusty storage cabinets, I’m afraid
There’s not much to be done for them.
The memories I put there over time,
Some are simply gone. Perhaps the wood
Was never good, or the hardware second rate.
I should have written things down.
Hindsight may be 20-20, but in this case,
It’s simply blind, or nearly blind,
And there’s not much hope that I
Will ever know them all again.
It’s alright, none of the walls I plan to destroy
Are load-bearing. The mental studs
That hold things up have not suffered from neglect.
I’ve exercised them often enough, every day in fact.
It’s the extra baggage, the draped windows,
The unacknowledged intrusive notions,
That have caused the structural problems
In my sometimes fuddled thoughts and words.
The basement? I believe the foundations
Are still strong, the rock solid. They were laid
When the world was simpler, unencumbered
By choices and all those intervening, unvetted ideas
That flew in unchallenged through my eyes and ears,
And grew together in a tangled greenhouse,
Now in need of weeding, and a dose of sunlight.
Beneath this floor, the joists are firm yellow poplar.
They bear the weight well, unbent by the dancing above them.
I should know, I’ve spent years down there,
Poking around, gazing in the navels and mirrors.
The dust from all this demolition will raise a haze,
That’s for sure. It will not settle quickly.
But settle it will, and when those useless walls
Are torn down, those dark windows undraped,
I’m hoping things will be brighter in here.
When the work is done, I plan to build
A wrap-around veranda, clear around this
Newly opened mind. A place to sit and gaze
In every direction, from dawn to dusk.
Unfettered, uncluttered, unschooled, unbiased.
My soul prepared to face the soul of the world.
© 2020 Chuck Puckett
Short Forms
The short
forms will baffle the long-winded
Brevity and
wit do not share in their souls.
Their metaphors tend toward the extended,
The parts
gather force and emerge in the wholes.
The lim’rick
and the haiku are non grata,
For worth
isn’t measured by meaning alone.
Words for them are like an armada,
They build
their attack like a sculpture in stone.
Does it
matter not?
Basic form, or verbal storm?
Is it truth
or rot?
© 2009 Chuck Puckett
Sourcotomy
Cut off from our source
We wander dazed. There is
A message somewhere.
There is a word spoken,
A hand raised, a head nodding.
We can almost see them,
They call from the north plains,
The wind echoes their intent,
Skittering leaves on the street,
Tiny whirlpools of whispered air.
"We should know this," we say,
"This is familiar, too."
Empty rooms parade in mirrors
Their lintels hung with ivy,
Their dark windows drawn in.
A candle light seems a fire
In these quarters, why waste
The effort in movement? Why
Walk in or out or anywhere?
The air returns unanswered,
Unbreathed by that selfsame soul,
By the one who is two bearing one.
Darkness is not much different.
Winter is a heavy time full of light,
Cold light in cold air, windy heights
On bare heads, heat dissipated,
Clothes wrapped to swaddle.
The source exists, but are we strong
Enough to live in only knowing that?
Or must it be here, in our midst,
Tangible and tasted, physical
Proof that light is more than this,
That light and heat are born
Interior to the heart, above the brain.
Cut off and errant, destinations
Leveled out to sameness, waiting
For a word or hum or sigh or sign.
The better part of an hour takes
The better part of us and rakes it
Over the coals of decision. Promise,
Bright promises, sure hope tonight
That empty rooms are not that empty.
That candle flickers are true movements.
That doors open and our source is there,
Radiant fire against a winter gone awry.
© 2000 Chuck
Puckett
The Outer Edge
All around about the outer edge
The misty borders rise in ordered rows.
And just along a solitary hedge
The shadow of a shadow slowly grows.
What manner of a man, if man he be
Is he who in this desolation goes?
The name he had, discarded long ago,
So nameless now he roams from hill to vale
And gazes long into the towns below
And ponders on a long and weary tale:
What paths have brought him here for him to see
A place where he is still beyond the pale?
Tomorrow likely finds him far from here
Trudging towards another, farther scene
His sorrow locked inside a single tear
His face in stone, his features long and lean.
About his shoulders one might faintly see
The outlines of a faded empty dream.
Tonight, he’ll camp out here beyond the light
While fires and heat and human kindness live
Below in cities wrapped in neon night
While on the heath, the winds no comfort give.
The outer edge of all humanity:
A world that will not forget nor forgive.
© 2009 Chuck Puckett
To Be Not To Be
I hate
theatre, it’s nothing but a lie.
I love
applause, it affirms my attempt.
I hate
applause, it feeds my vanity.
I love
lighting, it creates such moods.
I hate
lighting, it won’t forgive my faults.
I love
musicals, they raise the spirit.
I hate
musicals, why did they sing for that?
I love
makeup, I can be anything.
I hate
makeup, the sweat comes in streams.
I love the
wings, we’re comrades in darkness.
I hate the
wings, we’re always too loud.
I love the
egos, they merge into something grand.
I hate the
egos, they fall into petty caves.
I love
miscues, and the adrenalin rush to fix them.
I hate
miscues, why didn’t we rehearse more?
I love
opening night.
I hate
closing night.
I hate
matinees.
I really hate
matinees.
I love the stage, I am above it all.
I hate the
stage, I am above it all.
© 2009 Chuck
Puckett
Undeserved Serenity
There were storms last night.
Massive rains and thunders,
Electrical explosions shook the heavens.
Floods raised creek and culvert,
Covered roads and trails.
The storm gods raged
With whatever deep desires
They harbor against our puny race.
I slept through it all,
It did not happen for me.
I wish I could say it was
Because my soul was so at peace
That no storm can touch it.
But I think it was the L-trytophan
Or perhaps the melatonin.
© 2012 Chuck Puckett
Vernalation
With my dum-dum face in place
And my blue boots stuffed with regret,
My raincoated undergarments
Stretched over a sour disposition,
I am steeled to the expectant gloom
This day undoubtedly offers.
Then step outside.
The April moist breeze
Explodes petals in my face,
Plays blooms like bright bells.
I stand and open my arms
Wider than springtime’s promise.
Sunlight melts the frozen soul
And I am suddenly prepared:
Bring it all back again.
My memory proves itself
A poor imposter. How could I forget
The circle dance that comes again
And again and again and again?
Raise the banners, lift the eyes.
Let me loose in the jonquil fields.
The new green parade
Compels every voice to song.
© 2011 Chuck
Puckett
What Hath Work Wrought?
My God, what
has work done to us?
It no longer
seems to do for us.
The world has
twisted everything,
The value
that work was willing to give
Has been
transverted into soul daggers.
The broad
back of America has been
Lashed by
unrelenting whips of greed.
Money matters
more than money should mean.
The simple
joy of a thing well done
Is replaced
by the terror of nothing to do.
World-wide
wires tighten like an assassin’s noose,
And
everyone’s an assassin and
Everyone’s a
victim.
Hard-eyed
mavens in tall towers decide
Who will and
who will not,
And work
waits like a weedy sidewalk
Where lowered
heads plod into
Daily dharma with no respite,
And no
illumination.
© 2009 Chuck
Puckett
At the Library
I'm not one to brag about my years of
school
I'm not one to boast of my degrees from college
But it's plain to see I am no fool
And to be frank I possess a secret knowledge
A bit of wisdom I have decided I must share
With you members of the common population
Just listen to my words if you dare
And you'll gain an extraordinary education
You see, I know a secret place
Where this knowledge is complete
Okay, it's really not that secret
In fact it's just right down the street
I know this place, they know this place
Guess what? You know about this place, too
A special sanctuary
Where your wildest dreams come true
You might think such a magic place
Would be dark and dim and scary
But you'd be wrong, because I'm talking about
Your hometown public library
The only price of admission
Is just a little of your time
Oh, and one more little thing:
We'd like to have your mind!
You can find it in the pages
You can find it in the stacks
You can find it in the books
That are hid way in the back
There's no end to what you can do
No limit to what you can learn
Just take a moment in your day
To let those pages turn
So you want to write a Broadway musical
You’ll find the information is near
Or you want to learn to be a ballerina
You can read about it right over here
You want to build a time machine?
OK wait you can't build Time Machine
But you can go back in time
History is over there somewhere
Historical fiction over here
Science fiction for the future is over there
And just in case you hadn't heard the news
There's a giant section devoted entirely to shoes
Get a good book before the last one is took
Though I should have said taken
That's what proper grammar will dictate
And you can learn all you need to know of grammar
It's over there on shelf 428
© 2015 Chuck Puckett
We Don't Need No Government
We don't need no government
It's time to let it go.
We've had it way too easy
We've all turned soft and slow.
We don't need no roads and bridges,
Don't need schools to teach our kids.
We only need opinions.
Don't need facts, and never did.
We don't need to pay the army
Or the Coast Guard or the cops.
We'll just shoot the first intruder
Who tries to steal our crops.
We don't need no worker's comp,
We don't need the FAA.
If the planes can't find the runway
Let the passengers all pray.
We don't need the EPA.
If the water looks like dirt,
It'll do you lots of good.
What don't kill you couldn't hurt.
We don't need no regulation,
All we need is laissez faire.
If the banks make off with trillions
Prob'ly earned it fair & square.
If the fruits are full of virus
And the meat is full of bugs,
Then just think of it as protein,
It can only do us good.
So we don't need to keep things running,
Go ahead and shut it down.
Whoa-
Monday Night but there's no football?
Okay, fix this shit right now!!!
© 2013 Chuck Puckett
Headline 3
insert content here