Video: U.S. Poet Laureate (2004-2006) Poetry Reading

Very good!!!

Afraid of Alone

Walking this lonely highway again
I sense the truth is bent,
Like a dangerouse curve without a warning sign looming ahead.

And this frigid wind, slicing so deep and so cold
can't compare to my fear that seems to unfold
when you're gone and I feel that I walk alone.

Not even the beautiful stars seem to help.
They shine and they twinkle,
but they're as cold and sharp as the edge of this road
and that knife in your hand is your heart on the lamb.

Or is your heart drawn closer to a past?
Are you hoping for a day that may never come; keeping me just in case?

TV Talk Shows = Bull Dung and Flies

Why do the flies gather,
what is their interest in the smelly dung heap?
The bull hasn’t even walked away yet
but the flies are already there.

A woman was proud of all her many divorces,
A man was proud of all the children he fathered
with many different women.
And the flies were gathered around,
laughing and clapping.


You may say, “There is no morality involved with flies
crawling and flying about a dung heap.“
In this respect I’m frightened at the idea
of what is accepted, teaching our young
by means of mass media.


And flies always gather when something decays,
traditional morals and values these days
and self-righteous hosts
who carry viruses to our youth
are elevated and revered
as wise and intelligent,
though they’re pompous and vain,
so like flies they promote
a speedy decay.


And the flies are crawling about;
laughing and clapping making moral decay
look good in some way.
That I can’t understand.


So I ask you again,
why do the flies gather? What is their interest
in the smelly dung heap?


If not for justifying their own meaningless existence by enjoying and reveling in the sin of
others,
then maybe a feeling of jealousy and envy
of seeing how sensational they want their own idle lives to be.


Oh how pitiful are these flies
when the air that they breath
could be much cleaner and fresher

far away from the bulls dung heap.

I Try

I try,
but no matter…
I kick that old dog
but he does not become
young again.
He doesn’t want to fetch
the stick anymore.
He refuses to roll over and
play dead.
He will not do it for real either…
But I will not let him just
lie there like he wants,
I can’t.
I get tired of looking at him like that,
and yes,
To get him moving again I’ve tried kicking him.
I’ve tied a rope around his neck and pulled,
I even got behind and pushed.
but he insist on laying there.
what does he do?
He eats occasionally. I
only know this because of the
shit piles on the study floor.
He occasionally chews up a good shoe and
the Sunday paper. No,
He doesn’t fetch it either
I have to fetch it.
Then when I’m not looking,
He chews up all my pens.

When I Was

A wadded sock in the mouth of the Earth…
As I step out into the cool
Still air…
Where is the echo of the neighbors
Arguing?
Or the sounds of the other neighbors
Laughing?
Where are the dogs who normally
Bark at people passing by,
and the crickes
That normally say goodnight?
Where are my own thoughts?
Where am I?
I heard of me, and almost remember him.
A dim reflection of yesterday
When I was…

By Dawn

By dawn they should be singing
But lately they’ve been silent.
And the wind should bring a welcome
Coolness through the
Kitchen window, but the wind doesn’t come in.
Even the sun, which normally bright
And warm, ceases to
Cast my long westward shadow.
So I laugh at them and go on to work
Anyway.

Where Do We Cling?

They cling to the screen door
At night by the front porch light
Wanting to go in to litter
themselves on His living room carpet.

Where do we cling?

We prefer evenings struggling to
Cling to the slick metal of the
Street lamp post at the end of the driveway…
Only looking at the screen door,
contemplating…
Should we cling here, or waste our time
flying towards the screen door like the others.
Not knowing,
Eventually, we fatigue in our toiling,
Trying not to fall, we begin to slip
Then at about midnight, just before our weariness overcomes us
we decide to fly for that screen door
And we fly with all our might.
But our clinging has worn us down
That lamp post at the end of the driveway
Has left us exhausted.
And we collapse just feet from
Our warm soft resting destination.
On our backs, just before we get
stepped on, we look up.
We see those who spent their entire lives
Clinging to the screen door
Slipping into the house onto the carpet
As the door is occasionally opened by Him.

The Bayou

The bayou begins to rise behind her.
Swinging at the edge of the wrinkling murky water,
She smells the pungent wet cypress
Trunks as they stand guard for her.
But they’re deceiving;
Rocking a windy lullaby,
As she swings in the rhythm Of her youth
On an evil pendulum with squeaking chains
Entrancing her…
She closes her eyes.
Then, as the water begins to engulf her,
She barely notices.

Unfortunate Language

Barron tree in the barren field
Used the cold, bold wind to beckon me.
I would have strolled over,
But the wind was too cold,
So instead, I hurried home.

Rebellion

Is this crushing
Laid upon me
By my fathers wrath
Lifting the hammer of Thor
like a gavel
Breaking the easel of my youth
Calling for order
With the voice of my mother
echoing softly
Across the lake
Like a swan call?
Or will I be
Deliberate in my resolve
To stare at truth,
To look it in its tired, blood shot eyes -
Defying his reality with the
Teary eyed reverie of my own?