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Some of my poetry (not complete yet) ::
All Poems are Ⓒ 2020 don arana – fogg, all rights reserved.
No reproduction rights granted, ever,
without my written permission.
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Mazatlan mistake
I didn’t have a gun myself that night
which in hindsight was probably lucky.
“Gringo” got pistol whipped. My senses donned
a dark warm blanket of blind numbness from
sharp blows so hard my scalp bled red. My hand
kept batting the barrel away. The three
of them were more scared than me and a few
years younger. I know. I looked in their eyes.
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Forgiveness heals and washes clean our need
to blame. It sets you free. I was a fool
to sleep on the beach, and often wonder
what ever became of those scared young souls.
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{ written in simple iambic pentameter form }
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Madison Evening
A promenade you say? Sounds great to me!
Such easy summer nights, with small town fare,
all home cooked ’round the Park, as kids run free.
Those under-aged and gawking teenage boys
watch beer go up in steam while brats with loads
of onions boil. The tables set so neat
as dusk fades slowly in, and tints our stroll
with purple calm and melting shadows. We
see swallows flit, smell sauerkraut and beer.
The air grows cold, blown off the lake tonight.
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{ written in simple iambic pentameter form }
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Inward Beyond Cacophony / Playing With Divinity
Cacophony is not just jarring sound.
Melodies transcend our senses sometimes,
and Sages teach us not to be so bound.
Instead let go, this life is filled with rhyme.
Spine tingling sparks are here to light the way,
opening vistas freeing precious time.
Essential lessons happen when you play.
Instincts guide as notes connected with glee
form fleeting glimpses of the Truth, They say.
I wonder what that’s like to feel so free?
Without desire, constraint or other ploy.
Afloat as grooves of Now waft over me.
Though time there was when chaos would annoy.
Cacophony’s song? Now and ode to joy!
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{ written in strict Italian sonnet form }
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Half My Liver is Gone.
My course ahead is even smooth serene.
This stretch of sand we follow on our walk
at high tide’s edge is graceful as our talk
of death so nigh. I live now in-between
those dry and wet strands left behind with sheen
of innocence. My fate seems now a stalk
so frail and shaken. Waves leave streaks like chalk,
lines drawn by buddhist monks that go unseen.
Except by me. Today’s fresh salt air thrills
my soul as barefoot I relish the chills
I used to forbear. My hospital room
had TV channels for watching the sea
while tethered to I.V.s, lost in the gloom
of Cancer. It’s over. It’s gone. I’m free!
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{ another Italian sonnet, slightly different form }
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Ashes
My Dad saw the ovens of Buchenwald.
They were white hot. Smokestacks high as heaven
spewed ash foul with death, into history.
Striped pajamas and boney fingers. He
touched them through barbed wire. Collapsed and crying,
they were 5 GIs who dropped in, alone,
to spy. The townsfolk played dumb, knew nothing.
Humans did this. Our species can do this!
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{ simple iambic pentameter form }
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The Late Set.
The tables were damp and sticky, just wiped
as the crowd from the first set split. We found
one dead center, shook off the cold, then stripped
off our layers (egos and coats). The sound
from here would be killer! Live Art is best
with wide open minds in clubs that just ooze
with good vibes. Musicians and poets test
their new stuff. We bask as they court their muse.
The synapse inside’s a magical gap
where sparks from these cats will soon intervene.
Like springs tightly wound just dying to snap
the Artists explode, bust loose, such a scene!
It’s holy it’s grace it’s music it’s one.
It’s refreshingly free and Oh So Fun!
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{ written in English sonnet form }
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Passage.
The desert air before a storm grows still.
Heat rises from earth to dance with waters from
the Gods. It’s close. Soon scent tone memories
long steeped, will blossom inside. Savor each
breathe as floods of our ancestor’s visions
awaken. Rain’s first drops silently vanish.
Cloud shadows float o’er distant hills. Then comes
warm rain. Entranced look up. Bright sun flash strikes
deep into brain stem’s ancient mind. You’ve made
the connection. We’re together. You’re home.
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{ simple iambic pentameter form, more blank verse }
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The Shoot.
Maybe if the client were here on time,
or our drop dead gorgeous lead was ready,
we might just end up with magic on film.
Egos, traffic, weather and gods conspire,
while strobes test flashed in anticipation,
edgy twitchy like a race horse prancing,
As i’m handed the camera we’re on.
A pause then we roll now my turn to play.
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{ simple iambic pentameter }
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All Poems are Ⓒ 2020 don arana – fogg, all rights reserved
Please remember that everything posted here is my personal property.
The Art and Ideas are mine.
I’m sharing “in public” because Art is for everyone and the more we share,
the richer our community becomes … so more fun!
But some people eat and support their families by creating Art.
I’m one of those …
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{ It’s not cool to steal anyone else’s intellectual property, ever,
it’s like walking into a store and just stealing something off the shelf. }
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Stay tuned and real soon I’ll show up with more 🙂