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| (c) 1988 Norman Dziedzic Jr. See the triptych here. |
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Never Again
In the forest walking
Walking home I stopped
To watch a toad
jump
Across a rotting log.
Lizards grabbing
passing flies.
Instinctively led inside their heads.
Not a
thought
amongst the lot.
And even now I hear
I hear the freeway
passing
Way too near
My solitude.
It's gone.
(c) 1984 Norman Dziedzic Jr.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Patients
Hello.
I am here ... patient.
I am here and I - am - patience.
I am as patient as bedrock and black and silence.
I. I am here... and you are not very patient.
You are life.
You are motion and energy and noise.
You are life and you - are - oblivious.
I am growing ... my patient.
I am growing so slowly.
Slowly like trees and canyons and space.
II. I am growing...and you are slowing.
You are still life but...
You are wondering and wheezing and denying.
You are wondering and you - are - fear.
I have exploded ... patient.
I have exploded and I - am - rapacious.
I am operating and gorging and mutating.
III. I am exploding ... and you are fighting.
You are hope.
You are chemicals and beams and invocations.
You are hope and we - are - patients.
We are tired ... fellow patient.
We are tired and we - are - waiting.
Waiting for relief and peace and closure.
IV. I am here ... and we are inseverable.
We linger.
We are silence and acquiescence and patience.
We linger and we - are - gone.
Goodbye.
(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Philosophers
In high school they had us read Shakespeare and Hemingway etc., and even Descartes and Wittgenstein in a "Philosophy/Religion" class. That was all fine except when they started to tell me what old dead white guys were thinking when they were writing. This did not sit well with me and this poem is what came out of my brain after that.
PHILOSOPHERS
An iron leg walks the plank of chalk-dust but the balloon
pulls down the wave. Opening my eyes : only pencil cases.
Still chicken little yells, "The sky is falling!"
Soundless noises pierce empty microphones. And a wall
knocks over the form of the now forgotten worth of it all.
Wrapped in (rapped with) ideas of this and concepts of that.
I am here
You are there
He is everywhere
And yet all is lost without sight of the invisible.
Without hearing the mute they leave their houses. Falling
to ashes they stand deforming. Without their key, their
house, its corners: a meaningless store of space.
Up-side-down I can sing a song. In-side-out underwear
can still be worn without anyone knowing. The shaven beard
grows even in death.
I am here
You are there
He is everywhere
nothing more needed
Yet too much more expected
(c) 1984 Norman Dziedzic Jr.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Good Night
The mirror I have
is never nice
the pictures shown
(though seldom seen twice)
never fade: I always see
staring back
the real me
The mirror I look to
uses only truth
I hide the facts
(though full of proof)
I try to run away from there
from something
that is everywhere
the things I thought
I'd never be
confront my face
they're inside me
nowhere to hide, when from my mind
no hole so deep
I cannot find
me cowering there
from whom I've seen
how old he is
unjust and mean
A face with
cracked and callous brow
from hiding pain
of others; how
he lives with knowing;
with all his faults
showing
puzzles even him.
I hate him staring back
and laughing so...
so hard, so long
"so what" he says
I hate him knowing what's inside
I hate knowing I can't hide.
The hardest thing I see:
the mirror
for I know the one I hate the most
is me, it's me
If I should die before I wake
you'll see him
just the same as me.
We are one mind
though not one blood.
One mind like taffy
pulled between
ungrateful hands of greed
If i should die before I wake
break my mirror
on my grave
for truth is deadly
when it can't save
one from one's self
If I should die before I wake
don't pray for me
but for yourselves:
alone, the single both of you
Afraid to sleep
I must beware
one self might kill
the other there,
in darkness
I hate it so
it must hate me
...or, can it love
so openly?
Or can't it feel,
could it be so cold
not to care
and leave me
crying here with no more
than my rightful due:
sitting in the hole I've dug
If I should die before I wake
don't cry for me
I drove the stake
right through the good
I used to feel
right through a life
that wasn't real
(c) 1985 Norman Dziedzic Jr.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Dichotomy
I am the other
However I find that
The other's not me
Which is interesting
And while the other
(That is, that which
is not me and
which I am)
Uses me much like a book
I use the other much like money
So I am it
While it's not me
I spend it while it studies me
And this raises thought
As if I'm in a box
And it's never there (for it's not me)
Except when I am it
Which is always
I guess that when I want it there
It's there
And when I don't it's not
But if I'm it
it wants itself
I'm starting to get the picture
And as I struggle with self
As all selfs do
It feels it not yet still
fights back
Which I must feel
Even if I don't respond
Being divorce from me
It can be objective
While I, being of it,
Lay slave to the subjective
And in-between subject and object
A verb of dreams
Builds the framework
Of my dichotomy
(c) 1985 Norman Dziedzic Jr.
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