existence

existence

i would like to watch a stream descend
its babbling course between mountains
before ever a human eye was in a head
and whether you choose the book of
genesis or darwin as your text surely
there was such a time in history for no
doubt the inanimate came first either way.
secondly, to hear the first bird clear its
throat and sing would be nice and whether
you believe in god or not it is just
another way of saying that being around
when existence started happening would
be something i am totally interested in.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006
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Diameter

Diameter

There exists a precise area on this planet
the exact length of a sputtering infant
where tiny lungs drew for the first time
air, and I was born.

Forty years later I seek its diametric opposite,
the furthest earthly point from that first breath.

Perhaps it falls upon the ocean.
I float there, and as I pass the spot
rest my hand on the black surface,
look up at the stars and imagine
my life a sword that splits the world in two.

Perhaps it is a terraced plot of dirt.
An aged farmer quietly tills his garden
while I kneel and grip the soil,
look up and try to impress upon him
the importance of this little row of beans.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006

Love Will Ask

Love Will Ask

Have you ever heard the fire…
When every crackle awakened something inside? And some unsaid
Wordless… desire magnified
flame fed?

Have you ever felt the wind…
Sea-borrowed, seem to release forever? And some unwept
Tearless… peace altogether
overswept?

Have you ever seen the eyes…
That longed to know the very soul they beheld? So true
They spoke, and cried… and held
You?

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006

Lottery

Lottery

I learned what the word “arrondissement” meant
And found Nice to be really quite nice.
Merchants, they fought for the money I spent.
I laughed and enjoyed a Seine boat tour thrice.

In Dublin I drank at the Ay! There’s The Rub,
Stayed a month at a place called Rooms Plenty.
I stumbled a lot between there and the pub
Where I wrote chapters sixteen to twenty.

Muse-driven I wandered through country and clime
No bells, no alarms, not one day.
And reveling thus in unboundaried time
Lust-drenched in Madrid I spent May.

Next, [assuaging myself of such adult thrill]
I fulfilled the pure dream of a child.
And that child was me, for I flew to Brazil
And saw toucans in trees, in the wild.

The rest of year one I travelled and learned,
Losing track of my islands of bliss.
I followed the sun where it warmestly burned
And all in year one, just year one, I did this.

Yes, freedom has come in the wake of the Lotto.
Did I write my damn book? Not nearly!
But my hope is alive in the following motto,
“Repeat the above until dead, and yearly!”

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006

Living On Fourteen

Living on Fourteen

I am convinced of it.
Something adrift in communal laundry-room air
spawns the philosopher / political strategist / polemicist
in folks that are elsewhere, none of the above.

Today, two graying hens, churning more froth
than a chorusline of Maytag agitators
reminded me that in this room
we know everything.

Religion, Louise, has always been a primitive response
to the deeper, intrinsic need for superstition in mankind.
I thoroughly agree, Myrtle, and I am exceedingly glad
that both propensities have gone the way of the dinosaur.

My basket of warm towels in tow, I faintly smiled
and entered the elevator for my minute of ascent.
Reaching my own floor, I stepped out and, still smiling,
walked the length of what is really the thirteenth.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006

Finally Forgotten

Finally Forgotten

A cool wind followed me home today
A golden autumn breeze
That chattered in the trees
And scattered fallen leaves
Like kids at play… in the wind.

And with something new to say
The wind whispered an old word
And past memories were stirred
Till at last, as if unheard
They flew away… in the wind.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006

Toucan

Toucan

Blue-rimmed eyes and black dress.
You were lunching. For the life of me
it looked like croutons
you were munching. Mixed with fruit.
Silent and beautiful. Wondrous,
the distance you tossed dinner
to your throat. So long
you had me staring.

Does it flatter you to know,
that after all these years,
I still remember
what you were wearing?

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006

Devastation

Devastation

The hardening is deliberate and cruel,
as is all that will come thereafter.
The only consolation being that so many,
so very many others, share the same fate.

The heat, the sweat, the pain.
Left and right, succumbing to the pressure,
those known to you perish.
Blown apart, ripped open, left white
in shock. Naked guts torn inside out.
A mushroom cloud of exposed flesh,
shards of skeleton clinging to the core.

Throw these now (still exhaling steam)
to the gaping maw, to be mashed to pulp
and lowered into hot acid.
Ground in the mingled bile and bones
of comrades, and finally
rammed the length of a cold hard pipe
into a rotting cesspool…

where there is nothing,
nothing more devastated
than popcorn.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006

The Divine Afflatus

The Divine Afflatus

Ye lads, I hereby declare that it was very like a swoon
and as unlike common reverie as would a spaniel
‘gainst a hen both be judged poultry. Furthermore,
were it not that I pricked my thumb unto blood
in the reaching for the quill in its pot, surely
I would have fainted dead before a word.

But such as ye read went down, black upon white,
forewarning, cognizance, and derivation to the four winds.
Yea, as it were, effusions, entirely absent of plan
and so far ahead of pen that I ran to keep pace,
fell out just as ye see here, crumpled before ye.
Thus, stumbling headlong I managed a mere scribbling
as Calliope (for she threw her name behind her)
advanced, and in fact, vanished, as it were.

And so, let us raise our tankards my fellows,
in a toast to those who understand my verse.
And ye others, complain not to me, but thirst,
and blame ye the gods.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006

regret

regret

poor fish
gasping for water
not meant to be out here in the sun
hearing this gibberish (others so happy about your mistake).

poor fish
gills flaring… hoping.
are you thinking of the damn hook?
one eye in the dirt, one in the blue, blue sky.
you flip, you toss, but ah, the wrong way
up the bank and down, down (laughter)
dirtier now for all the effort
a bit further from your cool home
and more dead.

ah fish
i too have gasped like this.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006

The Thirtyfirst

The Thirtyfirst

Chilled, no doubt the night
air felt
October’s final sigh.
A cloud as though a pillow
torn
threw feathers in the sky.

As summoned barking seized my heart
in rough
staccato time,
with dripping jaws the steamy breath
was puffed
though in my mind.

A bloated ghost with homely
stare, a
feeling not alone...
was floating there above me
where, a
lunar goblin shone.

Hastening then, the chase to end
and never
wond’ring why.
Chilled no doubt, the night
I felt
October’s final sigh.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006

Where Is Thy Sting

Where Is Thy Sting?

It’s appointed us all once to meet
With the brief earthly mover of spirit.
Though we listen, we seldom can hear it
So softly stalk death’s noiseless feet.

Yet, as stars that blink wide-eyed at night
Only seem to fade shut with the dawn…
We will glisten, though likewise pass on
From the earth to the Heavens, as bright.

(Hos.13:14 – Dan.12:3)

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006

Soft-Boiled Eggs

Soft-Boiled Eggs

We love soft-boiled eggs.
All soft and all runny
All leaky and sunny
For breakfast for supper
With salt and with pupper.

We love them on toast.
At least one maybe three
And we tend to agree
That it really don’t matter
If the toast has much batter.

Please make us some more.
We have not had enough
Of soft-boiled-y stuff
And then me and my pals
Will dispose of the shalls.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006

A Demon Boasts

A Demon Boasts…

“Though I am faceless…

I kick you when you’re stumbling
shake your knees when walls are crumbling
I am your fear…
And I’m the ulcer doubting brings
second guessing thoughts and things
that you hold dear.

My claws have grasped you fresh
each time you’ve struggled in the flesh
I’ve been your strife…
You’re confused and cannot cope
for I’ve sapped you of your hope
and love of life.

In the face of all decision
I convince you that your vision
is too blurred…
And when you must make the choice
there in my vice, your stifled voice
is never heard.

And when life is most distressing
I will whisper that the blessing
won’t occur…
Yet I send you off in hurry
for I birth tomorrow’s worry
premature.

I’m the father of all lies…
When despair is in your eyes
I know you’re mine…
I’ve imprisoned you for years
and persuaded you through fears
to abandon the Divine

…for I am Faithless.”

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006

Cavemirth

Cavemirth

If I could observe prehistoric cavepeople
The hunt would not interest me (stalking
A saber-tooth until it gets stuck between their teeth).

Nor would the scene where they copulate
In some drippy, echoing vault
And slurp primordial soup afterwards.

Spare me the Olympic-style trot
Toward the world’s first barbecue,
Lightning sticks held aloft.

Steer me instead, to the first joke.
Let me try to decipher a Neanderthal punchline.
Was it a pre-planned gag?
Or just a mastodon tripping over a log
As it stomped past the lounging knuckledraggers?

I want to see them fall off their rocks
Banging their shaggy heads in the dust,
Roaring in perfect English, and
Crying, it hurts so good.
I want to see the first kneeslapper.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006

Good Poetry

Good Poetry

Imagine the centuries of eyes
Herrick’s To Anthea, or Jonson’s To Celia
have seen
cast down, scanning right to left,
lower, licking vowels.
Loitering at the left ankle
upon the final thee of each.

Spread open, the poem yields itself
naked
watching as we gaze.

The while, it asks for two things:
that we Hear and Listen.
Perhaps thirdly, for Time –
Let time sharpen our dullness, as
only time can.
For this is poetry’s only promise, that
we will never return
to find it gone.

Oh, to possess the better ones.
Yet, indiscriminate and wanton
these favorites seem unfaithful.
But remember this:
Good poetry never marries.
It retains the right to court.
To romance.

To grant, never spurn, attention.
To lend, never criticize, understanding.
To love, never ask, to be loved.

No wonder good readers fall.
Convinced that they were in some way
worthy of the charms
of good poetry.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006

The Firmament

The Firmament

Gold was too brassy; green was too grassy,
and yellow, it seemed a bit bright.
Brown was too muddy; red was too bloody,
and black was reserved for the night.

Purple too bruised, and pink overused,
and orange gave a shout much too loud;
Silver too wild, yet grey was too mild,
and white had a fight with a cloud.

Such was the view at this contest of hue
on the day that the sky should appear;
In the Artist’s opinion, these had no dominion
nor claim to the earth’s atmosphere.

While colors unloving were pushing and shoving
the fairest of all seemed to hide.
With heaven undone, there was only this one
timid shade that had yet to be tried.

When at the last second, by name he was beckoned
toward him the Arm was extended…
And with blue on the brush, even red seemed to blush
and admit that the contest had ended.

For unlike the others, this gentlest of colors
worked softly, without a commotion.
All chaos had fled, as the canopy spread
like a sheet that had mirrored the ocean…

And down on the ground all creation was bound
to direct its attention above…
Where was seen to unroll, clear as words on a scroll
a message, the essence of Love.

As each azure sweep shed its light on the deep
it brought dolphins to surface beholding;
And hillsides were rife with a newness of life
and meadows with crocus’ unfolding.

Now was heaven absorbed, and the earth fully orbed
with a glow only night would diminish;
The masterpiece framed, the Artist proclaimed
“There can be no applause till I finish…”

For now to the sand, He would put forth His Hand
to create that which would give Him praise;
He said, “Adam, it’s blue… and I give it to you
to remember Me all of your days.”

And man, it is said, fell down as though dead
of God so profoundly aware;
The first night he slept, and in loneliness wept
and waking, he found woman there.

In their gardening they, did not always obey
but believing His promises true;
When in need of His love, they would look up above
and read what He’d written in blue.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006

To All Slugs In The Grass

To All Slugs In The Grass

My gardening debut will be on morrow morn
when this field and thy home shall together be shorn.
At seven precise, while dew on the grass
still glistens, my rotors will merciless pass;
And if you would escape the unfeeling blade
where ‘tween lawn and slug no distinction is made,
Then heed thou this edict, my slippery friends
for on vacancy then your existence depends…

And publish it wide, from Slug King to Slug Peasant
that shunning advice would be naught but unpleasant.
Be blessed, I have oft been acquainted with pain
and I have no desire to render thee twain,
As groundsmen before me who came without warning
and clogged up their mowers with thee in the morning.
Now leave slimy trails, and freedom pursue;
Make haste, lest at seven, thou be snipped in two…

And forgive in advance my disturbing your sod.
I pray for thy safety, commit thee to God
Who alone knows I have no intention to kill…
and as for my own soul, I pray that I will
Receive His forgiveness, if any be torn.
Now “Away, get thee hence!” and with these words I warn.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006

To Catch A Cat

To Catch A Cat

The cooperative ones are so adorable.
Unlike those that squint at the groping hand
in the darkness.
Staying one step ahead of your best effort
to touch them, pet them,
love them.

Masters of elusion, these will be as content
to receive your worship from behind the sofa
as when in your arms.

Don’t be like that cat, he keeps telling himself.
Would it be so bad to be caught?
Try trusting.
Would you not die nine deaths to just purr
for a reason not your own?

The sentiment is within reach, but the results
stay one step ahead of his best effort.
The work is hard.
The whole process as maddening
as trying to catch a cat
that does not need him.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006

A Time To Sing

A Time To Sing

To me, the saddest thing to hear
Are tales of those sorry folks
Who’ve spent their busy lives in fear
Of showing love when needed most.

Too late, too late their praises came
With no one left to trust
Or hear while living, the words aflame
That fell on ears of dust.

But not so with you my love...
I’ll not wait until from heaven’s porch
You squint, and try from up above
To find a flare from my heart’s torch.

No, today a song comes from my pen
For I can’t but wonder how
A thousand sung in sweetness then
Could equal one sung now.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006

Forty

Forty

Chances are, I have already lived
half my life.
Timewise.
That is a sobering thought. So, to compensate
I conjure up childhood memories.

These seem either cloudy with the mist of Niagara Falls,
or snappy and crisp, like blue-tinged Ontario icicles.
Dad stopping the car so mom can pick them
for me to eat as we drive on towards Stoney Creek.
Meeting Mickey Mouse.
Breathlessly peering over the edge of Hoover Dam.
Crying over a lost balloon at Circus! Circus!
How the smell of green peppers would make me sneeze.
Navigating my first bicycle into a spool of barbwire.
Bees buzzing inside a pop bottle high above Peyto Lake.
Shirtless summers, taking lunch out to dad in the field;
how warm was the mason jar of coffee
when passed to him.
Skating on the Thom Oval with my sister until
both our brains froze themselves solid upon the thought
that we owned the world.

All this time, in a pool of darkness
lies my heart.
Never seeing the light of day, pupils fully dilated;
frantic about some mystery it keeps to itself.
Spasming over a secret
even while I sleep.

Utterly unconcerned with my awareness, it remains
intent upon squishing itself to death,
as though the end of the world is nigh.
Wha-whumpa. Wha-whumpa. Wha-whumpa!
Forcing deep-blue life along thousands of miles
of seamless pipeline, as quiet as snowfall.
Life returning from the extremities
without question or complaint,
to this amazing half-pound of meat
that has a mind of its own.
This involuntary muscle.

This is how things have been
half my life.
Timewise.

But today I saw my heart looking up at me. I saw
the inverted V’s of its mad scientist bushy eyebrows;
valves flapping wildly, gesticulating
that it has only half done what it was designed to do.
It is astounding that something so silent
about everything else it does
can be so candid when moving a message
a foot and a half uphill.

Today, when I get still, and listen
I sense the thrice-beaten refrain…
Love someone. Love someone. Love someone!

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006

Oblivious

Oblivious

Three kids are in love with their sandwiches.

The one in an olive-colored shirt alternates between
cookie and sandwich and pop and laughter while
cramming it all into his freckles he marries a monstrous
beast develops liver disease plastic tubes keep him alive until not.

The one with thick glasses and mustard on his laughing lip
secures a fortune in the stock market loses it all
night watchman finds what he was on the sidewalk.

The one in the red jacket with the laugh like
rain falling her only child dies in the womb after a long
bout with cancer she too succumbs to life.

It is beautiful to watch them with their sandwiches.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006

Chickens

Chickens

I cannot imagine a world without them.
A world where I cannot rob them of their unborn young
and gnaw their adult legs to the bone.

Where sunny side up, over easy, Breakfast Special,
are all meaningless terms.
Where the sun hesitates below the horizon waiting
for a rooster on a fence that is not there.

Think of the jeerless playgrounds, bullies groping
for just the right word to hurl at timid boys.
What will these kids hunt for at Easter time
or throw at houses on Hallowe’en?

People will tell legends involving a soup
that could cure a cold, as the riddle industry stumbles.
Which came first, the… ah, forget it.
Why did the something-or-other cross the road?
See?

No. A world without poultry just leads to
a lot of blank stares in the kitchen.
Honey, don’t forget to pick up a dozen ____?
She’s lost for words, and all he knows
is that he hasn’t eaten a moist cake in years.

We ought to be thankful.
It is good that they are here.
It is good that they cannot fly too fast, or too high.
This makes it easier to knock them out of the air
or just trip them,
lop off their heads,
and stuff them into a pot or an oven.

No, a world without them would not do.
And as far as that goes,
heaven will not be heaven,
if there are no chickens there.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006

The Rider

The Rider

A sparrow turns its head.
Quivering, the vigilant forest edge
yields to a gathering unease
the thump of approach.
Hooves stamp the hilltop.
A triumphant tossing of mane, a steamy huff.

The Rider, wheeling the great beast about,
surveys the foggy terrain he has crossed.
Silence reclaims itself.
He thinks.

This man knows nothing of Parliament or Congress,
matches or ballpoint pens. Electricity is gibberish.
Air the exclusive domain of feathers.
Television, centuries hence.

Yet the Rider knows two things
as well as you and I do.
Love and the lack of it.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006

Welcome to poetrypuddle!

There's only one thing better than a puddle.
And that's two of them.
Or three of them.
Welcome to poetrypuddle!
In the days ahead, I will be posting, in periodic installments, my ongoing attempts at poetry.
I believe that life, LIVING, is poetry. Is poetic.
That is to say, there is nothing that cannot be put to words. Yes, it will most of the time be inadequate. Will not express, what was, or what is.
But the times that it comes close... this is poetry.
That's what poetry is all about. Capturing the moment.
Not in a cage. But in a puddle.
My hope is that the occasional poem, placed here, will burst its own boundary, and spill itself into your life. Or will, like rain on a window, find the path of least resistance, and slide its way down the pane of who you are.
As it did to me, when I wrote it.
-- Cip

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