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Columns > John Zinkand - Improvise

Published: 2005/04/04
by John Zinkand

It’s More Poetry

Rainy Tree
Rain from the tree,
How can it be?
Everywhere else
There is barely a mist.
But under the tree,
It rains freely.
Just as time collects
Stories and ghosts,
Memories to most,
That can come back
At any time,
Flooding through
Reality’s cracks.
The needles of pine,
Hold on to the mist,
Collecting it.
They drop it all at once,
Like the stormy fallout,
Of some buried arguments,
Long since forgotten.
No raindrops fall outside
The boughs of memory.
But if you forget to forget,
And go under its branches,
Remember your umbrella.

Loss of Trust It swallows me like a ravenous bear Chews, eats, and tears away at my insides- Leaves a sour film in my bitter mouth And lays an egg of sorrow that incubates. There’s no antidote- Time, perhaps, but time ticks slowly When you are intense pain. And it seems that no one really cares. The trust that you’ve counted on Has been ripped away like a pillow From a sleeping babe- Without remorse, without a thought. And what is there to be done? Except muddle through it all in a daze, Continue on in a painful fog, That drains my battered soul. If there is light at the end of this tunnel, Maybe I have become quietly blinded. I see nothing and am enduring intense anguish, It swells and becomes wedged inside my heart. Life’s Sky

From darkness comes light,
A gradual change,
From pink to orange to red to yellow,
Warming slowly from the cool black night.
Look up to see different shapes and patterns,
Always changing, never resting.
Spots of blue and drifts of white,
Rolling, playing, sliding, moving, breathing.
Thunderheads flow in like fear,
Large and menacing and black.
Threatening harm and bringing strong winds,
That blow and push and try to tear apart the calm.
Pure evil of tornadoes and hurricanes,
No benefit to anyone or anything.
Alive for few reasons: chaos and pain,
And for contrast, to appreciate blue skies.
There’s the eye of the storm,
To remind us that no matter how bad things get,
There is light at the end of the tunnel,
Usually after dealing with even more turmoil.
But eventually the sun will dry everything out,
Shine forth with the glorious yellow and blue.
As fair-weather clouds jumble randomly again,
Reminding us of what could possibly be.
Before night approaches and the sun sets,
One last burst of brilliant colors,
Hold them tightly, don’t forget them.
Darkness falls and stars light up the sky,
Your grasp loosens as sleep falls on the land.
And around it goes…..

While We Can
It’s a nutty, crunchy, salty taste,
Which turns bitter as I chew.
A swift and intense horse race,
But in the end, we lose.
Copper pennies and silver dimes,
Jammed in pockets riddled with holes.
And we try and try to win it all-
By piling rice and sauce in bowls.
But looking back on nothingness,
We sing the lonesome blues.
Ecstatic burst of something new,
A ripple in the sea,
Climbing up that sacred tower,
Yearning to breathe free.
Finding a prophet or a dance or song-
That lasts momentarily.
Then sliding down a wooden pole,
Splinters stab our knees.
And will the night remember you?
Can it possibly think of me?
Will laughter flow from beneath the ground?
Let’s whistle happily.
While we can.

Bard Pepper Leaf
It’s chocolate ice cream in a small glass dish,
Another fountain pen,
Another Knish.
It’s an ablution for a behemoth-
A watered down glass of dread,
A dreaded lock of goodness,
A drunken monk in bed.
Looking out a window,
Feeling for a clue,
Finding nothing more than spam,
Or sticky-colored juice.
A frogman in a hurricane,
A dappled drop of stew-
A king-dog on a holiday,
Or alpha beta booze.
Clinging to the carrot tops,
Swimming in the filth-
Fogging up my microscope
With steamy piles of youth.

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