ronny

i believe i am alive. i believe i am love. i believe i am salty sea spray of the ocean, mother. i believe the poets. i believe music is god. i believe god is change. i believe it’s all in rhythm. i believe harmony is joy. i believe everything is impermanent. i believe i will die. i believe death is an illusion. i believe life is an illusion. i believe i am alive.

we are dust and nothing matters, yet we scream and cry and jump with joy, exhilarated sentient mud.

ZEUGMAS FOR ZOË

here is a poem for a friend and deadline missed—

inspired by a hurricane and heartache sweeping through the week, neither less deadly because announced—

all amid a virus and head of state threatening the nation with fever and shortness of breath—

preceded even earlier by warnings like vowels clearly sounded out— crackling forests and firecrackers a drought of rain and new ideas— so to kill the time and not ourselves

we

play piano and video games watch television and the seasons change drink wine and the doom-filled streams—

hoping we can remember our dreams when we wake up in a new bed in a new year under a new roof— the same old constellations.

KENNINGS FOR KURTZ

when ice-cotton falls, falls, falls, and the land-water rises, rises, rises, and the wood-congregation burns, burns, burns and the wind-spiral spins, spins, spins there’s no one that can stop em—

but soul-people exist and heart-people can feel and brain-people can think and body-people can dance—

and dancing is just

seed-planting shoot-sprouting sun-seeking fruit-bursting.

GNOMIC VERSE FOR MS GROSS

ultimately at the end of the day when all is said and done

there is a way in which

how you show up put in the work hit the right note

in the eye of the storm

shows your true colors gets in your head cools your heels

not one iota

when hell freezes over in your own little world amid the pandemic.

two great pines the color of ghosts streaked grey and faded pink through two square, wood-framed windows greet me with morning— i walk the misty, gravel road with my dog, two bellies grumbling the dawn.

buttertones singing inside my friday night skull, my tongue sticks prickly red but i remember honey: just a spoonful sparks rivers, alluvial fanning on the inside of my cheek, gladness.

how do you read a poem— you speak the lines on the page one word at a time.

how do you dry socks— you put them in the machine on the line in the wind.

QUARANTINE GRATITUDE — DAY 21

Life. I’m thankful for life. As horrible, terrible, disgusting, and messy as it can be, I’m thankful for life. It’s just awful and we’re all going to die, and that’s why I’m thankful for this breath. A breath of fresh air, a glass of cool water. The crashing of ocean waves—terrifying, awesome. The simple things, easy as a spoonful of honey. Ice cream. Cookies. Pizza. Relaxing on the couch. Feeling good, feeling the flow. Lying in bed after a busy day. Making love. Dancing. Hearing a song so beautiful, you cry. Crying, crying, crying those tears that make you choke and gasp for air. Feeling that surge of anger rise in you and knowing you should remain calm but screaming instead. Deciding to conquer your emotions, jedi knight style. Watching cinema, feeling elevated; watching a stupid movie, feeling like your brain’s sippin on anesthesia; watching TV, happily sharing in the collective stupor. Sharing a meal with family, with friends, hysterically laughing. Playing with a silly dog, petting a purring kitten. Yes, good hair days. Yes, one day my hair will be grey and then later my head will be nothing but a skull and then later still nothing but dust but today my hair looks good, thank you very much. I appreciate you. You remind me to treasure these infinite hellos, here-i-ams, goodbyes. Exchanging smiles with a stranger. Going to work. Getting good work done. Pay day. Watching the sunset, waking up to the sunrise, bathing in the midday sunshine. The entire length of your body against bare earth. Staring at the Milky Way. Sitting by a fire, taking a sip of whiskey. Returning home from a trip and taking a steaming hot shower. Sharing ideas, conversations. Working together, creating. Writing words like this in a giant stream of consciousness that maybe only one person, your mother, will actually read the whole way through. Always a little too much death for her taste. But black is just another splash on the canvas. Beating the drums, laying down the track, keeping it funky, singing the spirit loose. Making something real, setting it free.

QUARANTINE GRATITUDE — DAY 20

In the beforetimes, I tried to read at least one poem first thing every morning. Instead of reaching for my phone, plunging myself into an abyss of messages from friends, meetings and action items from work, and the incessant catastrophe of breaking news, reading poems aloud would simultaneously ground me and lift my spirits—the best way to start the day.

If you open your eyes and ears, poetry is everywhere. Only in the most narrow view is poetry just another genre of literature: Prose can be poetry. Fiction and non-fiction can both be poetry, as can standup comedy, a dramatic play, or a memoir. A religious text. A speech. The liner notes on the back of a record. But what about the record itself? Poetry doesn’t need words: A painting or sculpture, a film or a song can all be poetry. But poetry doesn't end at art either. A conversation on the bus, a dance move in the club, a quiet moment with a lover at sunset...

It’s not just another genre like “fiction” because, in reality, “poetry” is a praise word. In other words, a book is just a book and a song is just a song, but poetry is the good stuff, the stuff that sends shivers down your spine. Poetry makes you new.

Today I’m thankful for that.