Air Has Lots of Weight

An ironic twist:

How can emptiness linger?

Can “nothing” hang on?

You don't notice at first

Slowly, we notice, They say clocks are ticking; why? They suck time like blood.

Infinite Possibility

A man has value in his self,

That comes from God above.

But adds to that (and to his shelf),

If great books will he love.

For what he knows and what he dreams

Will come from his own age.

Yet can be stretched beyond his means,

By words typed on a page.

The Nile, Thames, or lovely Seine:

He may not get to go.

But still feels the love and pain

From Shakespeare, Keats, Hugo.

We have but one short chance to live

While bound by time and space.

So take the gift the masters give

To travel any place.

Blurred

If I was like beloved John,
I'd know where I would stand:
Always knowing His affection.

Or even Cain, his brother gone
(Further, by his own hand).
Exiled, yet with protection.

But no, I feel like Lazarus
Entombed, and thus, not there
To hear His grief-filled cry

Now, stumbling through the stench of pus,
A foul shroud all I wear.
I'm saved, alive, but know not why.

Thanksgiving 2015

A nip in the air,
And breath we can see
A few leaves remain on our favorite tree

And then with our kin
We thankfully gather
Then sit at the table, enjoying together

A meal we can share
This time ev'ry fall
And afterwards: coffee, and pie, and football

So Take it all in
The family, the friends
The sports, and the laughs, before it all ends

Sometimes, Constrained is Better

In reading many poems written in the modern day,
One finds that this is not like those in, really, any way.
Tradition, to the men of now, remains in ancient times
When words of now-dead men were trapped in meter and in rhymes.

But I can write in free-verse too
My stream of consciousness delivering thoughts
To your eyes via the expressway of my pen
Revealing and advancing issues important to me,
Which I know should be important to you too.
So I cry out.
Using meter and rhyme when I deem it necessary.
At my choice.
With my voice.
And maybe lines like these will get me published
Or have people listen to me in coffee houses and at civic meetings.
And they will clap or snap and appreciate my work,
Seeing how much I care about others, yet
Never realizing that every line I wrote in this section was in the first person.
About me.

So while it seems these words indeed contain a tale to tell,
They stay imprisoned, captive in their rhythmic, rhyming cell.
Containing value still despite restrictions such as these,
Which does not come from what the poet says, but what he sees

Ode to a Neighborhood Dive Bar

The Stained wooden door’s not as polished now
(though, in truth, it never quite was).
I drive by it still, remembering how,
It would open and lead to a buzz.

The regulars: how many of them are still there,
Their usual stools still in place.
You’d wonder, to look at them (That is, if you’d care)
What they would see in this space.

A screen to watch a game, race, or fight.
Which most would cheer as it ends.
A round of cheap beer (two bucks for Bud Light)
Friendly fellows, if not fellow friends …

Who were searching for something when they would share
Their stories, their sports and cold brew.
And is it their fault, or ours, that they found it there,
And not with me, or with you?

A Day In The Life

Chirp, snooze, chirp, grr, brr, ahhh, crunch.
Vroom, brew, sip, click, sip, click, lunch

Write, chat, read, send, meet, fight, sigh,
Back, sip, walk, talk, phones? no. why?

Pack, zip, vroom, feed, eat, soak feet.
Horn, scales, beer, bed, read, repeat.

A poem for February 14

I don't want to sound sanctimonious

But the vibe for this weekend is odious 

I'll go further and say

The Real Saint of the day

Is a pair: Cyril & Methodius

A Sonnet of Michael

A Sonnet of Michael
by Matt Dunn

“Defending us in Battle,” What’s that mean?
I don’t see any evidence of War:
No swords or shields or fire that I’ve seen.
So what is all of this protection for?

Are wicked snares abounding in my sight?
How often are you casting into hell,
Those prowling spirits which you daily fight
A once proud race that sadly (through pride) fell

My life is comf’trble, is this a fluke?
Or is it only so because of you
As you enforce God’s heavenly rebuke
Through all the noble work your armies do.

I ponder now, with all I do not see
How frightening (without you) my life could be.

Anticipation

...could be applied to a Nor'easter, eschatology, or anything we obsess over:

Anticipation

Expectation run amok,

Panic all around

As everybody tries to figure out

Good or bad? What kind of luck?

How much on the ground?

But what is the excitement all about?

We’ve been in this place before

(Every year, it seems)

And yet our minds convince us it’s all new.

Forgetting what is in store

Like vague, fuzzy dreams

Obscuring all that we know to be true.

It is vital to prepare

For what comes ahead

And guarantee that we have all our tools

But try not to even care,

Working out a sum,

Or wond’ring where or when: you’ll look like fools

Autumn

I wrote this one a few months back:

Ode to fleeting beauty

Your nights are brisk, dear Fall,

Your sunsets light the sky afire.

You, mirroring, perhaps, the shades of trees

Which I now watch with awe:

This yearly show where you inspire

Bright leaves ablaze, then floating on the breze.

And yet, you tease my heart

Your gorgeous brilliance doomed to fade

And how can I embrace your waning strength?

Yet I’m wrong from the start

No matter how briefly you stayed.

Its depth of love that matters, not the length.

A snowfall

Floating softly to the ground as drifting piles grow.
Last fall there were leaves I watched; now, it's falling snow.
The trees who stripped immodestly to show us every sight,
Have branches that are clothed again (if just for now) in white.

Dressed for a baptism perchance, and with it, brand new life 
Or, my Romantic inner self suggests a wedded wife.
Whatever new beginnings come from wardrobes crystalline
Enjoy the view and don't forget who sent what you have seen.