M .D. Friedman writes from the moment chiseled fresh with revision. He draws influences from sources as divergent as William Butler Yeats and the delta blues. His poems have appeared in numerous small press publications & e-zines. He has four volumes poetry available through the Internet Poets' Cooperative at http://www.poetscoop.org and is the creator of a new genre of poetics he calls Digital Poetry.
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Saturday, November 13, 2010
The Moon
- autumnal musings on the Four Mile Canyon Fire, 2010
The moon is the moon
whether pale as pumpkin seed
or smoke red. The moon swells,
a plum, it ripens blushing
with sunset or dark as a bruise.
Why bemoan what changes, what spins
the stars into unending darkness? Only what passes
endures, what we hold will be lost.
Flames on wind shriek through trees,
ashes all we possess, and still we go on.
Labels:
Fire,
Four Mile Canyon,
M. D. Friedman,
Moon,
Poem,
poetry
Sunday, November 7, 2010
I Came Here
in a ninth century
sports car formerly
owned by Ivar the Boneless.
It runs on ice water
and has a Viking horn
hood ornament.
I drove through words,
my tires hissing words
over hills of words.
The ribbon of asphalt
snapped me to you
like a whip.
I flew over mountains in a toy
airplane losing my hair
on the bald peaks,
it's rubber band engine
whirring like cicadas after
a twelve year nap,
revved up and hungry,
a spinning dervish
dizzy for your love.
I climbed without fear
the hollow blue of loneliness
into inner space.
My mind sucked
into a vacuum, my eyes
smoldering like falling stars.
I put my breath
behind me
to move on.
I rode the Titanic through
iceberg after iceberg
each the size of a hundred
Manhattans to find you.
I stayed mostly underwater,
held my breath for centuries,
floated face down
cold as a splintered reed
in the icy heart
of a saxophone.
Now I open like fog
in the sunlight,
with your hand
warm on my shoulder
I turn to meet your lips.
Each day all is new.
The ancient sax
howls outside my sun
splashed window
thick and golden as honey,
brings me to hear again.
sports car formerly
owned by Ivar the Boneless.
It runs on ice water
and has a Viking horn
hood ornament.
I drove through words,
my tires hissing words
over hills of words.
The ribbon of asphalt
snapped me to you
like a whip.
I flew over mountains in a toy
airplane losing my hair
on the bald peaks,
it's rubber band engine
whirring like cicadas after
a twelve year nap,
revved up and hungry,
a spinning dervish
dizzy for your love.
I climbed without fear
the hollow blue of loneliness
into inner space.
My mind sucked
into a vacuum, my eyes
smoldering like falling stars.
I put my breath
behind me
to move on.
I rode the Titanic through
iceberg after iceberg
each the size of a hundred
Manhattans to find you.
I stayed mostly underwater,
held my breath for centuries,
floated face down
cold as a splintered reed
in the icy heart
of a saxophone.
Now I open like fog
in the sunlight,
with your hand
warm on my shoulder
I turn to meet your lips.
Each day all is new.
The ancient sax
howls outside my sun
splashed window
thick and golden as honey,
brings me to hear again.
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