And now, some notes from the Author....

me.

Thanks for coming through. I wanted to give special knowledge to the person who's idea this really was in the first place. I saw this person for the first time in months, and the person told me of the plan to write 365 poems in a year. I, buffoonishly, said, "that sounds great! can I do it with you?" and my friend replied, "uh... yeah... suuuuuuuuure," and would've slowly edged away if I hadn't handed out some bourbon.

Anyway, this person is incredibly talented poet, and has a head start on me (and the actual distinction of, you know, not missing a day, never mind 21 days). You should
check out his blog.

Also, i thrive on personal compliments, and on feedback. A lot of these poems I'm not even going to take an editing pen to, or it may be a long while before it happens. but you dig something? you don't like something? say something.

enjoy!
Ruby K

injury time: 2F sendoff

the same paint
clinging to ceiling
for dear life,

bachelor has always been
the motiff
of your comfy halls,
even when co-helmed by a
non-bachelorette.

but past the boxes of
who knows who's
and underneath the empty shells
of fried chicken conveyances,

we were still making new memories
there,
leaving a little bit of ourselves
on the wall
and in the air

somehow marking this place
as always belonging to us,
even as we leave the keys behind.

yellow pages

best part of being
a pack rat? getting
to continually excavate

monuments

every time i open a book
or empty a box.

triolet; the view from my window

the view from my window

The barren branches frame the sky
A prettier shade of brown have I never seen
while bluejays southward pass them by
the barren branches frame the sky
windswept, they know they catch the eye
when surrounded by perfect green
The barren branches frame the sky
A prettier shade of brown have I never seen

injury time: almost snow

a few scant degrees
make all the difference between
gentle and splash

Sonnet for the Greyboy reunion

It had been years since they last made music
Separate lives had treated them fine
but something inside always would click
concert creations still make music shine
they would embark on adventures renewed
laying melodies over awesome beats
greatly raising the music lover's mood
showering their ears with affectionate treats
trembling organ meets sinewy sax
drum, guitar and bass snap right into place
how well they fit, irrefutable fact
their creation grows to fit every space.
of all the returns in my life, oh damn,
if only you knew just how glad I am

(author's note: dedicated in part to the Greyboy Allstars, who've come back together to make beautiful music and are on the road supporting themselves.)

Morning Coffee

Sometimes,

the anticipation is enough to get me going.

dreaming of that hot blend of sweet power
jumping into my mouth to whisper backwards
through my throat
that it's time to begin

consideration of how I'll taste it this morning

will it be head on, powerful, unrestrained
uncut by lightness or sweetness, but emerging passionately
from pot to mug to mouth?

will it be blessed by sugar and cocoa
a dulcet concoction of
dreamy deliciousness?

should I add milk,
watching the storm brew
between clashing liquids
before (with a little bit of stirring)
they give over and
become one?

should I go for piping hot and take little sips,
or let just a little heat escape
so I can enjoy more per mouthful?

will one cup be enough, or should
I make a whole pot today?

I've already dreamed of endless possibilities
before I start grinding the beans.

injury time: goodnight

Only thing sadder
than having to say good night:
being unable

Injury time: ode to cell phones

Cellular phones
are great inventions, unless
you need them to work.


(author's note: you may have noticed I didn't do so well in the beginning of the month keeping on this every day. In soccer, when playing stops due to tending to injured players, they figure out roughly how much time is lost and add it back on as "injury time" to ensure the full minutes of the match are played. hence, the title of the extra poems I need to make up in addition to my daily offerings. Enjoy!)

in your name

At the same time, smallest and biggest,
carrying forth the spirits of our people
is no easy task, especially when considering

an eight day old.

but I put my faith in you, Binyamin Moshe,
faith that you will be strong
where those of us before you have faltered

returning thirsty cups to waters parted
long before you were born.

Confessions of a Carob Planter

Suprised to find moonshine in these parts,
I sat down and bought him a drink.

He was weary, and the whiskey
hit his veins like a match to a trail of gasoline.

He smiled and lifted his glass in appreciation.

To tell you the truth, he said,
I believe those things I said to Honi,
but it wasn't only about those future generations.

Go on, I said, fingers encircling glass,
swirling the contents

Well, I got so famous from the story, I
couldn't tell people, because the point
wouldn't come across.

I didn't just plant that tree
for my future family.
I also planted it for me.

But why?

I wanted them to remember I love them.

I wanted to leave an indellible mark on the world.

And mostly, I love carob trees.

Tending to them, caring for them,
finding their roots and helping them
stretch themselves out

Their smell.

How the bark feels against my fingers,

and the curve of the trunk against my body.

How their branches flow in the breeze,

and the beauty of the green of their leaves set against a late summer sunset sky.

Because I cannot taste her fruit right now, does that make this tree
any less worthy of my love?

does that diminish her glory?

So, sure, I did it for future generations.

but I wish Honi understood

-he downed the last drops of whiskey-

that patiently tilling that which you love

is as important a lesson to learn

as passing that love to the future.

Walking Poem

Too strong to be bound
to the pulpy chains of my notebook,

a poem climbed out of the pages
and sauntered away into the streets
of new york city.

And you couldn't miss her even if you tried.

the rhythm of her gait is perfect meter,
altering the tempo of songs tumbling out of
car stereos when she walks by.

her imagery could put your eyes out,
and her rhymes never fully unfurl, instead curl
around burly figures and envelop them
in whirling dervish embraces.

her metaphors are green brown eyes
that pierce the hearts of composition books,
and stop newspapers, research papers, flypaper,
music paper, passport papers and money papers
cold, clutching their lungs and gasping for air.

who knew such a poem could walk around new york
and get a way with it!

and I miss her. I miss the way she danced across my page,
she now replaces lineless paper with crosswalks
and sidewalk cracks. I miss her musky inkpaper smell.
I miss the way her voice would kiss its way into and out of my mouth.

This poet just ain't the same without her.

So if you see my walking poem, send her home to me.

PCH 1

The automobile
was invented
for you.

draped over blue green waters
that beckon, no beg
for you to lose your concentration
just for a moment.

the car created
for the purpose of traversing
your curves,

walking your creases like
fingers tracing cotton hems and satin blouses
tires scratching your back like fingernails
left rough for this very occasion

Weaving through the top of your curly locked
branches at McKerricker,
following the follicles as they trail down past
your shoulders and below at Muir,

taking a step away from the edge
to run down the small of your back
between your shoulder blades in
San Francisco,

then rejoining the festivities
south of your bra straps in
Monterrey

before slipping around the front
to the heights and valleys
of Big Sur and lingering around
your thighs at
Cambria, where road and sea are
separated by

sand and opportunity.

If I could, I would drive you forever,
spending my time doing nothing but
retracing your sunny curves
with my fingertips
cradling the wheel,

spending money only on
burgers at Nepenthe,

chocolate cake at the Bait Shack,

and gas.

day 1

notes tumble past eardrums,
rise up the stairs,
kick open the doors
and hit the street.

crumpled papers
plastic hats
dance together
in 2am winds
before being hauled away

you can still get arrested
in this town
for dancing,

but cabaret laws cannot stop my
rebirth.