Author: stevehaarman

Many things are written
Prompted by necessity, inspiration or creativity

Critics may take the time to read
The writing will be evaluated after the fact

A discourse on why or how it was written may be given
New significance will be attached at time goes on

When the author dies, a degree of sacredness
is anointed to the piece

If the writer by chance ever received an award,
perhaps the Guggenheim, then the piece is enshrined

Benefactors in the city where
the writing took place will build a museum

It will be named after the author of the writing

Members of the building committee will have
their names engraved on a brass plate

Those in the know will travel great distances
just to be an eyewitness to this history

Great articles will be written worldwide
further elevating the value

Pilgrims may travel many miles to
visit this important building

Roads may be closed temporarily to allow
for the installation of traffic lights

Negative critics will be held as blasphemous
They will explain away their indiscretion

Everything will be as it should

The power of words

Proof again that the pen is mightier than the sword

Stanski
December 18, 2019 ^

It is complicated he said
When he read my poem
So was “War and Peace”, I said
My work is just a fictional muse
embedded with humor

Take a deep breathe, start all over and enjoy
the laughs as well as the strategy of the set up
I use little punctuation giving the reader a challenge
Why should I do all the work?
You usually do, is the correct answer

Don’t forget, my friend, I go for quality and quantity
It is not easy to do both
Some poets spend a year or more on one poem
Crafting and changing until they are satisfied
I have read some of their finished products
Although they are fine pieces of work
They do not move me

This is because some of the nuances are peculiar
only to the poet and the relativity is lost on me, but
they receive the Guggenheim awards so what can I say?
Someone will find my stuff long after I’m gone and
wonder who that guy was. His musings were so impactful
And still have relevance
That is my dream

I will keep up as long as I can
Then there will be an end

By the way, I said to my friend
Did you notice that I am using
A new penname?

Stanski

I like it
Something like Frankie,
Ella or Elvis
Just the first name
Everyone knows

You have it right
I love recognition

Stanski
December 18, 2019 ^

MAJOR LEAGUE
Some of these poets write
in ways that seem abstract
Putting lines together and
in length, but they somehow
do not connect.

Writing for friends of theirs
trying too hard to impress
As they read, they would
laugh a little bit, my guess

He almost did it, almost
getting close to impressing
his colleagues

A little more time is needed
Maybe a few more years
If he keeps advancing this way
we will all be peers, how nice

They continue reading,
vaguely follow his “line”
Pretend they almost get it
Could he win the Guggenheim?

Sometimes a little obvious
but then he strays away
Goes off on a tangent
Very clever that way

I personally like the fact
that he introduces new
characters, many times foreign

Adds intrigue and culture
but no easy departure,
must ramble on to get to that
special place where
momentum will bring him
to the end and he will smile

Another masterpiece and
then add a few more lines
for his mother or a former
teacher and think it’s grand

That is where some of
the poets stand

Stanski
December 18, 2019 ^

POEM TWIST

The poetry starts out
uplifting and leaning at
just the right angle and tempo
into a story that may have
a lesson attached to it

You feel safe and content

Now it takes a twist to
something or somewhere
with no explanation

No logic can sort out –
this metamorphosis into
deviation and never land

It can and usually does
jump again and then
abruptly slides into a finish

If there is a Guggenheim
Award on the wall of this poet,
the work is proclaimed genius
I feel abused and short changed
What about my work, I think

Full moons are beautiful
I don’t want to leave them
for pigeons who are disguised
as missionaries who meet
way up north in the land of
Svithjod to compare notes
on mushrooming

It’s just not me

Stanski
December 18, 2019 ^

When I was young I walked to
Nearly everywhere I went

There were options, too
I could ride my bike

Hitchhike or
Take a bus

The bus was slow
I could walk almost as fast

Never seasick when I
Arrived at my destination

Walking gave me insight
I could monitor decay and growth

Measure the vigor or occupants of
The house that I passed by

Some had sacred gardens
Everything done just right

Others had painting to do, after
Much scraping would be employed

Broken glass and garbage strewn
Took away from neighborhoods

Pride or no pride at various levels
Freedom as such prevailed

I learned lessons beyond my years
Knew who was hurting and how severe

I arrived at the place I was going
Never thought then, of all my knowing

Now I reflect on all of this and
Think how perceptible the senses are

Stanski
December 18, 2019 ^

The dichotomy of it all:

He on his final run before he would hang it up
Having served for many years in many places was
Now getting his swansong opportunity to go out on top
Lavishness prevailed
Order had long since been established

He proceeded with his form of blandness
They expected some new grandness
He expounding on the Almighty Hand of God
They watching the timepiece hanging from its fob

His patronizing seemed to be for show
Their dismay at what he didn’t know
He happy with everything that was here
On how this could happen they were not clear

He carried on until the end
His stay lasted six long years
Finally came the time of his leaving and
The celebration by all of his peers

The choir practiced songs of thanksgiving
This required little vision
Tension and malaise were lifted
Requiring no one’s permission

He felt honored and happy
They were excited and peppy
He left saying he gave his best
They wondered who would be next

They alone eager to welcome someone new
Ready and prepared for challenge
Renewal a part of their quest
Tired of polishing the smoothness they had made from the rough

What happens in the church
Stays in the church
What happens, happens
Just ask someone with a PhD
They have all the right, cute answers

They will never wear out their fob
Time means nothing as they bloviate
Loving to hear their own voice
Someone asks did we make the right choice
When we asked this fool the question

Stanski
December 18, 2019 ^

Some gave their lives, others a limb or two
Don’t overlook the invisible hurt, that’s not the thing to do
Here we are standing, pretending not to be a fool
Not thinking things are okay or just another day at school

We want to help; that’s the bottom line
We thought in doing so, everything would be fine
We are a long way from there, but here we are, anyway
Injuries, mental, run deeply, approach with gentleness today

The present festers, accompanied with resentment from the past
It will break through, be prepared for that
Here we are, so inadequate, we’ll prepare the fish dinners
We would rather try to teach to fish; then we’d be a winner

So we feed and listen; waiting for a sign of growth
Trying to build solutions, knowing we have no design
We listen to the lashing out; remarks not to be recanted
Because the truth lays therein, at least the truth he chanted

He could kill with bare hands, you hear him talking mayhem
There is a mother somewhere, who desperately still loves him
Flare-ups, false friends, personal responsibility on hold
Rejected out of fear, just another story told

We’ll do our best, as they did, too
Knowing there’s no solution, at least at this school
For now we just patch, we soothe and understand
Paint every picture positive, and hope we’re doing grand

Theirs is ongoing; no answer for them in sight
We’ll keep on encouraging and pray that we are right
We walk out the door, while they remain sitting there
With shredded lives and broken souls: they were those who dared

Stanski
December 18, 2019 ^

Losing someone important
Is not a lot of fun
Rather it is serious business
A good editor can make or break you
Sometimes they go overboard
And almost rewrite your work
One must put a stop to this
As it takes your heart out of
The poem or musing

But when you lose the best
There is only one way to go
Write from the soul and
Work on punctuation
I open up and words come to me
I let them flow out
Like an artist with oil
The colors speak for themselves
The artist will have his critics

I become my own editor
The best way for me to go
Solo
Maybe not as dependable, but
I do it my way and
Hope for the best
Autodidacts are not perfect
They are innovative
Not that it matters much
I’m not going anywhere with this
It is done for fun and release

I don’t feel good about rejection
Repudiation does not sit well with me
Truth is what it is
The world goes around
The sun will rise
In the end no one really cares
It is all about words and
How you put them together
The college try is great
I won’t give it up
Even though I lost my biggest fan

Stanski
December 17, 2019 ^

Don’t tell me about the flutter of a butterfly wing
When I’m having trouble breathing

Gourmet meals are not for me
I am not into blood lines

Dog droppings don’t need flies
but attract them in abundant measure

Too many dogs on a warm summer day
can be the cause of impaired visibility

Idiosyncrasies are not excuses
when the work has not begun

Wishes for ponies meaningless
before the stalls are built

Don’t begin the dance
before the band starts to play

Remember the Titanic
when you dream of cruises

Could you please finish the ark
before you pray for rain?

Clothes frozen on a winter line
should be pressed before wearing

Never stand alone
unless you expect a blue moon

Geeks are never lonely
unless boredom is a symptom

Disregarded treasures
become another man’s junk

Stanski
December 17, 2019 ^

It is a happy place
A safe place
Where everyone knows
The language of a smile

Lifelines fragile
But there is hope
Found for today
Relief from being distraught

Settle in with scatter
Tools of trade at hand
Gather and remember
Avoiding useless chatter

That’s not to say we won’t
Talk when it matters
or even doesn’t
While we’re here

Inner spirit which
We feel is whole
In our fractured bodies
Unfolds on canvas

A venture into
The unpredictable
An arena of creativity
Coming from the soul

No one can say
Birds of a feather
But we peck away
With no pecking order

We are of common clay
With glitter added
And just enough stardust
To make us feel that we matter

Stanski
December 17, 2019 ^