Ink on the Tracks

Dark clouds behind the Oakland hills
end in whispers in my brain.
I’m not trying to give anybody a hard time.
I’m just trying to make my way
through the hollow streets of my city.

Nothing is written in glass,
Music sounds from the late night movie.
What did I say when my mind worked:
Practice fen shui
of the body--of the brain
today
for now to find
what happens.

Perhaps to have that picture of that drawing
in your book—to sit here beside me on this train
while the oppression of the tunnel
to the East Bay and Berkeley
--still there
though I hold the compass
of Anselm Hollo’s
poetry to calm me—
today’s treasure…

Even when
there are dragons
in the castle.

There was blood on the tracks,
There was blood on the line
My brothers and my sisters, 'twas a very bad time
Ol' ninety seven went in the wrong hole
Down at mine number seven
There was blood on the coal....
Smothers Brothers.

Very nice poem Peter, really enjoyed the three times I've read it so far, and will probably read more.
You may be a political moron, but I sure like the way you write.

sorry for the blood on the tracks part.... sorta

No, that's ok, I stole the line from Dylan's album of that name.

btw, I consider myself a political moron. But then I tune in to the experts and discover I am not the only one...especially those people talking about economics as if they knew something. They have no compass, and that's the instrument said to have been invented by the ancients for their practice of feng shui...though I truly know little about that, despite my empathy for Taoism for the last 45 years.

ugh!

Thanks for coming by, Merc,

Peter

Feel free to call me a political moron also. In fact, I think we mostly qualify under that umbrella.
On the subject of economics, it amazes me that you can turn on every tv show about the economy, watch a batch of experts disagree with each other, and claim they are stating facts. The true morons are the ones who believe what they see on the ol' tv.

The idea, I am told, is to pay most attention to what you are not told, whether on tv, the papers, or any other reportage.

your poems are like golf clubs to me. I think I would enjoy them a lot more if I were just a little better, but I sure do like the sound they make

Thank you, Aaron...I think. I am experimenting, most of the time.

Peter