Poems by Joan MacDonald
October 24, 2011 (Part of the NEFA project)
chasing paper bags blowing in the wind
I wonder about the wisdom
of such adventures
and have I been looking for wisdom
I think not really
I’m hoping that wisdom is something
that arrives with age
sagacity found in surprising places
unexpected as I chase
the paper bag as it somehow manages
to blow incessantly out of my reach
should I ever stumble over
enlightenment on my adventures
I ponder that I might not recognize it
so, I will continue to chase
those elusive paper bags in the wind
and forever I hope to be
never out of breath
as I pursue the chase.
Music on the Bridge
THE USUAL WALK THE WALK
DOWNTOWN
THROUGH THE NEIGHBORHOOD
END OF
LUSH AND FULL
BRIGHT MARIGOLDS AND SNAPDRAGONS
AND COSMOS AND MUMS
THERE WAS A TRAIN IN THE RAILROAD YARD
SO I HAD TO GO UNDER THE BRIDGE
I COULD HEAR FAINT MUSIC
AS I GOT TO THE BRIDGE
UP ABOVE
A MAN WITH HIS SHOPPING CART
WAS JUST TAKING IN
THE EARLY MORNING SUN
HIS MUSIC BLASTING
AND ECHOING UNDER THE BRIDGE
I PAUSED AND MADE A FEW DANCE MOVES
TO THE MUSIC
AND JUST KEPT ON WALKING
ENJOYING BEING ALIVE
SHARING THE MUSIC AND THE SUN
SILENTLY THANKING THE MAN
FOR HELPING ME
GREET MY DAY
BREAD WRAPPERS XX
BREAD WRAPPERS BLOWING DOWN THE STREET
I WONDER SOMETIMES WHAT PATH THAT WRAPPER TRAVELED
TO GET BLOWN AROUND
AT 8:30 A.M. ON THIS SUNNY JULY MORNING
ANOTHER SCORCHER IN STORE FOR US TODAY
I WONDER ABOUT MYSELF EVERY MORNING
THE MONDAY THROUGH FRIDAY GRIND
SITTING ON THE STOOP WAITIN FOR THE BUS
WATCHING THE TRAFFIC AND
WATCHING THE ANTS SO THEY DON'T CRAWL UP MY LEG
WATCHING THE SAME GUY IN THE SAME RED SHIRT AT THE SAME TIME
EVERY DAY
WALKING
THE BREAD WRAPPER JUST BLEW HERE FROM SOMEWHERE ELSE
THE WIND GUIDED IT AND DIRECTED IT
AND HERE IT IS
BLOWING AROUND IN TRAFFIC
AND HERE I AM WATCHING IT
BLOWING IN THE WIND
MORE IMPORTANT TO ME I THINK
SHOULD NOT BE THE QUESTION OF THE BREAD WRAPPER'S PATH
BUT MORE SIGNIFICANT
AT LEAST TO ME
IS WHY I INTENTIONALLY WALK HERE FIVE MORNINGS
AND WHY I SIT ON THIS STOOP
WAITING FOR THIS NUMBER 31 BUS
WORKING MONDAY THROUGH FRIDAY
NINE TO FIVE AND MORE
DILIGENTLY BEING UNCREATIVE
PASSING 35 HOURS A WEEK OR MORE
AND THAT DOESN'T INCLUDE GETTING THERE AND GETTING HOME AGAIN
JUST TO PUT BREAD
LIKE THE BREAD THAT USED TO BE IN THAT WRAPPER
ON MY TABLE
OCCASIONALLY I BUY CANVAS
A NEW NOTEBOOK OR PEN
TO FEEL EXTRAVAGANT BUYING A SECOND-HAND BOOK
OR A TABLECLOTH FOR $2.99
I NO LONGER WORK HARD
BUT I DO WORK LONG
LONGER THAN I WANT
TO MAKE PAYMENTS ON LONG PAST EATEN BREAD
SITTING ON THIS STOOP
WATCHING THE PARADE OF CARS
AND PEOPLE AND CHILDREN AND ANTS
AND THINKING ABOUT BREAD WRAPPERS
INSTEAD OF BEING HOME
BAKING MY OWN BREAD
INCANTATION
CREATED IN OUR LIKENESS
AND IN OUR DIFFERENCES
HE WAS WISE
INSIGHTFUL AND SHREWD
HE WAS A PHILOSOPHER
A PHILISTINE
HE TWEAKED THE WORLD
AND MANIPULATED THE SYSTEM
HE GOT WHAT HE WANTED
AND THEN HE WANTED MORE
AT TIMES HE WAS SLY AND UNDERHANDED
BUT THE TWINKLE IN HIS EYE
BETRAYED HIS JOY
HE LAUGHED AT THE WORLD
AND HE LAUGHED AT HIMSELF
HE WAS A CUNNING CON
WITH AN INDOMITABLE SPIRIT
TODAY HIS EVEN-TOED HOOFS NO LONGER DANCE
TO THE MANIACAL LAUGHTER OF HIS CONJURERS
For Kari
Kari you’re inspiring me to write
days without
writing anything lines that break
to the beat of my internal rhythm
of the moment
I just read one of your books
day 1500 day 1572 day 1537
you crammed so much into those days
and spewed it out the next morning
on your computer
truthfully you turned yourself
inside out
on paper
book after book and soon you were recognized
for the manic word genius that you became
too soon your body burned out
choked on word transmission
too soon as there were still
so many words
to be processed into life lived
and thoughts thought
all the time being rototilled
into rhythm and complexity on paper
we want to hear day 17,000
your life tumbled onto paper
for our perusal for insight for
the unique rhythm of the words
that were yours alone
yours alone my friend
you made your days count
and those who knew and loved you
will always miss the beat
and the flood of your words.
Falcon xx
First page
of a blank book
the challenge of the fresh
the virginal
the challenge to find new ideas
are there new ideas
are there creative ways
to communicate those ideas
where does inspiration copulate
who is my master
where is the peregrine falcon
what am I doing
wasting my time on thoughts
on drivel
when I could be
could be
could be
vacuuming, yes, vacuuming
or pulling weeds
sweating in the 95 degree sun
being productive
instead of spilling thoughts
thoughts jumping onto the page
just for the sake
of filling up space
blank pages
blank thoughts
reverberating inside my head
cranial disruptions
looking for an outlet
somewhere to escape
proffered for no money
proffered just to proffer
as the peregrine falcon
often flys just to fly
today I'd like to fly
off the page
words with wings
wings that become action
fly to
to
to see emperor Justinian
at Hagia Sophia
help with the mosaics
pick out the colors
whatever
and the white chalk cliffs
and pristine beaches
no tourists
only me and Justinian
I'm a bird
not a tourist
I didn't bring my camera
only my fledgling brain
my sketchbook memory
my journal
places to deposit brain droppings
no atm card needed
just a pen or pencil or
chalk or sand
building and thinking
and sifting and flying
the page is violated
the virgin is claimed
the falcon flys in my face
he comes back to realize
he's part of my plan
that is not to his liking
to be captured is against his nature
I try to explain
but he says
listen to me
I don't want to be on a tether
I want to fly and to roam
I don't want your limitations
your projections
or your labels
set me free from your observations
your conjecture
disconnect
I'll not fly in your face
but think of me no more
for today I fly to the far horizon
I leave you with your reasons
your lessons your stories
turn the page
feathers flow and fall
and ink flows and spills
your connection to me is the story
my story goes unspoken
your story forever connects you to me
but as for me
the connection between us ends here
I have no pen no paper no sketchbook
what's past never was
I continue my journey untethered
Where is arcadia
where is the place where birds sing
where all is lush and green
where bees buzz and flowers flourish
where is the arcadia of my mind
that place where ideas grow
where thought knows no boundaries
where freedom of expression
is unleashed and romps
unabashedly
Where is the arcadia of my body
the place where sensuality is ever present
where desire is always fulfilled
where touch is soothing and loving
where warmth and closeness are always close at hand
where is the arcadia of my emotions
the place where joy and anger and love
co-mingle and coagulate
where tears and smiles reign unchecked
and rain and sunshine and thunder and snow
are always in sync with my state of mind
where is music and poetry
music and poetry to complement emotions
and allow them to be
Where is the arcadia magnet to bring it all together
to achieve yin-yang harmony
in all my endeavors
in all my fascination
in all my exploration
an arcadian magnet
that connects and conjoins
the harmonies of life into
the nexus of existence
ONION I XX
I'M SITTING HERE
CONTEMPLATING HALF OF A DRIED OUT
WITHERED FRAGILE THIN ONION
THERE IS A GREEN LABEL STUCK
ON THIS FRAGILEST OF ITEMS
VENDALLA CR 4159 SWEETS
THE LABEL WILL NO DOUBT
LAST MUCH LONGER
THAN THE FRAGILE ONION SKIN
FOR SOME REASON
THAT LABEL STRIKES ME AS IMMORAL
BEING FOR THE MOST PART
A PERSON WHO
IS RARELY JUDGMENTAL WHEN IT COMES TO
WHAT OTHERS DO
I FIND THIS LABEL TO BE
RIGHT UP THERE WITH MORTAL SINS
LIKE ADULTERY
GLUTTONY STEALING AND
SAYING THE LORD'S NAME IN VAIN
OR MISSING MASS ON SUNDAY
THIS ONION
A PERFECT SPECIMEN OF ITS SPECIES
DISFIGURED AND EFFACED BY THE INTRUSIVE
"VENDALLA CR 4159 SWEETS" LABEL
THIS ONION CAME FROM THE EARTH
DOES MOTHER EARTH CLAIM
AND DEFACE
THIS OTHERWISE PERFECT ONION
WHY DO WE HAVE TO OWN AND POSSESS
THINGS
WE STICK LABELS
ON ONIONS AND GRANNY SMITH APPLES AND PEOPLE
ISN'T IT ENOUGH THAT WE
WILL EFFECT THE ULTIMATE CARNAGE
THE CARNAGE OF EATING THAT ONION
CONSUMING MASTICATING AND DIGESTING
ISN'T THAT ENOUGH
DOES THE ONION HAVE TO BEAR BLEMISH
CLASSIFICATION AND DISFIGUREMENT
AS WELL AS COLONIZATION AND CAPTIVITY
ALL BECAUSE
VENDALLA CR 4159 SWEETS"
HAS SOME SORT OF RIGHT
TO OWN AN OTHERWISE FREE VEGETABLE
Musings
My muse is sleeping
under the rug of my discontent
banished unwittingly
to my unconscious
where it lies fallow
without fertilization
no cross pollination
no cell division multiplication
inactivity
withering and melting
in an early demise
while the rest of me
carries on with the inanities of life
moving papers, generating more papers
digging in someone else's garden
contacting someone else's patients
placating someone else's clients
while my concerns interests and indulgences
are never addressed or validated
as they despair in dust
at the hand of neglect.
The following poem is about Detroit and was displayed on the wall (with 2 others) at the Detroit Connection exhibition at Edge Gallery.
The poems are also part of the box of prints and poems that is part of the Detroit Connection series.
One Way
and it's a bad part of town
and I haven't lived here for a long time
and I'm trying to go back
I want to remember it
I want to recapture something
what is it
why am I walking down here
trying to hide my camera
yet have it ready
it is not enough to remember these images
I want to share them
I want others to know
So, I look over my shoulder
and I cross the street
guys are hanging out
and it could be a crack house
or just a place to hang out
no jobs in the city
just hanging out