Let's see, going to whip up this blog, then read a bit before getting down to my own dark words. There's a lot in progress and it's time to lock in, baby!
So now...two poems. The first one is for Jim Morrison, influenced by his own words, the vibe he projected, perhaps the vibe I get from The Doors song, "Riders On The Storm," shaken, not stirred, and this is what came out. Well, not exactly. When I was a teenager I started writing lyrics. I still have two books of the stuff, mostly horrible, but cool to skim through because one can see development, and see where I was in my life at the time, the influence of Bradbury, Ian Curtis, Bowie and Morrison and more. Toward the tail end of those books, now in my early twenties, perhaps even just after I was keeping them, I wrote a poem for Morrison. Yes, the original version of this poem is possibly 25-30 years old! But...it's always been in need of something, a tweak, shaping...something. I think that now, but know it's...mostly where it needs to be. One of those brighter writing moments amidst the deluge of crap I used to write. Not saying it's all that, but it's stuck with me and I like the mood. The second poem, a gentle thing, was written more recently, after the death of Ray Bradbury. A light piece, but maybe it will bring a smile and, again, as always--perhaps I just don't want to admit a poem is completed--I sense the need for a tweak, but here they both are for your amusement.
The Soul Of The Lizard
by John Claude Smith
in the gloom he is king
lizard skinned drunkenness
a bottle of scotch
acid tongued visions
cinematically sumptuous prose
mind warped highways
scorched desert’s his only castle
blood spattered asphalt
the killer, the king’s pawn now smiles
for they’re one and the same
the ghost not to touch but to roam
by John Claude Smith
I was going to pack up the dinosaurs today
Pack up the carnivals and rocket ships
Pack up the endless rainy days and dandelion wine.
A great wordsmith has scribbled his last sentence.
But then it struck me my thinking was all wrong.
So I unpacked the suitcase
Holding the gifts he had given us
As well as the shadow of my youth,
Letting these things out to frolic freely,
Ready to fill the minds of generations lucky enough
To discover the great wordsmith’s tales
For the first time
As the fog horn mournfully blows…
A richer joy I cannot imagine.