quiet now
in the small hours
of the morning
with the heart
and mind
aligned
peaceful now
as the new day
dawns
and everything
seems as one
in the vast expanse
is it a straight line
from our ancestors
to now
or is there a circle
that completes each moment
are we really alone
in this world
or surrounded
by the billions
who came before
and since
(D James)
there is
the serene silence
of peace
gently broken by the sound
of a bird
the sobering silence
of anger
that forms in the echo
of a slammed door
then there is
the soulful silence
of lovers lying side-by-side
the singular silence
of a man
alone with his thoughts
the silence of a friend
waving goodbye from the window
of a train
the silence of enemies
standing on either side
of a line in the sand
the silence of a hawk
in flight
of the sun
the stars
and the moon in the sky
of a stopped clock
of a flower unfolding
the silence just before
the film begins
of paint drying on canvas
of lips moving in prayer
the silence that occurs
before the wind
that arrives ahead of the storm
the silence between
the final vibration of a violin
and the applause of the crowd
the silence of
worry
pain
loss
distinct from
the silence
of a smile
the silence
of the color blue
or the silence
we choose
and of the thousand thousand silences
the most powerful silence of all the silences
is the silence
of silence
(D James)
the rain doesn’t ask
why it falls
the sun doesn’t ask
why it shines
the tree doesn’t ask
why it leaves
nothing
in all the world
asks why
except us
because we think
what we think
matters
and it does
but only to us
so what if
we let our thoughts
fall away like rain
what if
we shined like the sun
what if
we let our false-selves go
like leaves from a tree
what if
we stopped asking
why
what if
we just admit
we don’t know
and never will
and what if
we didn’t
make it mean anything
(D James)
waiting
for something
to happen
like life
or something similar
wanting
to be free
from fear
or at least
push through
needing
to take action
but bored with
the supposed options
stifled
by the thoughts
of past failures
though there’s nothing
to be done about them now
avoiding
hard work
and difficult
conversations
instead
I’ll write
and smoke cigarettes
make a life
out of words
because in the end
that’s all any of us
really have
(D James)
buildings so high
they reach
beyond the sky
and everywhere are sounds
and smells
and crowds
densely packed trains
rumble the ground
carrying the millions
under the river
then
suddenly
bursting from the depths
on the other side
the blinding sun
sinking behind the skyline
there is nowhere quite like here
though some people will tell you otherwise
but this city can crush you
or make you
like no other
and once you’ve experienced it
whether for a day
or the rest of your life
you can never
forget it
(D James)
I remember when
you had to buy tokens
to ride the subway
and phone calls
were a dime
if you could find
a pay phone that worked
I remember when cabs
wouldn’t leave Manhattan
for the other boroughs
and street lights
were few
I remember when
computers were so big
they had rooms
of their own
and no one
had one at home
I remember when
you had to make the bank
by 3 pm
and never missed
a Friday visit to the teller
or you were without cash
all weekend
and people wrote checks
bought stamps
and mailed their bills
and if this
were written then
I wouldn’t be able
to share it with you
(D James)
what’s it like?
what’s it feel like?
rarely
what it is
so we talk about
as if a description
of a thing
is the thing
itself
this isn’t how I feel
these are the thoughts
about how I feel
judgements
on a theme
proximity
of an approximation
but what is it
moment by moment
this thing we call
life
I don’t know
but I can tell you
about it
for hours
and get nowhere
or instead
keep silent
find the moment
in the moment
because it’s happening
it’s always happening
even when we’re struggling
to understand
or explain it
it’s happening
right now
whether we’re aware
or not
whether we understand
or not
whether we agree
or not
it’s happening
even when we’re
not here
(D James)
and this is not
my life,
is it?
worrying about goals
and hitting targets
making my numbers
for the month
this can’t be
why I’m here
this isn’t my life
being in debt
and fretting
over back taxes
my life
is about art
and culture
and friends
and family
and love
mostly love
my life
is for fun
and adventure
and taking big risks
my life
is to be used up
so that I don’t die
leaving behind
just debt and struggle
but something
of greater value
than that
something
much more lasting
or at least more fun
(D James)
not enough
sleep tired
too many
cigarettes tired
tired all the
time tired
two in the morning
writing
poetry tired
brain tired
road tired
time for bed tired
over-tired
wishing I didn’t
have to get up
and go to
work tired
nodding off
with my fingers
on the
keyboard tired
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
(D. James)
this thing strung together making no sense yet kept writing these words and not even thinking letting them flow and trying to keep up like in life when everything moves at the speed of sound and people keep moving and I seem to be in the way, slower than everyone else feeling tired and left behind it all seems a bit too much maybe I’m still on west coast time or it could be that I’m no longer interested in the rushing and running, the pushing and shoving, shouldering my way through life trying to get in front of the person in front of me assholes behind me kicking at the backs of my shoes, knocking them off skittering across the platform as the E train rushes out of the station and the next group of followers gathers in the station, and on to the next thing, the one after the one right before this one, how can anyone make sense of the world anymore when people start conversations in e-mail and end them in text, and no one, no one, answers the phone any longer, why can’t this rant end? because there are no endings and no beginnings, there’s just all this rushing around in the middle and when I go, and when you go, there will still be 6 billion and more on the planet to take up where we left off, and there is no reason for it, no meaning – it all is and it all isn’t and we’re here to sort out what it means to us now, and then we’re gone. And the sun will rise and the sun will set, and the sun will rise and the sun will set …
(D. James)
whispers
of things
I meant to
say
when long ago
I watched
the sun rise
now the moon
is full
and my heart
sinks
the demons
smoke cigarettes
behind the gate
waiting
in darkness
to be let out
(D. James)
don’t take this
away
it’s the last
small joy
we have
like a slender shaft
of sunlight
through the basement
window
don’t take it
away
we won’t
know what
to do then
waiting,
like refugees
under a rain-soaked
tarp
hoping,
for what was
what might be
so please
don’t take it
away
they’ll be
nothing left
to say
(D. James)
the power of night
the black and white
lithe and still
darkness falls
bringing the final
moment
nowhere to go
from here
but to the end
fast and painless
eyes open
but the light gone
out
those years
gathered up
then scattered
by the wind
a billion specks
of light and sound
swallowed
by darkness
then nothing
not even
the black
(D. James)
like bits of paper
blown by the wind
which ones will I catch
in the net of my mind
hold onto for dear life
which ones will I let fly
laughing at what nonsense
I can come up with
what if they were all
just passing
like a small spark
or bolt of lightning
electric and fleeting
shinning a momentary light
then gone
instead of being turned
into the truth
(D. James)
nothing
no thing
no nothing
no
begin
at the middle
go back
to the end
then circle round
to finish
at the beginning
once you figure
it out
let me know
I’ll be waiting
(D James)
where does it
go
the time
seems like it
used to crawl
now I lose
track
of the days
and memories
are like stories
someone once told
I’m not even
certain
I’ve not written
this poem
before
(D James)
the subway rises
from the mouth
of darkness
pulling cars across
metal track
to the top
of the mountain
the skyline
like a picture
postcard
at sunset
a symphony
at full tilt
a mass of steel
and glass
thousands
of lighted squares
and twinkling
red lights
reminds you
that this city
in its ebb and flow
was here before you arrived
and will remain long
after you are gone
(D James)
staring
out the window
watching the light change
bare trees
drag shadows
across gray
roof-tops
sunlight glints
off passing cars
the day goes on
with or without us
(D James)
light and dark
laughter and tears
never and always
right and wrong
bone and dust
blood and guts
intransigent and flexible
solid and liquid
everything
and
nothing
(D James)
there’s a moment
between the notes
when what lingers
is the dying vibration
of a sound
before the next key
is struck
when the world
makes sense
and life is found
in the silence
(D. James)
and and and
adding to what
was said
and and and
bringing together
disparate thoughts
and and and
an endless string
of ideas
and and and
where I’ve been
and and and
where I’m going
(D. James)
lost under a sea
of unfocused thoughts
mind-numbing wandering
through disconnected
days of fear and self-loathing
wondering
where it went wrong
where I went wrong
feeling out of place
out of time
out of my mind
like a character
in an unfinished
Beckett play
waiting for something
like life
to begin
unable to go on
with no choice
but to go on
immobile
immovable
immature
with all the courage
of a well-fed
old house cat
wanting to know
how it all ends
when I should be thinking
where to begin
(D James)
it could break,
a mind,
from the pressure
all those thoughts
of what I should
be doing
what I did
wrong
asking why
the grace and ease
so longed for
seeming far off
impossible
hoping
for change
and then
don’t want
the kind that arrives
realizing
finally
it is not an answer
I seek
but a way to live
to think thoughts
and take action
generate some
confidence
take some
responsibility
for my life
because if I don’t
who the hell will
(D. James)
how much time
do we waste
thinking of the things
we’re not doing
the shoulds
the can’ts
the don’t want tos
the don’t have time
or money for
how much energy
is spent
on thoughts and worries
of that
which exists only
in our minds
how far
from reality
can we go
and still be considered
rational
doesn’t it depend
on whose reality
we measure from
if life
is primarily
the stories we tell
then what kind
do you want
to make up
(D. James)
to dance
like the bones
don’t ache
to run
with the speed
of a panther
to laugh
with the abandon
of a child
to work
and play
and love
as if
I cannot fail
to sleep
like the dead
and dream
as the mystics do
this is how I wish
to spend
the days and nights
before returning to dust
(D. James)
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