yesterday

casa la reina is
a ruin

the ceiling has
fallen
in the back room

and a large
crack stretches over
the writing desk

maybe word is
coming from heaven

pennies arent

the toilet leaks
so you want
to stand
at the door to
pee

and the only
eating
done in the kitchen
is by the ants

the neighbor knocks
at the door
wanting to sell
vitamins
or god
or cable television

i dont have a
television that
works beyond static

i dont have a
god that works
beyond static

and im suspect
about vitamins

if i close
the door
turn off the light
sit up in bed
with the covers
pulled against the
cold
maybe i can
write a line or two

and i will have
done something with
my life
today

* * *

victor fixed the
back door sagging
on its hinges

i can walk into
the stick garden
now

sit on a
rusty chair
search for the
sunlight

a heavier jacket
would have been
smart

but it seems i
can never judge how
cold i will be

i can never
judge how cold the
air will be either

i am not a good
judge of cold
even though I have
gotten the cold
shoulder
from life

i
sit in the back

a winter wasteland
where the crisp
air hurts
whats left of the
nostrils

and look at the
sun
which seems to have
given
up

this is me
getting out

i wrote a
couple lines
yesterday

i wonder if i
will today

* * *

there is no
friend
like a blanket

it will not
protect
you from a bullet
or a wine bottle
thrown at you
or even a bad
phone call

but it
buffers you from
complete intimacy
with ghosts
and loneliness

i drag
from room to room
a flowery quilt
wrapped around me
like a robe

it was once
cheery and bright but
time
with me has remedied
that disease

im such a healer

ronnie wants me
to meet
for a drink
at a tranny bar
but i havent shaven
for a week

and have only a
curse to wear

if i sidestep
the mail on the
dirty floor

maybe i can get onto
the bed
and write a poem

there
i can wear
what i want

but its only worth
reading

if i wear what
i am

* * *

jeanne bought me a
salad with crusty bread
and a
glass of wine

what a good breakfast

we walk to the
thrift store
for a light bulb

maybe we can find
something to sell too

but the store is
closed
and i havent sold
anything in months

it doesnt cost
anything to write
a poem
but power and piss

but it doesnt pay
anything
to write a poem
either

an angel may speak
to you
feed you something
fresh

but those moments
pass

and you are left
without even a bare
bulb
to hold against
the dark night

* * *

downey is not a town
you go to to
write

and if you write it
would probably be
happy
to see you go

but here i am

the house attacking
me
and protecting me
from the streets

realtors knock
at the door wanting
to sell
casa la reina
they have buyers they
say
and give me tablets
of paper with
their faces
on them

finally
a gift i can use

or so i
think

the tablets stare at
me
the faces watch
what goes on inside
here

maybe better
than i do

writing sometimes
talking sometimes
moaning sometimes
drinking
staring at the walls
wrestling with
ghosts
making toast

sometimes there is
music but music
is an escape

and there is no
escape
from downey

not as a writer
not as a ruin dweller
not as an empty
page

* * *

dorothy called to
ask if i needed
money

she didnt need
to call or
ask

i am a poet i
cant even afford
mice

there hasnt been
anything friendly in
the mail for months

and what jobs i
get take more than
they give

if i peddled
door to door poems
fluttering
from a bamboo stick i
would fare no better

people have doors
for a reason

to escape the
walls
when no one is
looking

if i had a million
dollars
i would buy
a night on the town
for you

but just to be
smart i
would first get new
shoes

and ink for the
printer

* * *

i wrote today

even a few lines
can keep the
wolf from the
whore

maybe i will type up
what it is
and look at it

i do that

look
at the poem on
the page
for longer than
anyone should

i read it and read
it

trying to understand
what
i have

luckily
it is short
and not very
deep

and luckily i
am familiar with
the subject

if my poetry were
taught
in school i
would get a
c

im kinda average
in my own
life

im even worse
in others

a b
motivates you to
do better

a c
lets you be

obviously im
zen about it

if i could get an
a
in my poetry
i would sit back
on my laurels

and twirl
the long golden
curls of my hair all
day

* * *

the house makes
noises
at 2 am
it doesnt make
at 2 pm

but so do i

the windows
are black mirrors

maybe a shadow
passes but
not the moon
not the stars

a light from the
road
hits a key on the
wall

a voice from the
back fence
says something about
responsibility
lightly as a spiders
web
but i dont listen

a glass of wine helps
with that

my knees creak
laugh at me
as i tap the pen
on the paper
trying to prime
the pimp

many nights
the house is
restless
unable to describe
itself

many nights
the moon is
absent
the voice unclear
the paper
blank

* * *

i have an appointment
tomorrow
but I wont
wear a tie

if i get some
sleep
i may be pleasant
i may be charming

but it is unlikely

i will make toast
and take a
shower
and wear something
clean
the striped shirt
maybe

the sun may
be
out

and a girl on
the street
may say hello
as she passes

but im a soda
at this
appointment
i will be drained
the fizz consumed
the glass left
empty

and tonight already
I begin to
go flat

* * *

the computer is
fucked

if this were a
movie i
would throw it
against the wall
with abandon
or out
the window
with abandon

but no matter how
it is sold

in whatever media

life is not
a movie

and i am not
handsome enough to
be a tragic star

media tragedy
only happens with
beautiful people

the rest of us must
suffer
without the benefit
of hair and makeup
and wardrobe

a typewriter
has so little
to go wrong and
so much
to write

i have so much
to go
wrong
and so little to
write

but i
am here and
i am right

a typewriter is
not

and the computer is
fucked

* * *

i have four
pens next to the
computer
and none of them
writes

they are like
me

one says
milestone mortgage

it should read
millstone

one has dorothys
name
and the lakota
indian reservation

i must have stolen
them all

useless is
as useless does

even when i want
to write
even
when i can

the fickle finger
of fate
flips me off

yanks the plug

infects the computer
with a virus
a bacteria
without a trojan
on its horse

i am like the pens
not able to make
a mark

i am like the
computer
needing penicillin

i am like the dog
walking on a
leash

not the master
not in control

looking forward to
scratching
in my bed

* * *

one side of the
sofa is beaten to
hell

i leave a
poem
about a key
written out by hand
on the other side

to wait
for millie

she has to pick
it up or
risk a spring in the
ass

what i will do
to get
read

millie will come
in the evening
to talk about
writing

but i will have a nap
before then

maybe more maybe
less

and splash
some water on my
face

to appear
presentable

the day is warmer
so i can open
a door
a window
and the house will
smell less
of mildew

i have half
a bottle of wine
to offer

and the poem

and she will be
intoxicated

* * *

casa la reina
is a ruin

even the crickets
have abandoned

but the sun
is out
and the stick
garden has sprouted
some green

the traffic sounds
the arguments
the construction
sounds
the miscellaneous
noises
of life

are somehow
muffled

and i sit in the
back
with leftover bites
of a tuna sandwich

and watch the
sky

facebook poem

Roy Anthony Shabla

no friend no love no god above
no hope no song no right from wrong
no time no place no happy face
no here no there no place to share

November 15 at 11:47pm ·LikeUnlike · Comment · View Feedback (5)Hide Feedback (5)

Christina Seely from this place a new beginning emerges.....meet yourself there.....I am drawn inward from your words tonight....sweet dreams.
November 15 at 11:54pm · LikeUnlike

Roy Anthony Shabla

sweetie dreams
moonie beams
patty cakes and
krispy kreams

November 16 at 12:02am · LikeUnlike

KathyandKatz Caraco There's no way I could sleep counting krispy kreams!! :D
November 16 at 6:20am · LikeUnlike

Roy Anthony Shabla

silly sheep
not a peep ...

November 16 at 9:05am · LikeUnlike

KathyandKatz Caraco ‎:)
November 16 at 9:42am via · LikeUnlike

if you have not seen the earth
from the sky
you should go.

if you have not been a slow-moving cloud
you should try.

if you have not been a gentle breeze
give yourself the gift
of flight

and know
the caress of leaves.

land is where you end

but sky
is where the heart is light
and the soul is free.

* * *

with my finger
i trace on your chest
the shadow of a leaf
waving from the fig tree

then trace another shadow
of that same leaf
on the window glass

and as i am placing my hand
over your heart
the shape of the leaf is on my hand

and it is the shadow of my hand
that first touches you.

~ ~ ~

when we sleep

i dream we are sleeping in the grass
on a hill
in the sunlight

and a cloud passes before the sun
like a hand before the eyes~

the shadow of the cloud
moving across the hill
touches me
then touches you

and i shiver with the touch of coolness

then you shiver

then we are each warmed.

~ ~ ~

i ask

is this what we have
between us?

these bits of darkness,
these silhouettes of life?

with the morning
i see how easily they pass…

* * *

if you have not seen the sky
really seen the sky
with the open heart of your eye

you should lie on your back
in the meadow of time
until you cry.

if you have not watched
a slow-moving cloud on a summer day
if you have not drifted off the cluttered page
of life

you should find an open meadow and lie
in the timeless flowers
until you cry.

if you have not let a gentle breeze
arrange your hair
and whisk your face

what is there to say?

please take a leave and lie
in the open meadow of time
until you cry.

earth is where you end when all is done~
the flower closes
with the setting sun~

but sky is where the wind can fly
and where the clouds will wipe
your tearful eye.

poem at 3 am

the earth is round
yet we divide it into squares.

we live in square houses,
in square rooms,
eat from round bowls
and round plates
each at a square table.

at night, we lie
each in a square bed
beneath the round moon.

will we ever fit together?

my thoughts go around
my round head~
they fly in circles
before lying down
in straight lines
on a square of paper;

then, line after line of thought
circles out from the square
of paper,
concentric circles circling out,
the pebble of a thought
tossed into the pond
of the universe…

one night, i too will lie
down in a straight line,
merely a thought
among other thoughts,
not connected except by shape,
not fitting the circle
of the earth.

i am a square,
a square peg,
a block-head
with a round hole
in the bullseye of my heart
that nothing stops

and i lift my round eyes
to the great circle of the sky
in wonder.

when I read your poem
i want to write
i want to never write again

when i read your poem
i want to live
i want to never live again
as i have been living
i want to die
and begin again

when i read your poem
i want to be
a better man
i want to be a scholar
a poet
a painter
i want to make a mark
worth making
on the history of man

it is not that i
have been asleep
not the way
you sleep in a bed

but when i read your poem
i wake

a part of me
long frozen in the dark
wakes

as if a light
were suddenly put on
in a forgotten room
of my soul

keys

another excerpt from keys

i dream
of inserting my key
into your lock

and rotating it
until your inner parts move
with a shudder
that releases the stops

and you open
like a treasure box
like a mystery
like a door onto the night...

excerpt from keys

i will leave a key for you
hidden by the door.

do not let the locks delay you~
they are paper and string
and not even sealed.

there is just one key
to open the door

and it sings

so you will find it easily
if you listen.

it sings in key
of course,

it sings in harmony
and you will be humming

as you enter.

song for judy collins

sunshine comes slowly
sunshine comes slowly
sunshine comes slowly
in the promised land

nightfall comes quickly
nightfall comes quickly
nightfall comes quickly
in the promised land

stars will fall
from the mighty hall
stars will fall
in the promised land
stars will fall
in the promised land

sunrise comes slowly
warming the lowly
sunrise comes slowly
in the promised land

darkness comes quickly
cooling the sickly
darkness comes quickly
in the promised land

stars will fall
from the mighty hall
stars will fall
in the promised land
stars will fall
in the promised land

predictions for 2010

some things

some houses are cozy
some houses are cold
some houses embrace you
and watch you grow old

some gardens are fertile
some gardens are bare
some gardens are quirky
the neighbors will stare

some doors open heaven
some doors open hell
some doors open dreams
sometimes you cant tell

some windows show weather
some windows show walls
some windows are broken
and some are too small

some stairs go up
and some stairs go down
some stairs go nowhere
just round and round

some mirrors are cruel
some mirrors are kind
some reflect fools
while others are blind

some chairs are hard
some chairs are soft
some chairs are strong
and will hold you aloft

some beds are cozy
some beds are cold
some beds embrace you
and stories are told

some clothes are cruel
some clothes are kind
some adorn fools
youd think they were blind

some friends are here
some friends are gone
some friends will find
the place they belong

some friends are cruel
some friends are kind
some friends will love you
to the end of time

some things are friendly
some things are foe
some things are perfect
but you just never know

some things are heavy
some things are light
some things will hold you
all through the night

there is no home but your heart.

even the ocean
which draws the poison from my soul
like a poultice

cannot house the furniture of my life
nor shelter the delicate china of my work.

i am indigent without your love.

the source of my poems
is not the sea, not the sky ~

though the breadth of these
is a glimpse
of the face of god…

no, the source of poetry
is not an expanse of blue
nor an unfathomable depth

but instead the soft fresh green
of the garden
blossoming in the chamber of your heart

where i live.

if you have not seen the earth
from the sky
you should go.

if you have not been a slow-moving cloud
you should try.

if you have not been a gentle breeze
give yourself the gift
of flight

and know
the caress of leaves.

land is where you end

but sky
is where the heart is light
and the soul is free.

it is not a song
but birds are chirping again.

it is not a poem
but i am writing notes and lists
and sometimes
that is how love begins.

now the road is dry enough to pass
and i will make the trip to market~
how i have missed
apples and almonds, chocolate and wine...

maybe the post office is holding a letter...

rain and wind have come and gone
but in my heart
the weather of my soul remains.

body of water

i have grown weary of the vase-form,
of the vase as art form,
of the utter saddness of
a useful object
unused.

a bowl is no better~
its openness begging for substance
like a body for soul.

i want to fill it with foil-wrapped chocolates
or river stones
or late-summer lavender seeds

but a bowl is more soul
than body
and how it is filled
is to be done with gravity.

the art of the vase
and the art of the bowl
has become more art
than vase or bowl
and the preciousness of the form
foils the usefulness
of the vessel.

the hand of the craftsman
fills the vase,
fills the bowl
in its making
and the print of the maker
remains through the fire.

such is the art of the art.

i have grown weary
of the body as art form,
of the body as only skin-deep,
of the surface
being the sum of the whole.

i long to be a vessel of dreams,
the perfume of eternity
filling my form;

i long to hold the flowers of ecstasy,
the transcendental soup of the divine

and shatter the artifice,
the self-consciousness
of my art.

eating god

in the presence of the poet,

all is poetry;

in the presence of the lover,

all is love.

come to the banquet hungry

and ready to dance.

there is no sound

but music and singing;

there is no life

but celebration and gratitude.

has your invitation been misplaced?

have your ears been plugged?

you cannot remain dry

in the pool of devotion;

you cannot remain rigid

in the wind of the divine.

come to the celebration-feast hungry

and with dance in your heart.

http://royanthonyshabla.com

eating god

God offers you soup.

you say,

“I’m not hungry.”

“I’m not cold.”

God offers you a seat.

you say,

“I’m not weary.”

“I’m not talkative.”

are you ashamed to be honored?

are you ashamed to admit

your true hunger?

your true weariness?

the preparation of food is God’s work.

and the service of food is God’s work.

the eating of food is devotion.

the offering is God’s work.

acceptance is ours.

http://royanthonyshabla.com

eating god

all here is illusion.

this disease is not me

and will not go with me when I leave.

this loneliness is not real.

I am held in the constant embrace of the divine.

there is celebration in my soul

though there is heartache in my body.

the vast emptiness of my purse

and the vast fullness of yours

are distraction:

there is no need;

there is only grace and joy.

I do not need shelter

for God is my home.

I do not need food;

I am eating God like a glutton.

I dress in fine cloth

for the great gratitude of the gift

knowing well the sun and the wind and the rain

are my truer garments;

the stars in heaven my truer jewels.

understand that all here is grace and joy

because grace and joy are the only things that are real.

illness is temporary.

Truth is eternal.

where is your devotion?

suffering is temporary.

God is eternal.

where is your devotion?

where is your church?

and what is your altar?

abandon your religion of despair

and convert to bliss.

the hunger in your heart is the grand illusion;

the banquet of the soul is laid out before you.

the weariness with your life is a bad dream.

wake up! and run in the field of reality.

the black and the white is not true.

it is not you.

and it will not go with you when you leave.

http://royanthonyshabla.com