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Showing posts with label Doug Draime. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Doug Draime. Show all posts

Thursday, October 15, 2015

Full Moon

by Doug Draime

rain drops
on tulips

dark red
as roses

Sunday, September 20, 2015

Orchid

by Doug Draime

touching, like falling
  through foggy, foggy clouds
of utter shit storms,

holds movement and
      perpetuates movement

all at once.
Where in bright sunlight
an orchid, caresses.

Sunday, September 13, 2015

Proverb

by Doug Draime

Five thousand years
of solid darkness,

can not hold its own
to one
shifting slither
of light.

Tuesday, September 8, 2015

Oregon Coast

by Doug Draime

Tide pools
sand dollars
gull-dung  &
pippins dancing in the surf like
                bow-legged children

Sunday, August 30, 2015

A Silence of Printed Thought

by Doug Draime

The
ash
of it
not
even a
tiny
smear
upon
the earth

Sunday, August 9, 2015

Remedy

by Doug Draime

Cascades of chiseled light
above tornadoes of burning
civilizations

Yet innocence conquers the warring
in the black hearts of fools

Tuesday, August 4, 2015

Televised On ABC For Us All To Watch

by Doug Draime

No one wanted to watch the films, or listen to
the sounds of torture  ...  at the dinner table
everyone held America flags,
made in China to ripple in freeway wind,
on Japanese cars.

In the nation’s capital they were eating food: $5000
a plate. The guests were politicians, generals, bankers,
brokers, CEO’s of corrupt and sinister corporations, IRS mucky mucks,
movie stars, assassins, informers, FBI, CIA, murderers and assorted
thieves ... the cream of America’s disease.

Tuesday, July 7, 2015

Is It Ever Spring Anymore?

by Doug Draime

Outside the robins return
Pecking the thawing backyard earth
Like benevolent and silent jack hammers
They are relentless, only pausing cautiously
For sounds of human beings: banging  crushing
Yelling  spewing the arrogance of
Self consumption into the cool polluted air

Tuesday, June 30, 2015

When The Sun Rises

by Doug Draime

I want to hear
the bird’s song, that’s all. The
meadowlark in the dense dark oaks,
or the whippoorwill crooning
to and fro in the sun
of the sycamores. I grow so damn
weary of the human sound,
flashing on with its artificial light
and the rat-tat-tat sound
of the collective Ego,
spinning on its
perpetually bloodied,
nowhere wheels. I want to hear
the blue jay high up
in the maple tree, squawking
a shrill celebration. A thrush singing
to me from the birch tree.