Yea, sometimes I do too, but sometimes not... This was one of those
mornings... Ahhhh, where the hell is summer?

On a rocking chair

Come with me now… I don’t remember a morning quite like this. I am
facing the eastern Sun, on a porch, in a rocking chair, overlooking a
bay, that leads out to the ocean.

Back a little, now forward again…

Sun’s warming rays greet me and the new day. Air so still… No wind at
all. Before me is the large bay any painter or photographer would try to
capture. In fact, many have…

Back a little, now forward again…

Rock cliffs of all sizes fall to the sea on the opposite side. But
first, directly in front of me… a small green lawn slopping slightly to
the old stone walking path. Worn well by 200 plus years of coastal Maine
weather and the occasional seaside wanderer.

Back a little, now forward again…

Sun is illuminating the dew in such a way… On each and every blade of
grass a single dew drop sparkles. 100 billion luminous crowns are
greeting the day.

Back a little, now forward again…

An optimistic day of new beginnings arises inside me. Sea gulls calling
out just to hear themselves. There’s a brief hint of night’s cool still
flavoring the morning the air, but the Sun is warming up my face, quite
nicely.

Back a little, now forward again…

And then there’s the sea… Such a beautiful bay over which I sit. No
barreling crashing waves, just the gentle lapping of salt water on wet
rocks at low tide. The smell of it all permeates everything. Probably my
soul as well…

Back a little, now forward again…
Ahh yes…

Back a little, now forward again…

Back a little, now forward again…

When peace was first described… This was what they probably meant.


© Curtis Gould 9/20/06

An OAP or an OUP ?


This poem is an officially approved poem, or OAP as we like to call them
in the trades, by me, the author. I have carefully… well maybe not so
carefully thought of what it should say. The idea to write this poem is
unfolding as I go along… And now, I will declare that I have no prior
knowledge of the words that I am currently writing, nor have I spent
anytime doing this kind of thing in the past, or for that matter, plan
to do so in the future. I really have not thought this through at all
what so ever… I promise.

By the time I finish this piece of writing, I may just read it back to
myself and completely delete it off of my computer… (anything is
possible). It may appear pointless and trite to my overly critical mind,
but then again, I may just leave it in “my documents” folder to never
see the light of day again. I’m really not sure what I will do with it
at this point… this much I know.

On the other hand, maybe this poem will not be approved by me, the
author. (I can do this, “poetic license” and all that stuff) If that’s
the case, then it will become an officially unapproved poem, or an OUP.
If that happens and it this OUP gets published somewhere, then maybe I
will be able to sue the author for copywrite infringement, or some other
obscure or obvious legal violation… Assuming that this is the case, I
should be able to win a large cash settlement. Or maybe they will want
to settle out of court… Either way it’s a “win win” for me.

I know, I know, it is terrible to be involved in litigations like this,
especially with the author of an officially unapproved poem or OUP! But
hey! Right is right and fair is fair! They should have thought it
through before they went ahead and published this OUP, especially since
that now I have decided, to make it official.
This officially, is an officially unapproved poem by me, the author.


© Curtis Gould 4/9/07

An OAP or an OUP ?


This poem is an officially approved poem, or OAP as we like to call them
in the trades, by me, the author. I have carefully… well maybe not so
carefully thought of what it should say. The idea to write this poem is
unfolding as I go along… And now, I will declare that I have no prior
knowledge of the words that I am currently writing, nor have I spent
anytime doing this kind of thing in the past, or for that matter, plan
to do so in the future. I really have not thought this through at all
what so ever… I promise.

By the time I finish this piece of writing, I may just read it back to
myself and completely delete it off of my computer… (anything is
possible). It may appear pointless and trite to my overly critical mind,
but then again, I may just leave it in “my documents” folder to never
see the light of day again. I’m really not sure what I will do with it
at this point… this much I know.

On the other hand, maybe this poem will not be approved by me, the
author. (I can do this, “poetic license” and all that stuff) If that’s
the case, then it will become an officially unapproved poem, or an OUP.
If that happens and it this OUP gets published somewhere, then maybe I
will be able to sue the author for copywrite infringement, or some other
obscure or obvious legal violation… Assuming that this is the case, I
should be able to win a large cash settlement. Or maybe they will want
to settle out of court… Either way it’s a “win win” for me.

I know, I know, it is terrible to be involved in litigations like this,
especially with the author of an officially unapproved poem or OUP! But
hey! Right is right and fair is fair! They should have thought it
through before they went ahead and published this OUP, especially since
that now I have decided, to make it official.
This officially, is an officially unapproved poem by me, the author.


© Curtis Gould 4/9/07

The journey back home

(For anyone who has to travel on an commercial jet these days)


Dropping off the rental car making sure nothing is left behind,
My carry on is rolling like an obedient dog, just like it was designed.

I slid this worn credit card in the self check computer slot,
And print out a boarding pass and join the rest of today’s traveling
lot.

Now shoeless with all my metal in the big plastic tray,
I line up to enter the air blowing bomb-sniffing display.

It’s time for java, now that I have gained the inner gate,
With cup and a low fat muffin in hand, I look for a nice place to wait.

After a while I hear it’s time to file onto this great flying bird,
I hope to God it’s not like the last time, when I had to sit next to
that computer nerd.

An aisle seat is where I always like to be,
Just in case of the event that I have to get up and go pee.

Seat buckled, book in hand, and all cell phones turned off,
Into the wild blue yonder, we gain the blue sky’s great loft.

I try to get comfy in the tiny little airline seat,
But its no use as the big beverage dolly, my right shoulder it seems to
like to greet.

I eventually doze off for a blissful visit into the mystic,
Only to come back due to the fact that my neck is all twisted.

Finally after hours we do land, this journey’s almost finished.
Only now, the memory of where I parked my car, has completely
diminished!


Curtis Gould

I just came by to read some stuff,
and found these lines, some were quite rough.
So now I add mine to see where this might go,
Where this poem goes? Who the hell knows!

Thanks for the tour, It was fun and well written. Take care, Curtis.

I liked the last entry the best... Thanks. Curtis.

thanks for sharing this one.

Thanks. I am just trying to figure out this site. Take care,Curtis.

Tzeltal

At George’s 50th birthday party bash the yellow rum cake was fussed over
until it was all gone, as luck would have it, there were still a few
crumbs left scattered on the porcelain plate, like a couple of lonely
people up at 3:00 am. in a deserted Italian plaza, watching the beggars
fish the day’s coins from the fountain.

“Canada’s Prime minister is gay?” “No, the plot was all wrong, she
should have found the missing manuscript, not him.” “They have been
having problems ever since he got back from Tzeltal.” “Who ever said
love cures all, never knew my partner’s ex girlfriend.” “Organic lemons
at $1.59 each? No thank you, I’ll stick with GMO any time.” “That’s like
saying Ozzie and Harriet led the Manson Family.” “I am not kidding,
Illinois State Prison graduated 20 of them last year.” “I know, Y Tu
Mama Tambien, came but I have not yet had the time to watch it.” “No
more Dewer’s? Canadian Club with a splash then.” “Like some god damn
Egyptian god on his god damn barge.” “Try after five, that’s when he
always comes up for air.” “Sure they are implants.”

After a deserted glass of white wine was knocked off the railing and
fell to the bricks below, it was decided just to leave all the pieces
down there because they were far too small to see at that late hour and
besides, the mist off the lake was starting to pour in, bringing a
slight chill.

Then the full harvest moon rose up silently in the East, like a lover
lifting her pale head from a pillow, telling everyone it was time to
retreat and get some rest,
because there probably would be a dream waiting in the night to be had,
only to be completely forgotten in the morning,
except by a lucky few, yet to be determined.


© Curtis Gould

Poetry pays

I’ve decided to pay for everything with poetry and prose. And why not?

So on my way to the pool this morning, I will stop to get gas and after
filling the car up with regular unleaded, I will give the guy at the
register a poem about being in the woods at dawn called, “Being in the
woods at Dawn”.

Later, with my shopping cart full, at Hannaford’s the grocery store, in
the number three 3 check out aisle, I will hand “Flo”, the smiling
little old gray haired check out lady a nice poem about having some of
those light bulb/epiphany moments. You know, the kind that you get
sometimes when you’re driving for hours on the highway, but then you
forget them because you don’t have anything to write them down on? Yup,
those kinds…

Once I get home, I will mail in my mortgage payment. I will write a poem
about traumatic childhood memories long forgotten until something or
someone jogs them, and they suddenly start getting remembered. It will
be called “I’m five and lost in a Woolworths department store”. I will
fold it ever so carefully, like a letter and put it into the payment
envelope and then walk down to the mailbox and after placing it in, will
put the little red flag up.

Tonight at dinner, in that fancy Mediterranean restaurant called “Oasis”
where I like to sometimes go, I will bring a really juicy erotic poem
with me. It will be about… Well you can just imagine what it will be
about… After the fantastic meal is over, I will produced the poem and
say smugly, “Keep the change, honey”. I will even add another piece
which I will write out on the napkin, which will be the complete
explanation of all the hidden meanings in the poem, sort of like a
writer’s commentary, as an additional tip…

Now I can finally go on that vacation! I am going to buy one of those
package deals which will included the air fares and accommodations plus
all meals for two, at one of those swanky resorts in Acapulco, Mexico.
They are going to get a poem about how pets and their owners sometimes
share looks and personality traits. As a matter of fact, apparently
that’s the case with me… People who know me often claim that kia, my dog
and I look alike. She is very sweet and cute, so I always take that as
a compliment.

So now I will have it made! My Poetry will pay for everything! Finally I
can start living it up! All this time of sitting here each early morning
and writing are finally going to start paying off…

© Curtis Gould

Poems



Some of them rhyme,
They flow and glide,
A point in fact,
They seem to ease one’s troubled mind.

Some of them don’t,
“Opened versed”,
Which in many cases,
I would venture,
Work just as well,
Bringing a big wide smile,
Or a chuckle,
Or just a
simple
nod.

Some are short.
To the
point.

Some of them are extremely long and go on and on and on and on and on
and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on
and on and on and on and on and on and
so on.

And
Some
Take a shape
As you read them
Pleasing one’s eye pallet.
Nice!
Yes?

Some can be read,
(Over and over again)
They make no sense.
No matter how many times one reads them,
One is left wondering,
What is this supposed to mean?

When his frozen star flower currently of the
Strong tissues that wave,
Are in screaming lit buildings,
They will float past the rumpled fat taster,
And seeing her,
Will often cry out,
“Gentle boxer with the beer harness!
Why must we go puffy down…?”

What?

And then there’s this one…
Which,
If you managed to read it all the way through,
You can’t help but notice that,
In the middle it just simply…
Ends.


Curtis Gould