May Poem by Doug Tanoury

by

May 2004

Spring comes to me now
Like either a green hiatus
Or an abrupt scene change
In the surrealistic landscape of some dream
And I am neither fully awake
Nor completely aware
Of all its meaning and import.

The willows awaken
In wisps of pale and subtle growth
That forms around their branches like a mist,
A nimbus of color,
That sways in the breeze on May mornings
In ways that reminds me of the soft movement of air
In a woman’s hair.

I walk through the day,
A somnambulist’s unconscious journey,
Seeing, but not seeing,
Hearing, but not hearing,
Feeling, but not feeling,
Perceiving, but not perceiving.

And when I talk, it is the one sided
Soliloquy of a sleeper’s dialoged
Where each word I whisper
Has the visible substance of the vapor
Exhaled with each breath
Onto the frozen air of a January morning.

I dream of spring,
Of soft breezes and mild mornings
And of the sycamores
That awaken ever so slowly
And will not show a hint of foliage
Until the first days of June.
________________________________________

About Doug Tanoury

Doug Tanoury is primarily a poet of the Internet with the majority of his work
never leaving electronic form. His verse can be read at electronic magazines and
journals across the world. Collections of poetry by Doug Tanoury can be found
at Funky Dog Publishing http://www.funkydogpublishing.com and Athens
Avenue http://mywebpages.comcast.net/dtanoury1/Athens/index.htm
This and other ebook collections of poetry by Doug Tanoury can be read and
downloaded at: http://home.comcast.net/~dtanoury1/Tanoury.html
Doug grew up in Detroit, Michigan and still lives in the area.
Doug Tanoury credits his 7th grade poetry anthology from Sister Debra’s English class,
Reflections On A Gift Of Watermelon Pickle And Other Modern Verse, (Stephen Dunning,
Edward Lueders and Hugh Smith, (c) 1966 by Scott Foresman & Company) as exerting the
greatest influence on his work. He still keeps a copy of
it at his writing desk.
***

August Poem by Doug Tanoury

by

August

This afternoon
The day lily’s
Abundant blooms
Of canary and crimson,
Leave me mute and unmoved,

And the hammock
Hanging weightless
Between greenness of grass
And blueness of sky
Lulls me to silence,

And in the night,
In the darkness, under the trees,
Where the branches
Of the ash meet the maple,
I sit quiet,

For the night sky
On summer nights
Glowing purple in the West,
Translucent and backlit,
Leaves me wordless.
***

I am the Only Man Who Ever Lived Poem by David Michael Jackson

by

FOR WILLIE
who am I to say musician
to say poet
who am I
to say artist
every human needs to say
these
these are the only hands
these are the supreme hands
I am the only man who ever lived
a mammal in a lair
snarling when cornered
like Dylan’s wolverine
gasping for the last breath
for the last word ever uttered by
mankind itself

***

Looking at the Ceiling Poem by David Michael Jackson

by

Texture

A textured ceiling
with the shadows intact,
like the moment of
the mason,
the
craft,
the
art,
unnoticed in the
sale of
cotton canvas in
the department store,
in
the moment of
submission,
that moment.
The textures demand it,
they demand it.
They demand the painting,
the undefined expression of
what?
Only the moment
suspended in
what?
A suspension bridge to
truth,
to
you.
***