Title:
Fire and Rain - Selected Poems 1997-2007 Vol. 2
Author:
RD Armstrong
Genre: Poetry, Trade Paper, 6X9
Publisher: Lummox Press (PO Box 5301 San Pedro, CA 90733-5301)
www.lummoxpress.com
ISBN: 978-1-929878-97-0
Pages: 154
Publishing Date: October 2008
Retail: $15 + shipping
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The second volume in this collection by Raindog (RD Armstrong) continues to showcase his work as both poet and writer,
Here are some responses from readers of this book:
“For Armstrong the Blues are not played, but lived – his poems are the observations of a life lived raw. He hides no sin, expects no redemption and asks no forgiveness...” – Bill Gainer – poet, editor, publisher
"I usually don't pay more than $10 for poetry books unless your name is Bukowski, Ginsberg or Plath but nearly every poem spoke to me in a special way. Keep on doing what you're doing." -- Carl Stilwell
“So many poets put out such boring stuff. Your book is really keeping me going.“ – Pris Campbell
"In this era of burgeoning social dysfunction, and its transitive residue on the person, through world, state, economics, religion, family, relationship and god knows whatever the hell else, autobiographical (not confessional) poetry is of paramount importance. At its best, it bears personal witness to all these things, declares supporting solidarity with others, and in the spirit of hope, points to salvation. These RD does to a compelling Fare- thee-well in F&R Vol.2.* Read it for your troubled and alienated soul. It’s worth the pain." -- Steve Goldman
Here are a few poems from this volume...
YardBird Burned
YardBird burned
All Wick -- No Candle
Made it to the sun and back
Unlike Icarus --
YardBird couldn’t burn out --
his spirit was the flame by which
HE burned.
YardBird burned
‘til there was only
a husk left
‘til all the notes --
the be-boppin’ bitty
black notes --
were piled at his feet
like cigar ash.
YardBird
swung his sax
in a mighty arc
like an ax
spinning like
a Dervish
carving
a niche
out of the
“don’t-take-it-for”
granite walls
of Swing-Jazz-Tradition.
YardBird shaped
a Bop See-gar-cough-a-gus
out of his to-brief-time
spent on planet Earth.
The Bop-line
firing volley after volley
of bitty-black notes
skyward -- unleashing
them like blackbirds
blotting out reality’s
harsh light ‘til
the wee-wee hours.
YardBird was never
at ease, at rest
Fingers always a blur
accelerating
ACCELERATING
ACCELERATING
until time shifted gears
in self-defense --
into SLOW-motion then to
stand
still.
YardBird smiled ‘cause
only he saw the joke.
YardBird burned.
Did not really play
his sax -- it played him
Played him until his “reed”
fell apart -- broke down
disintegrated
Broke Bird down --
Time finished him
with a smile
on his face --
death by cosmic relief
You say it was H that
took his life but you
are wrong.
H lulled Mr Charley
into slowing down
Hip-no-(N)ticed him
H slowed him down --
promised him the means
to survive this heartbreak
We call surviving.
H slowed the bird down --
gave Time a clean shot.
Time took it from there.
YardBird Burns Still
In Haiku
It's always
The moon
In the
Bucket.
Always the
China doll
With porcelain
Skin as pale
And white
As snow.
You never hear
About the tiny
Cracks, or the
Other signs of age.
In Haiku
All is timeless.
It's always
The moon
In the
Bucket.
Never the
Razor’s bite
Or the sting
Of aftershave.
In Haiku
It's always
The moon
In the
Bucket.
Always the
Ship dissecting
Mt. Fuji’s
Calm
Reflection.
Always the
Heron
Taking
Inventory.
Always the
Thoughts of
You turning
In your sleep
Pulling the
Sheets tightly
To your breast.
In Haiku
The kiss lingers
Snow never melts
Rain mists gently
And
The moon
In the
Bucket
Always returns
No matter
How long
It takes.
Something About Crickets
After the world got
Suddenly old and
Manhattan pulled this
Gray blanket tightly
To it’s neck
The air filled with
An odd sound: A
Warbling of sorts as if
A fleet of tiny alarms
Had gone off simultaneously.
Don’t these crickets know that
It’s not yet nightfall?
Why can’t they just get
Up and dust themselves off
And fly home to their
Families?
When a firefighter is immobile for a certain length of time, an alarm that is sewn into his coat is activated. This alarm sounds like a high pitched warbling. On September 11, 01 the air around the WTC was filled for a time with this sound as hundreds of firefighters were buried under debris…
CITY: [NO E]SCAPE
of living here
alone in this
sprawl of lights
and concrete
and sweat
of placing one
foot in front
of the other
huffing my way
around this concrete
racetrack with
one eye on the carrot
and the other looking
over my shoulder
waiting for the man
to slap me on the back
and say, “Come on, boy
we got your sorry ass now”
Living on dreams
working all the angles
getting love whenever
and however not just
from sex but from a smile
or the way light bounces
off a car window on the street or
from the smell of midnight
blooming jasmine from a song
on the radio while you
know you’re driving your
life sideways away from
the current dream that keeps you
moving along and you know
that at that moment that
song can say “love” more
deeply than all the late-night
kisses and penetrating looks
your lover can give you
And you can only appreciate
and savor that moment alone
because you are alone mostly
you and your ride a clean
window and light traffic
the music sometimes beautiful
sometimes ugly beyond belief
but always there even
when the radio is silent always
there in the stillness of that
moment in the presence of
the cityscape that rolls past you
like a silent movie with a
separate sound track of
whoosh and roar of song and
chatter and honk and sirens
wail and tires hum & whine
you watch it day in and
day out from the safety
of your head from the
theater of one
What is it that keeps us
in a particular groove?
What force keeps us from
jumping right out
and sliding into another
like some miraculous
recovery?
There is a longing a
gnawing in the gut an
aching in the soul that is
always present always
your companion like an old
injury that never healed
right or an unpaid debt
or a piece of karmic grit
that may or may not
become a pearl of wisdom
a knowledge that something
ain’t right here you sense it
but mostly you ignore it
block it out this feeling of
incompletion as if it could be
buried beneath the daily
input the daily ration of
numbness another course
of bricks another coat of paint
another hour of the silent
movie in the theater of one
another moment rolling past
where you look out and in
the absence of a star look
instead at the lights
on Echo Park lake and make
a wish for a theater of two
for someone to share the
silent movie with for
someone to confirm to
bear witness to the silent movie
to the magical play of light
and sound and the wonder and
horror of it all
Left foot right foot
step step stepping
huff huff huffing
roll roll rolling
Right foot left foot
keep moving
don’t stop now
where’s that carrot?
who’s that behind me
left foot
right foot
going
going
gone
sultry under a gray
watercolor sky
Four crows in a line
one riding shotgun
cut diagonally through
the late-morning air
In the oil field wasteland
marsh grass bows
away from sheets of rain
a crane contemplates
its wrinkled reflection
Standing in line
on a rainy Saturday
later afternoon blues drifts
in with wind’s eastbound rush
fickle storm blunders
through town
The light
flickers in and out
stucco and glass shield me
a wild heart calls
the world turns
as if to look
it’s spring
and the search
for love
continues.