Thursday, April 17, 2014

Held Up By Hope

Hopi Warrior Earthware by Joseph Cerno Sr. 
Crocker Art Museum, Sacramento
—Photo by Michelle Kunert

(Don't Want To Know)
—Michael Lerman, Elk Grove
I'm sparingly traveling, just to barely unravel it.
Too much knowledge, and you can level anything,
downgrade beauty to vanity and love to lust.
What's the capacity when getting to know us?
Too much reality, and my heart might be lost.
Just her trust, that is all I ever wanted.
My love is haunted, but she can't see romance in ghosts.
She sees romance in pros, avoiding all the nature's cons.
But river never flows, unless there is a crack that runs.
And I was perfect, once, but beauty isn't always a perfection.
It's nature's brilliant exception, a drawing sketched by inspiration,
when sounds of ovations draws silhouettes of those great expectations.
But I'll be patient, 'cause future is mirage held up by hope.
I'll grab the shining rope and pull myself up to the moon,
turn earth from night to afternoon, so I can see the world my way.
Some things are better late than soon, and I don't want to know tomorrow's day.


—Michael Lerman

Green grass flows through tunnel of cement walls.
As rain from ceiling falls, heart knows that sun still glows.
As I ignore the noise of woes, I hear the voice of love that grows.
I see how good my story goes, as I shut eyes in peaceful bliss.
I think tomorrow's memories, so they become what is.
I like that I exist, that I can feel these miracle vibrations.
Star-studded constellations, light peeks through holes of my mind's roof.
My ears and eyes don't ask for proof, I simply know.
Reality is past and doesn't move.  My heart is in the flow.
Like flake that's part of snow, I'm instance of an infinite beginning.
The universe is spinning, like light bunnies on my ceiling.
I'm swimming through this feeling.  The pool is filled with summer night.
The moonlight is my guide.  It leads me to the door of flying windmill.
Like secret that is sealed, inside, there is a chest that only I can open.
My smile is a token that's unspoken, and gears start working, unlocking copper chest.
I look inside and gasp.  I see myself in sleep, without a care, in deepest rest.


—Michael Lerman

Blinking film frames, slightly tilted.
Trees from concrete, city-wilted.
We have built it.  Now, we're climbing.
That's how mine is, so is yours.
That's how we remember it, from birth.
We cannot rehearse, but we sure do try.
It's the play, called life.  Doesn't matter if you're high
in a highrise fortress, or sprawling in the mansion.
All of us are homeless.  Wall is comforting invention.
Some don't like to mention address, 'cause they feel evicted.
Heart restricted, soul begins to wonder.
Mind goes under, drowning in footsteps and raindrops.
Numbing rhythm, I wish this sidewalk never stops.
Stoned by rocks, this high can feel so heavy.
These blocks of envy, gates that shut like gavels.
All hopes are empty, except for graceful ending to my travels.


—Michael Lerman

It's all so bubbling, and it's all so troubling.
It's all so humbling, whether we're soaring or stumbling.
Sometimes, so struggling in this infinity.
But please, remember that we are divinity, pure light that's free.
This universe, pure love, it's all so you and me.
You have to see that I love you so unconditionally.
This physical reality, you know, it's just a game we play.
I don't remember how we came to stay, it's bitter-sweet.
I think we're here to learn how in a darkness, light of love is lit.
Sometimes we feel so sad, as if this instance won't repeat.
This instance we call life, the joy of feeling our heartbeat.
Please know that this forever will repeat, so don't shed tears.
We are eternal ships that always find their piers.
Subconscious memories, sometimes, our only tips.
You loved the way I kissed your lips, the way I looked into your eyes.
Try to remember me, 'cause I might be just static when your eye lids rise.


—Michael Lerman

Toss and turn, for what is it that I yearn?
There's nothing else to learn, just be myself and take my truest form.
Rejecting earthly norm, my soul is breaking free from limitations.
Bliss could be formed, if I can just succeed in raising my vibrations.
I feel the tiring sensations, beliefs that are so planted in my head.
Doubts from disappointments I had.  At last, I have no fears.
Like salt, they melted in my tears, with stereotypes from thousands of years.
As old and rusted gears, those centuries still carry on with time.
Sometimes I am a mime, sometimes court jester that's so loud.
I could be villain of true crime.  I could be hero in self-doubt.
I'm king, so glorified by fearful crowd, or maybe poet heard by none.
I died as soldier that's unsung.  I'm general of losing battle that I won.
It all goes on right now, in different lives I chose to have.
And still I'm only me, myself, awake by memories, uncertain thoughts.
It's like I'm reading faded notes, attempting to play melodies with fingers that are numb.
I close my eyes, let go of words.  I'm trusting now that sleep will come, that sleep will come.

Earthenware Seed Pot by Joseph Cerno Sr 
Crocker Art Museum
—Photo by Michelle Kunert

I recall once finding a wedding bouquet ditched in a parking lot
  It still had fresh-cut purple iris along with lavender and fern greenery
  and I begged Mom to let me take it home to stick in water
  because apparently whomever caught it at the end of ceremony
  didn't even bother to throw it in the trash if they didn't want it
  I kept this bouquet on the kitchen table till it was wilted brown
  and wondered if something similar would happen to the marriage it represented
  After that I thought weddings should instead have live flowers
  the kind that one can plant to see bloom again and again
  preferably like the kind to give hope to a loved one in a hospital

—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento


I pulled yet-unbloomed sunflowers from my garden plot
  dozens just sprouted up suddenly everywhere like weeds
  though I planted just two last year
  the sunflowers usurped water from the squash plants
  as well as taking room for my greens to grow
  No need either for any shade from the sunflowers—
  I threw them into the compost pile
  where their decay will serve nicely

—Michelle Kunert


Today's LittleNip:

I have recurring dreams I hate—
  such as being suddenly naked in public
  or filthy bathrooms where I have to pee
  I don't hate the dreams where I write poetry
  or the others where I paint pictures
  what I hate is when I wake up—
  I can't remember what I wrote
  and briefly wonder, where's my art?

—Michelle Kunert


—Medusa, with thanks to today's contributors.  In the late 1990s, during the revolutionary age for independent artists, Michael Lerman wrote song lyrics, collaborated with composers/producers.  Many demos were produced, in styles that ranged from Pop, to Rock, to Trance, to fusion of different genres.  Some songs have received radio play in Norway, and an independent album was released in Japan.  In the beginning of the first decade of the 21st century, Michael served as a Hip Hop Ghostwriter.  In 2008, feeling constricted by the standard song format and limited by classic poetry, Michael concentrated on writing, independently from anyone, in a style to which he refers as Abstract Hip Hop Poetry.  At this time, you can follow Michael’s journey in an on-going book.  Visit to check out the current version.   

It's a very busy weekend here in NorCal poetry: scroll down to the blue box (under the green box) at the right of this column to check out all the happenings!

Skull Jar Earthenware by Lisa Holt & Harlan Reano 
Crocker Art Museum
—Photo by Michelle Kunert