When All My Poems Are Gone
When all my poems are gone
I shall dream
Of wordless rhymes on empty papers
Written by inkless pens
They shall flow
Endlessly and forever into the seas
For all to hear
On each breaking wave
And I shall sit on sandless beaches
And wait
And wait
And wait for my poems
To come in
Enter your text here
Until All The Leaves Fall Again
While my house slept silently
I stepped from the doorway
Into a cold October night
With the sweetening sent of autumn
And fresh fragrance of dying leaves
Dancing all about me
The wind guided me to that special place
A place where you and I always met
Only to find nothing
But a scattering of summer
Tossed haphazardly on the ground
I know that you have gone home
Back to the city lights and sounds of traffic
But next year
When we gather for summer
And the barn fires burn high
Touching the stars
I shall return here
To the sound of trees bursting with life
The stars falling into the morning
When all the leaves of autumn fall again
A First Time Meeting
Your smile is captivating
When I look at you
It pleases my eyes
I listen to your voice
And even though we have never met
I have heard it many times
Somewhere, sometime not too long ago
I feel easy
Almost entranced
As my voice fails me
There is warmth
That surrounds you
And as the chilly of the evening comes near
I wonder if I might warm myself
In the fire of your glow
POEMS
Patty’s Underpants
Though she left
Hours ago
Just lying there
Over the bedroom chair
Hanging leisurely
As if to say
Good morning
Moving Meditation
I watched for hours
As a piece of paper
Danced in the wind
Moving gently along the ground
Then suddenly
Tossed into the air
Before floating down
Again and again
Only to dance once more
Along the ground
With the wind
It’s that time again. Birds fly north, trees explode, and the earth becomes a pallet for God. Here within these pages, in black and white, I have tried to give you all the colors of a rainbow. A window, if you will, not only into my life, but yours as well.
In my youth, I was as most young men, insensitive to the advice of those much wiser than myself. By ignoring “good advice” I opened myself up to the experiences of life, which in hindsight were not always favorable. However, in the end, these hard learned lessons helped forge the person I am today.
I come from a family of immigrants who worked their way into the middle class with (pardon the phrase) blood, sweat and tears. The work ethics that were handed down to me are all that is left of my heritage. I found, as I grew older, that my family was not bound by love, but rather by need. The need to improve, the need to better themselves, but most of all… the need assimilate into society. As a child, deprived of love, I have searched all over the world to fill this great void. Strange as it may seem, you might say that this “void” was the legacy left to me by my parents. It was… a most wondrous gift!
In my life I have been a soldier, a philosopher, an engineer, a massage therapist, a musician, a martial artist, a writer and a poet. Looking back, I find when I put all of these together in some mysterious way; it makes sense that I have become a romantic. I don’t quite understand it, but it flows effortlessly from my heart and my pen, and as easy for me to accept as breathing.
I have also learned that everyone understands love. Some because they have it, some because they have gone through it, and still others because they need it.
You will find it here, in the words, in the sentiment, in-between the lines or in the emotions that they might provoke.
I cannot think of a better place to have written these words than Woodstock.
Reflections In Glass
The Woodstock Papers
Poems & Lies
By: C. J. Krieger
Now On Sale
Forward
The first time I met C.J. Krieger was in the seventh grade. In those days he was Cecil and I was Bobby and we were as thick as thieves.
We were close friends throughout high school, but upon graduation, I went into the military and we only saw each other sporadically. Eventually, like in most urban buddy relationships, we lost contact. He moved out of the city and after the Marines, I moved on to college, and my own bad marriage. We’d hear from each other from time-to-time, but it wasn’t like the early days—nothing is. Even in our separation, I often thought about C.J. and wondered how he was doing with his life. That’s what drove me to find him most recently. I had been going online every so often just to look up his name and learned that he was involved with genetics and molecular biology and I was intrigued over how erudite he had become. He had written several scholarly papers on genetics and genomes with tongue-twister titles that blew the doors off of the crap I had been writing about Irish detectives with drinking problems, and I actually felt envious of my best friend. How horrible of me.
After we finally got together, initially on the phone, he told me that he had never been involved with genomes and other mythical fairies, and that this must have been a different Cecil J. Krieger. I am not certain of the reason, but I was relieved that it was not him who wrote those studies. But I knew in my heart, that if he wanted to, he could have written the damned things.
The one thing that stands out about C.J. is his incredible ability to focus intensely on whatever he chooses. When he learned to play the guitar several years after I began playing, he became such an accomplished guitarist that he left me in the dust. Not that this was a difficult accomplishment, but CJ was fantastic. Just look at his history with martial arts and more recently, with therapeutic massage. He excels at both and would never be mediocre in anything; that’s just a fact. The same can be said about him as a friend. There is absolutely nothing not to like about this man. But look at his poetry—listen to his words and taste his visions. He is still playing with words and visions and thoughts.
He touches you with his friendship and yes, with his poetry. His words are real, just like him. There is no pretentiousness, but there is wisdom, sensitivity and love. I am honored that he asked me to write these words for this collection of his poetry. I am honored to call him friend and I am not at all disinclined to say I love C.J. He is and always will be my best friend, whether he wants to be or not.
Robert Hoey
Author & Photographer (Robert's photographic work will be added at a future time... please check back)
When It Pleases Her
When it pleases her
She wraps herself around my arm
And parades me around
Like a majorette leading a circus
Then
For her own enjoyment
She puts me on display
Like King Kong
Up on a stage
Except
King Kong
Was really loved
By the girl
The Perfect Day
Perfect!
She’s no longer here
To tell me
What my problems are
The Perfect Woman
She was everything
Any man could ever want
Young
Beautiful
Intelligent
Happy
Naked
Fat Bamboo
It felt funny just to say it
“Fat Bamboo”
Almost as if the two words
Had no business being together
But what if there was such a thing
What could you do with fat bamboo?
I think I would build a house
A log cabin… a fat bamboo cabin
With floors made from fat bamboo boards
And a nice strong couch of fat bamboo
I would make a fat bamboo bed
And when the night was right
I would take you into my fat bamboo bedroom
And make fat bamboo love to you
A Letter To The Staff
(From Debra)
Hello Staff
There are a few pairs of shoes
that have found a home
in front of the dishwasher
If anyone would like to adopt them
please do so before Friday
After that day
the shoes will be on vacation
We will miss them
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