Poem for Amy Winehouse

on your behalf. I 

don't know if anyone understood 

my plea, but I did 

it, I knew what I meant to 

say out loud, heard myself implore 

the great cosmic stuffing 

we're all fluffed out of to please

just give you a second chance 

at life's happiness, even

if that's impossible, the 

sad self invoking a power 

of my own being to

befriend you beyond the mortal 

coil so much so that whatever 

you are now, wherever 

you exist, it can be 

felt as real, a gift from a 

flower, as Donovan put 

it, to a garden. It's mine

to give. Last night I spoke your

name to the universe, in 

a kind of prayer, for you to 

find your way to the place where 

love lives on in all of us 

for always. If it doesn't 

matter one bit I don't care.

It makes a difference to 

me. Last night I spoke to the 

smeared years gone by on your behalf. 

Bless you, I say, Amy. 

That's all I can say, but I

do so with my whole person

in agreement. And now I 

must leave you for my own journey 

to continue its own 

path through my destiny, but

before I do, thanks so much.

Bonus poems:

Damaged UFO

Came to a full stop. This is

a jarring realization to a pilot as

you can imagine. Flying by the seat

of your pants is not really an

option. It's over pretty quickly. I could

see through the slits for my eyes

you were already walking your way home

without me. This hurt more than a

broken heart. It would take some time

to get up and get out of

there before your men in their white

uniforms showed up. You hear the pocketful

of keys first, like a rattlesnake under

a wooden stoop, then the helicopter blades,

then the cocking of rifles. Better to

disappear than be snagged by one of

your so-called friends for examination or experimentation.

I limped off as best as I

could, but the broken heart wouldn't stop

buzzing inside my chest. Still somehow I

made it away from the crash site

without being detected. My ship was ruined

beyond repair, but something of me lived,

wished to smile again, in spite of

the incredible pain. That's all I can

manage here. There is no magic or

science involved. It's been a day by

day operation. Here's that kiss I borrowed.

The inside hanging universe

 

Is busy thudding its hardnosed blind

Little digits on my swinging

Out of the way muted hat-less

Head. I know this means something.  It's

All part of my sitting here on

This particular red chair I

Suppose. It's always amazed me

 

How the poems will find your space

Even when you're deep inside your

Own mind. I'm not waiting for that

Sign from anyone anymore.

I'm just hanging out with Beirut

And waiting for it to snow like

It means it. When I was in the

Car before it started to sweep

 

A little miniature snow

Across the warm windshield like a

Needy little shake of salt, but

That quickly turned into a soft

Cold walking rain instead. Why this

Observation should matter to

These particular words before

Us now I don't know. Like I said

 

It means something, but I'm not sure

I want to know the exact what

Involved. Does everything have to  

Always be defined? Why can't some

Things just be felt? I don't need an

Explanation for loneliness.

Oh I'm sure that you've already

Figured that ancient clue out by

 

Now. Life is a much better place

With someone there to hold. Still a

Cave is a cave and mine is as

Empty as an abandoned nest

Jammed between the naked forks in

A frozen tree's forgotten stiff

Upper branches. There's sun somewhere,

But not much light. That about sums it.