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Writing Poems With My Classes Outside in the Sun

 It may have been the last of the last of the last of my teaching days... 2 nd   It just smells fresh Sunny and windy Planting: seeds sprouting up from the topsoil Cool breeze— And in the middle In any order Is a Church with a white light Then I felt the Sun It’s all very sweet like  Perfume: Today. 7 th   Outside Walking There are hardly any trees Ordinary, Like the kid you see gaping. Funny how he Looks like a calm sleeping lion Now          The sky goes from a darker blue to light An airplane passes tilting Reminds me of two friends Slightly slanted, Rocking like a paper cup in a tempting breeze— Calm, relaxing and free Like the ocean. 8 th   Sitting here on the edge Of a corn field I see shapes, Birds chase each other Into the bright sunny day Nearby Is a road Cars speeding, raising clouds Like a ball of fire Through the dusty line And  I can’t help but to wonder about the barn Leaning into a midday shadow Thirsty— As I gaze out into the dry soil I stand silent waiting for the stor
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I Took my Son to the Birthplace House of Mister Sandburg

We rode through Galesburg Waited on the train Played the piano by the old opera house And walked in the rain Went to visit the house where mister carl sandburg Was born and raised And saw the empty buildings Standing tall in the rain The worn out bricks And the faded ads For healing powders and remedies for pain That tiny house  And the town A great man raised And he wrote so proud Of Chicago And the land of Abraham Lincoln And shared songbags of slaves, cowboys Songs of mormons, pilgrims, settlers, bad men and cathouse call girls every one of them no doubt had the touch of blues of shipwrecks and trainwrecks and mighty fires legends of loss on land and sea and the triumphant gains of skyscrapers born to reach beyond the smoke stack clouds I took my son to the house of Mister Carl Sandburg And we walked together in the rain And recalled the songs Of the working men and women In the cities and towns and Pullman car dreamers rushing across the plains We saw the mural just beyond the trac
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Of Water, Woodpulp, and Glue

 A headless man walked outside  my window A nameless man walked to the river I walk between buldings A patrol car rolled through the parking lot quiet the birds made more noise and they were nearly silent I walk between buildings The patrol car disappears the officer  decides nothing to see here a modest presumption   Now All but two of us hidden away behind green doors they all match in the apartment complex A fat man sits  in a pool of patio light reading (inside of a dog it's too dark to read) I steal a punchline  smile and walk so am I so am I so with each new step He is surrounded by  green tomatoes the plants in their pots  don't mind and niether do I We do not speak the stolen punch line exists only in my mind I imagine him shouting: STOP SETTING THE WORLD ON FIRE! I continue my stroll the evening air humid tastes of water woodpulp and glue (rising particulates and Canadian smoke) I am glad the officer in the patrol car rolled through no doubt keeping the peace.
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Beauty: A Short by md mcmanis

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Mediocre Juggler

  Michael David McManis has been knockin’ around a long long time. He once chased his brother on horseback alongside a freight train on a cobblestone road. He may or may not have saved his brother’s life, depending on who you ask. His music is made out of rocks and gravel and dirt. The Earth. He played in a band called Ghost October the eighties. Played bass guitar for another band called The Rooks in the early 90's, sang a little bit too. Wrote a lot of poetry over the years. Took a stab at leading a normal life and came to the conclusion that there is nothing normal about it.      Listened. Played music as a kid. Introduced to folk music at an early age. Tried magic tricks and ventriloquism. Rock and roll too.  Listened to religious radio dramas late night on the radio. Found and fell in love with record collections and books from various relatives especially his uncle Ted.     Those early records consisted of Chuck Berry, The Shirelles, Bob Dylan, The Beatles, The Beach Boys, T
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DELIVERANCE and Somehow the Love Comes Through

Deliverance is a wild night and a double rainbow and it turns out she doesn’t love you after all.  Deliverance is this moment not the time years before staring at the clouds and finding a moment’s peace sprawled out on the grass when you should have been mowing the lawn.    Deliverance is this moment and not some future gig when –there she is– and you’re staring wild eyed at the bare-foot artist glorious in her hippie dress tie dyed and dancing.  Deliverance is the car breaking down right by the shop. Deliverance is NOW this breath-- this action --this movement at this very moment.  That’s where the music of life is.  That’s the truth and it’s all you need.   Also be sure to tip your wait staff / delivery driver.
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Zen and the Art of Deliverance Revisited or You Have to Start Somewhere

  YOU have to start somewhere Just in case you are wondering-- I'm not a Zen master.   I am a casual student of Zen.  I am a life-long learner.  I am a beginner.  As Bob Dylan said long ago, he who isn't busy being born is busy dying .  So here I am quacking in the wind. Breezes blowing distant chimes.  And here you are, where you are, reading this.  You are right beside me.  Welcome. Singer Songwriter among other things. Former member of Ghost October and or The Rooks... depending. md mcmanis on SoundCloud md mcmanis on Bandcamp md mcmanis on YouTube
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