On July 10th, I presented my "10 Best Poems" from the Seventies, and I am continuing this series with today's entry, encompassing the "10 Best Poems of the Eighties." My poetic output was sporadic in the Eighties.I characterize my output on the ElectricPoetry website: "01/12/04 The decade started with alcoholism, then I got religion, had another few short and intense relationships, and eventually grew to be involved in social circles, and the poetry sort of "dried up". Some of the poetry dating from 1983 and 1984 rank with some of my best work, and for a short while, before forsaking poems in two two year periods this decade, I did write some pertinent and prescient verse."  In 1985, 86, 88, and 89 I didn't write any poetry at all. I believe I've posted every poem presented here before on this blog, but not all in one entry, of course. My poems, as with all my writing, are pretty long, and I don't expect there will be a large amount of comments on this entry. I crave comments and interaction as you must know by now (and 5 star ratings) but the average Xangan doesn't have the time to read 10 long poems in one sitting. I know a few of you will, however, even if you've read them before, so thanks in advance for the support of my diehard poetry fans. If it weren't for the interaction I get from my poems on these blog entries, I probably wouldn't even keep writing current poems, however sporadically they appear. I'm always amazed when I write a new poem, and someone will comment that it's my "best so far". Actually, I believe the poems presented here are "the best" and it doesn't matter to a writer when they were composed. They exist for all eternity now, and the sentiments and cynicisms are as important now as when I wrote them.

"The Same Poem With Different Words"
Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
March 7, 1980 7:15 p.m. pst

Volumes upon volumes chart rash important feelings
Simple thoughts reside in tired minds
Quick to chart each crooked course
 with crafty cunning dealings
Leaving bright friend memory behind

The nymph (she who betrayed me)
 cannot change my views
 And friends I manufacture at my whim
 Nights are spent with yearning
 I shall never feel true love
 And the candle grows ridiculously dim

 The nymph can be forgotten
 Unimportant careless eyes
 And those I know I wish I really could
 Cause love is in there somewhere
 Care is resting close
 And Jesus, will I find her if I should

Music piles on music suffers dancing pleasure joy
Everyone is me here in this place
No matter where reality
 the world is not my toy
Does anybody really see my face?

"Missed Midnight Kiss"
Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
August 21, 1980 12:25 a.m.

You won't believe it, but tonight ended
 a year-long expectation
An ironclad creation - of my heart
The days would last forever
I'd wait till morrow's never
But I never really thought that
 it would start.

It can't be true, I cried, but
 somehow true came truer
I've seen you once and who can ever tell
I'm floating down the freeway
Never wanting to find the way,
My feelings, that should ever,
 ever quell.

Because tonight your smile
 outshone the moon -
And even tho' it wasn't
 yours was full

Tonight your laugh, it
 filled the empty
And everything marked
 later happened soon

You won't believe it, but tonight
 mended many dreams
And even tho' it seems just like it all -
Ways do change for the better
And special times are met for
Life if we can really hear
 it's call.

You must remember this
My time felt spent with bliss
Through music, laughs, and talk,
Through sharing, and your smile
Makes all my time worthwhile -
Even in our
 shared missed midnight kiss.

You have to understand it's been
 so pleasant
So wonderfully pleasant, I want you to know
whatever happens next
whatever you say or do -
Karen, I'll be carin'
 for you....

"The Apartment"
Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
Thursday, May 28, 1981 11:05 a.m. poetry for fools

The building stands, pipes leaking brown stained blood.
A dowdy mother in housecoat trudges to the washroom
Three-year-olders cavort on the stairs, in the
courtyard, out by the trashbins- satisfying needs
for friendship with pasty faced elves.
The same little games are played even as the
three-year-olders grow up and move away.
The building breathes. doors open and the fortunate
sons tread off to work-the others
toil in their predictability moving around
the courtyard visiting manufactured
neighbors-telling stories-how's the weather.
The afternoon advances-sun hangs bright
over pretty divorced women sunning themselves
while the elves get dirty behind the philodendrons.
2:30 As the World Turns All My Restless
Children into a monotonous hum on the 13"
black and white television sets standing on
top of 12 year old 25" consoles that will
never work again.
4&5&6o'clock the drones return from work
and the stereo wars begin. In the
summer its as if life is back from the
dead...in the winter the lives resume
from behind closed doors
Over the years the gunshots and yelling
and fights and policemen and questions
about whos sleeping with who subside
into a crazy quilt of boring samenesses.
People move from apartment to apartment
like litte backgammon markers trying to find
the home quadrant.
There's a school behind the building and a
market across the street. These people
never have to leave if they don't want to.
Some of us find we lost the inclination long ago.
Life goes on. New landlords come and go.
Old parties become legends. When you least
expect it an apartment becomes vacated
and then someone "moves in" who might
have bearings on your own existence.
The elves play on.
The televisions continue spouting their
advertisements and I sit here watching
the brown stained water seep from
under the toilet's broken gasket.
Exactly like blood.

"Leaves of Paper"
Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
March 5, 1982 2:00 p.m.

  
Falling, ever falling toward the purity, the past
Preserving present pain with such a flourish
How can on resolve oneself
With battered books on lonely shelves
And drink the water of the times we nourish

Touching, ever touching hearts of peace in times of war
Giving us another life to cherish
I am special so are you
I've never tried to feel so blue
And cause of leaves of paper I shant perish

 I can love you
 Oft I do
 I can remember sweeter days
The pictures represent such art
 Recounting somber ways

 I will consider
 Listen now
 I've said I'd quite forgotten how
But leaves of paper can't quite
 fasten to the bough

Hurling, I am hurling all my life with such a force
Striving to touch you and I am hurting
All I ever tried to touch
I've felt such pain but it ain't much
With life through leaves of paper I am flirting

"Don't Need the Hassle"
Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
December 27, 1982 5:15 p.m.

I know I cannot cope with you
You lied to me and laughed
I see a shattered demon in the dust.

I steeled my gaze & knit my brow
And swore you don't exist
Because I lost the words for love & trust.

If you would tell me
What I want
If I could sell you me
The pains you're feeling
I feel too
And we are singing
 in a mismatched harmony.

I've said I don't need anyone
Because you lied to me and laughed
Is this what we need to end the fight

I looked away and shut my mind
No care to blight my world
And won't it be a pity if I'm right.

"Symphony for One"
Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
January 1, 1983 7:30 p.m.

Hey girl, come on along,
Jump on the wagon feed the dragon
sing the song.
The melody might be different
But the words sure sound the same
I may look different
Don't sound different
Call my name.

If you can see through magic
If you can walk on air
My love for you's not static
There's a certain feeling there
A movement for piano
A string quartet for two
You can be my music
Let me play a song or two.

Hey friends, come on along
Kick off your shoes you paid your dues
join in the song.
Arrangements may be haughty
But the words sure sound alike
We've shed all sorrow
Look towards tomorrow
and the like.

Hey today, I'm ecstatic
Sing out the news express my views
may be erratic
You might just be the answer
Though I only see you through a veil
Do you in fact exist
A dancer in the mist
what a tale.

If a future can frown at a lifetime
And a past close its back door to me
I will love you for now and the meantime
I will feel your genteel ecstasy
A poem for the moment
Well versed in love's harmony
Prove to me no illusion
Open your arms to me.

Hey sweetheart, come on along
Jump on the wagon feed the dragon
hear my song
Your face might be just so different
But my dreams remain the same
I may be different
But I don't sound different
call my name.

"State of Mind"
Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
February 7, 1983 3:35 p.m.

I might feel happy, I might feel real sad
Think life is ripe, think all the vibes are bad
Might feel a surge, a rich romantic hold
Might feel as if my turgid soul is sold.
It's all as if I have my own detector
But the knob fell off of the channel selector
Don't send your love to the P.O. box this time
Because I no longer live in my own
State of Mind.

I glimpse the children playing on the street
No misdirection clawing at their tiny feet
I claw my brain, a lump climbs up my throat
They look so happy but I just missed the boat
It's all as if I am my own detractor
I lost the device to measure this important factor
Don't look me up if you're afraid of what you find
Because I lost the address to my own
State of Mind.

I might stay quiet, I might say a lot
I might think it's right but the meaning's not
Might lose the grasp to my own solutions
While wading through the mire of the others' pollutions
It's all as if I don't care what's correct or
Maybe lost the keys to my own private sector.
Don't call my number cause there's no one on the line
Because I'm tearing up the map to my own
State of Mind.

"Sober Sarcasm"
Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
March 30, 1983 7:00 a.m.

Yes, I kicked out the teeth of convention
And I scattered the leaves of oblivion
I drank gallons of wine
As I turned back the time
And my future paled o'er with obsidian
I stamped on the clockface of sanity
Grew disgusted with cookiecut reality
Put down schooners of beer
As I smiled with a leer
Wouldn't join at the front with the soldiery

I'm a mad hatter, my friends and my foes
I'll stumble round life on my hands and my toes
Dailing love on the phone to a disconnect number
The years fall so quickly I fear

Watch me laugh hard at the unlucky players
Paint myself to a corner with layers and layers
The booze might be gone I'm electric with ease
but these still are old clothes that I wear

"Song from 'The Happenstance Hymnal'"
Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
January 4, 1984

I've been standing on the mountain of regret
Don't know how I got here
But it's much too late to fret
And it must have been a long road up I bet

I've been lying by the river of remorse
Don't know how I came
But no one pushed me here by force
And I've been crying that the devil got me hoarse

I've been drinking from the waters of lost time
Know I don't feel thirsty
And I've yet to feel sublime,
But my presence in this hell can't be a crime

Oh Lord deliver me
Guide me down the mountain
Steer me o'er the river
Find me purity
Answer all my needless questions
Without requiring a large fee
Oh tender Lord please look out for me

I've been talking with the whores of Babylon
Don't know how they got here
But they've been down from dusk to dawn
And the police can't seem to throw
them off the lawn.

I've been eating from the tree of sin & sloth
No one handed me a menu
But the tree was on the path
And I know better than to incur
God's powerful wrath

I've been waiting for the end, my friend, you see
Banging heads to walls
Bemoaning useless tranquility
Since I haven't got the fare to pay the fee

Oh Truth show me thine hand
Deliver me from whores
Cut the hammock from the tree
Isn't life grand
Answer all my heedless questions
Without requiring a large fee
Oh tarnished truth remember me

"T.A.S. teen age suicide"
Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
May 21, 1984 5:48 p.m.

Underneath this yellowed pall
 There lived a raging youth; a soul who dreamed it all
He wore his heart naked
Exposed to the hurt
 Now it no longer beats it just lay in the dirt

Underneath this open gaze
 The eyes were once burn bright, a knowing steely gaze
He saw too much
Exposed to the hurt
 Now he belongs on his back in the dirt

 This world wasn't made for our children
 This time is too brutal and scary
 They know they are smarter than we were
 And they haven't the time to be wary

Underneath this chunk of skin
 There lived a vital truth, but it did not fit in
It called out to us
But no one would listen
 Now it no longer speaks, it's chords are bitten

The poet in 1986