July 31, 2009

Ire Lake

Kindness dams
Angry
Red waters raging
Inside. Ire Lake:
Landlocked,
Escape eliminated,
Entrance denied.

July 29, 2009

In a Rut

"Alfred?"

"Yes, dear?"

"If you eat that, you will get heartburn."

"Yes, dear."

"Alfred?"

"My dear?"

"Alfred?"

"Sometimes a man needs a little fire."

July 24, 2009

Haven

I knew from the beginning,
fantasy and friction,
inconsistency and distortion,
horror,
and the power of fragments.

There's a scream
very like an owl,
a light behind my eyelids.

I miss my ghosts.

In this strange haven,
lonesome hysteria
makes me wonder,
and I wrestle with doubt.
I could step off--

a leaf falling unnoticed.

July 22, 2009

There Is No Voice To Find

There is no voice to find.
Poets flit between long-past
and will-continue poetry.
Some poets can do "believe"
because they have a rule book:
Language Plays,
or something like that.
Surrounded by mirrors, I hear
Past and Future copulate.
Why must you work so fast?
Knowing that something
will aways be missing,
I love that folks trouble
with thinking all the time.
Desparate for wholeness, let's be
content with this moment of unity.

July 18, 2009

Little Sparrows

"Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall
to the ground apart from the will of your Father. And even the very
hairs of your head are all numbered. So don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows." (Matthew 10:29-31)

They belong. Yes, never doubt that.
But they fear people. They crack.
I've heard it before. Art happens
without the space it takes up.
It must be better and worst--
designed
to appeal
to anyone.
Say whatever you want.
They're all out there--lost
children. It's a free culture.
The world resists resolution.
It doesn't always make sense.



July 16, 2009

Tomboy

Katie's Saturday shadow
capers over the cattle-razed meadow.
With every leap and wiggle,
her yellow jumper pockets rattle
pine cones, a tiny mole's skull,
twigs, stones, and shards of blue eggshell.
At long last, she settles to rest
in a nest of black-eyed Susans by the culvert.
Grubby fingers rub grass-stained knees,
as she ponders new Nikes caked with dung
then turns to watch a solitary Jersey,
its jaw working round and round--
chew, chew, chewing its cud.
"Moo to you, Mama Cow."
Then, with sudden, wide-eyed-rabbit grace,
she scrambles to her feet, jumps the ditch,
maneuvers the barbed wire fence,
and bolts up the gravel road.

July 14, 2009

Awkward Bystander

She separates herself
from a thousand rules
and waits in the margin,
unstable turf
where religion ends
and politics begins.

He's thinking of his life,
his anger, his sorrow--
the colors of annihilation,
black and white and red
smeared on canvas--
art, a product of the lost.

What's real: blood
and birth and memory
endlessly repeats itself,
rising and falling;
looping binds the edges.

She kneels before him.
It seems wrong.
She's from another world.
He doesn't believe in her gods.
Maybe I misunderstand.

July 10, 2009

Nostalgia's Valley

There are no lilacs--
purple-sweet after the rain,
no fields of fireflies,
no grand oaks that bend
to drink from giddy creeks.
No big old barns, painted-red,
brighten the horizon.
But, there are cats--
foul screams in the dark,
scat under the bougainvillea,
and terra cotta-tiled roofs that swarm
to devour cactus and creosote bush.
Shrouded, the distant mountains
choke on the sweat of the oasis.
There is no going back and no escape.

July 09, 2009

Silence Wails

Ten minutes rest
(perchance to sleep)
is all I ask.
Mewling kitten,
tiny fists raised,
protests silence.

Calm pink, the walls
watch trembling hands
a pillow grasp
to hide red-blotched
despair. Patient
now, they steady.

Stillness. Cries cease,
but silence wails
and echoes. White,
my hands reach down
and lift you near
my aching breast.

July 08, 2009

What the hell is up with google/blogger?

I pop in today. Everything looks normal. I leave, wander around the net, and when I come back my "Bright and Shiny Poets" links are missing. Damn. So I go inside settings and check, and the links are still there. Hmmm. I come back to this page and the links are up again. But NOW when I click on any of my bright and shiny poets links I find a big ugly yellow feeds box slapped on the top of their blogs. Who the hell thought that one up? Idiots. Off with their heads! I hope I'm dreaming...

::two minutes later:: It's back to normal.

Since you're here anyway, might as well have some FUN.

July 07, 2009

Rhapsody

Rhapsody in shards of glass--
(Hail Mary, full of grace)
Rainbow razors
sing and sting,
spray the lady,
spay the lady
on her knees
in disgrace.
Unholy rhapsody--
flecks of foam flashdance,
scold and scream
of disaster in her craft,
of deceit in washboard dreams.
Rhapsody scrubs mud,
scrapes wads of gum from pews
where lies breed like flies.
Above the fishwife floats,
wrapped in sweet blue rhapsody,
(Hail Mary, full of grace).
She holds the holes,
owns the whole,
molds the air--
almost.
Distant rhapsody
shapes the affairs of men
(the Lord is with thee)
and the lady
afraid to remain alone.

July 01, 2009

I don't have to have a story.

It's difficult to mind the path.
Divide a monk by ten laymen
to find your ten percent.
We are the same five elements.
We are forty sleepless nights.
Feeble. Ferocious.
Brilliant. Boisterous.
Puffed up. Pious.
Ignorant. Vexatious.
Arrogant. Useless.
Liars and loons, lapdogs,
landlubbers and luminaries,
right and wrong,
we are the same.
A dozen orange lilies, eight
pearls and a chunk of coal--
we are the same, clinging;
we are the same, letting go.
Devoted to distraction,
thinking
thinking
thinking,
driven and drowning,
gasping and grasping at air, still
suffering, still minding the words:
love your enemies like yourself,
I don't have to have a story.
We are the same.