Wednesday, June 1, 2016

Breakfast

   my morning surprise-
wandering through the berries
  red lips on black bear 

Ghosts

Flowers bleed up
through dirt
colored mirrors not
done with work

old homes and lost gardens long gone
not one stick of wood
marking where they faithfully served

Excepted by these bulbed blossoms
Chanting old address numbers to each other
Over and over each spring and fall.

This is where we live

Her Room

Presbyterians and others have drunk toasts in Monica's old corn-yellow bedroom. Mom too
slept there the first night; dad would have howled had he known.

It's walls fell and as we changed its spots and stripes. Now eating breakfast there most mornings,
watching squirrels out side the windows.

We inherited her dreamland with glass doorknobs and emptied closets. The room and we
testify that she awoke where I now sit drinking mornings coffee.

Driggs

West of Driggs, just out of Wyoming's reach
we passed the staggered
chewing fleet of harvesters

Stretched across the wheated hills
The metal locust crawl along
Stripping the stalks of
Golden sunshine, sewed in graceful
Topographic corduroy rows

Woody too, sang of golden hills,
he must have have watched this
show long before

Pyres of dust spiral skyward
Each lumbering machine moved
In synchronized choreography
hungry small train chugging
Along so heavy laden and ready

The Tetons watched, in wait for snow
As another harvest ended

Seated Then Buried

Headstones mark
the resting place
where the buried Lazboys
lye back and hold those
that had sat and watched

Now each had their own
remote control, just no reception.
Focused on a small dark screen
that had first went all jagged-like,
followed by a test pattern,

then forever black.

Northwestern Sunlight

High above Oregon's mist
lounges a pale orb
coy or maybe just bashful

She lies stretched out on her cloudy davenport
like a lazy stretching cat

Lolling in the sky
writing love notes and swirls
to rhododendrons and monkey puzzle trees

Hanging there with downcast eyes
knowing her timid glances will go
unreturned until

Raindrops fall through the mist
punching little holes with their
constant whispers of devotion

followed momentarily by tiny threads
of falling light

Beached Sun

Today's  sparkle is almost done
Running barefoot through the waves
With sand between my toes
warm thoughts
behind my eyes

Paid

My salary is for work

but when I capture the right words

That is the golden pay

Ocean Springs


The plane touched the earth again in Orleans Parish
walking , I breathed in the heavy southern air

that spoke of river, and mud, and gulf, and heat,
and swamp lands, in one long-congested breath.

Then off barreling down the concrete highway 

toward Ocean Springs
and catfish and family I go.

The black clouds were draped in curdled skin
eyed us, and the wind stirred them slow.

The day thunderheads hung
Heavy and green all hail-stone full.

Rolling across the dark bowl
blackened from edge to edge
with but a single shining slit lying low to the East.
A sleeping crescent moon lain down to nap.

I drug the chair from my motel room
and resumed a seat not sat in years,
upon my soon-to-be stormed porch.

The slow start of fat drops hitting
dust with a sloppy, full sound.
The rumbled humidity recedes for a few minutes.
My ears savored that old sweet song,
every word and verse.
Amen.

Lunch Lessons



It was just past Thanksgiving, 
Dallas, Texas, 1968.

She made my lunch and sent me off to school.
It was a short stroll away;
a few kids picked butter cups at the cross walk.

Then noontime neared and
I arrived in another new lunchroom.

A hawk-faced teacher named Fitzgerald watched
for talkers and horse-play, with remedies aplenty.

My seat was next to some now-forgotten
new chum from 6B,
in a stiff chair at a  long narrow cream-colored table.
Everything seemed familiar but the faces and names

A lesson lay offered to me, hidden,
in the simple phrase,
"Let's trade sandwiches"

With no understanding of bravery or foolhardiness,
I heard him say to me, "I've got bologna, how 'bout yours?"
"Cow tongue," jumped from my smiled reply,
But my words splattered him like epithets.

His eyes went wide
I went home wiser.

His seat stayed empty
for so many weeks to come.

Sculpted


As I read the Pages
each line became
An axe
     That grew
           And chopped the
World around me 

my waist
Frozen in the ice

Rising to my wet feet
The iced slush let go
 

Thoughts and dreams
And monsters and
The long dead loved ones
Climb back out and play
 

No longer banished to beyond
And out of reach

I peered into that hole
And spied a single deep wiggling light
At the bottom of a very long tunne

Honyock's


Wo, to all you clever creepers,
That do not know my sleepless eyes
watch and lie in wait

Your steps across the floors are heard
And hidden goings-on surely seen

My animated stories fill your ears,
Your curtain-climbing told

Standing there upon legs full of bones
My grasp can count them every one

Think before you answer my riddles
and giggle like mindless honyocks

for each you kit's I rassle and josh in play
are forever my dear smart-foxes