Sidewalks

Mornings bring the sport of treescity streets vs. time
sidewalk cracks and sign blocking
crashing power lines.

Trim the branches cut the limbs
make distorted, lame
traffic backs up under them
students laugh, walking.

Tree trunks grow and roots
do roam, displacing many items
apartment rent a big event
and grads find a new autumn.

Other trees in many places
seedlings, forests, vines
slinging baskets, sending
cages, roots that tickle spines.

Forests gather all the caskets
cities and designs
mail them off to other planets
to be redesigned.

Human limbs are
bark and branches,
trees will plant them now
shovels, axes and cement

won't start the brand new towns.

Pride And Prejudice

 

Blame the afternoon for this

sleep is on his mind

eyes have weights upon them

 seduced the rest

reclined.

Aged finds retirement in bed without a phone

no appointments new underwear 

fits right

no where to go. 

Maybe a cashmere blanket 

not really needed but

you never know after a doze

a tiny shiver

hon?

Just a solid hour of rest

his body calls a truce.

Just a giant nap on springs ruined long ago

bedspread losing threads as well where scent

of one was known.

As the Bible says it was and shall be ever more

a nap is just a way to miss and slowly

travel home.

Slowly then awakening ten minutes just to walk

make it to the kitchen shelf

and the coffee pot

sit down in his favorite chair

as the light grows dim

dial his favorite movie

new plan for sleep therein

walking slowly in the dark

he sees

Elizabeth! 

Come in!  

Next Stop:  Paint Brushes

Y.M.C.A.

 

I read a poem was some words
made my mind a blank
ran off to the library
was mildewed and it stank.
Checked my phone
the robot came
and said my comments
were quite lame.
The mood inside the poem stirred
and made me hot without the words
that same night peeked up at the stars
and spied some poets at a bar 
was sucked up met some other writers.
Sexton, Hughes and babes with lyres
danced and laughed, lit big bonfires
slept out on the beach with Anne

got tired.

Good job Bob
Thanks Jack, you're back!
Awhile now, where you been?
I had a dream the other night
then went out to the yard
piled some wood up
near the road
with gasoline and tires.
My neighbor called the gendarmes
they came and talked me down
now I'm at the library
and YMCA downtown.

An Island Unbound

 
Wistful are late summer eves
congrats, no oven muffins
just some wine and summertime
last moments having supper.

Not easy to appreciate
romance on a list
but summer rolls around
again for another kiss.

Put it on the shelf a bit
take care of other things
mastering complexity
autumn, winter, spring.

Let silk and curves grow
in the mind, explore
the ways of lost.

Don't write and promise
simply wait

till table, date, come around.

Perhaps the twenty-third of June
next year, the island
town.

Where emerald seas
do soul weaving
no thread ever undone.

Sitting at the same table
waiting several hours
past the time was planned
Oh know,

he may be homeward bound.

Then the evening, opened doors
the surf is up, well timed
full moon upon a well made bed
and two

have gone inside.

Unbound island paradise
secret place to go,
as refugees from heaven,
remember their old home.

St Denis Again

 
I wrote a poem tonight called St. Denis. He was a religious man back there in the third century. I believe he was a Catholic Bishop and a saint as well. There's a sculpture of him in the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts in Richmond, Va. I spent time there and enjoyed the exhibit. Apparently he was beheaded by the hierarchy of the time and walked downtown with it (his head) tucked in his arm. A crowd of people followed him. He is well known in France where this supposedly happened.

My poem was not about him in the beginning. It was about the tree I saw in my head last week. There's a beautiful pecan tree in our backyard which I have admired from time to time. It has a lovely shape. It's huge and the birds fly back and forth from the feeder my wife keeps rollicking with treats. When I saw the tree early one morning in my chrome domium it was much different. All the leaves were separate and then pointed to heaven. The first time I tried to write about this I just blathered on about it and it got no views. So I took it down. I rewrote it in a way that made it more like an apology. It was just my medication. Obviously. But it was so real I can't forget about it. It was an experience.

It made me think about possiblities. What is possible in this world? We have these brains that are full of mysteries still barely understood. And look at the things they can do! Look at the world. For good or bad they produce amazing things. People die and get brought back. "Oh, they weren't really dead!". Okay, whatever. They certainly seemed, in many cases, to have experienced things from elsewhere.

Saints have been recorded doing all kinds of amazing things. Levitation is a thing. Forces that can lift a body are somehow gathered. Buttons are pushed. Antigravity machines are in the news. So I'm not going to dismiss St. Denis. And his statue or sculpture is in a major museum here. There's a church built on the place where he finally laid down and died.

So if I have my little experience with a tree and write about it I'm not really apologizing about it. I mean I am but I'm not. If it's written well and I'm not saying it was, it should get around the space, right? But I can't ever tell about that. I know certain words, right out of the gate, like "love" and "heart" will cause the algorithm to have a heart attack. So I'm just wondering.

Poetry should cover this sort of topic without stressing. If the VMFA can do St. Denis I'm thinking the path is wide open. If wonderment makes people happy and it's free I don't understand why things seem so restricted sometimes. Like logic has done such a wonderful job getting us where we are? Poetry seems a bit stuffy to me and intellectually aerated, if not lobotomized or, dare I say, decapitated in the central planning spaces. And yes, I'm just having a little fun here, I have no idea up in the forest where you can't see through the trees. Hey, it beats working for a living. Happy Labor Day, laborers.

The human being in and around the head and spine are a galaxy of possibilites. Mostly unknown to most of us. Who can challenge this? So why do we spend so much time trying?

Autumn

 
Facts or feelings
Mom or Dad
left or right
we bad.

Dreams there were
and are always,
really, that's the show.

Marriage is a sleep
so deep, it takes awhile
to wake up. 

Feel the astral body
in the cave of bone
early in the morning
get up start the show.

Children gone forever
one in three are good
prayers at conception
there goes the neighborhood.

Rejoice with elder baking
remain a little while
share the word with anyone
wear a cupcake smile.

Clear the mind of everything
new is what it says
Autumn is the best of months
go for the grand stands.

Time to move the show along
meet maker once again
having worn out all the parts
turns out some were quite bent

The Ring

 

 

He lay in bed this morning
for hours feeling sheets
just a smidge of consciousness
the body still, at ease.

Dream bits on the blanket
unremembered fluff
he rested there for hours
then managed to get up.

Oh, the days of Charlemagne
swords flashing and the cheers
screams like doors to heaven
they barbeque up here?

If he can slide to coffee
lean on down the hall
once again some recompense,
survival, fix, et al.

Then stumble to the living room
hobble over there
press some buttons
5.1

and settle the great chair.

Sip at last the filtered bean
watch the circle grow
remember all the angels here
and then the dawn

just so.

Upon his brow
He slept last night!

Ohhh. Oh Ohhhh. Oh Oh.

This could be the ball game
he looks up, asks his Dad
who went there a few years ago
except no brew

rather

shots of morphine and a truck
bright red, blinking tines.

So this must be the minor leagues
bag balls, go chalk the lines.