Sunday, August 28, 2016

Mother, I Killed A Man


She's on the sofa
alone
with children.

She's crying and hasn't
stopped
for many weeks

with many more brittle and
 bland times yet to cut her
heart.

Her oldest boy,
four years old,
stands and walks
to her 
telling her
in a quiet gasp
of hope

he
will be

Dad.

The sun slants in shafts and glare.

Dust swirls above the scene
as the afternoon
passes to evening.

A mother cries alone

with her children
surrounding her.




~

Saturday, August 27, 2016

She is the Storm



The storm was approaching,
gray arc of purest omen.

Around here, cover was in short supply
while comfort was an ideal fallen short.

Then she proclaimed:
I AM THE STORM.

And the harsh rain-shoving
wind now took heed of her,
caressing our faces as a balm,
or a familiar caller late in the night
as the thought of the next morning
seemed brighter for this company
so sudden it strikes like a tornado 
out of high gray shrouds of mist
looming over the thrum crash and burn
of this city where comfort and cover
so often come at a rough premium.



~

Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Weary


Weary brown moth chillin'
in the alley shade
on an asphalt and
dandy-lion rye weed
grass oasis,
while the universe rusts.

The world is transitioning.
Winds shift to blow the 
dead leaves away.

The children of next summer
lay in wait for their turn 
in the eternal procession.

Daydreams of Night



The cars rush by
swish by,
sputter and roar by.

It's late August and the
songs are singing loud and distorted
and the nights are humid
but they still manage to last
through the stretch until morning.

The river runs warm
and it's not by our selves,
not by ourselves -
it's warm and I can't wait
to swim tonight with the balmy breeze
and the moon overhead
and somewhere else has to deal
with the hot sun of August.

But for now it's your problem;
3:03 in sweat and hot grime of a
dead heat afternoon
and the people
are boarding a bus two blocks over,
incinerator ash blows on the wind,
and you hear the stacato beat of a
helicopter's blades, searching
for someone to take down.

Burning daylight
indeed.

The cars rush by,
whoosh by,
sputter and roar on by.





~

Saturday, August 20, 2016

That's What A Beautiful Woman Looks Like



Perfect is too over-used.

It's also not definitive in any way,
beyond a superlative telling
someone
how little effort you are putting into
expressing your state of breathlessness,
or your own sense of awe at being next to
an avatar of Venus on Earth,
Holy being that which gives life.

Tears at night that nobody witnessed,
not even you;
while you slept sound next to her heat,
straight through the night.

A fire and a drink and a smile;
a lone guitar wailing sympathetically,
sometimes.

Sometimes,

when she least expects it...

That's when you notice the stars coming to life
one then two then a few more each breath
and they start telling you stories
of empresses
again.




~

Kingfisher's Poem





Kingfisher,
Kingfisher,
share your secrets,
sing to us of the catch
today's, yesterday's,
tomorrow's epic splash.

Kingfisher,
Kingfisher,
show us how to dive
instead of falling
listless
lifeless
and I'll take the time
to write down the lines
one by two by rhyme.




~

Monday, August 15, 2016

Sunday Piece


It's the day after a storm and things have changed -
the way you look at life
the way you look at people
the way you look at the broken pieces of glass
on the narrow sidewalk and in the broken street.

You feel like a man from the caves,
discovering fire from the lightning
and a blazing dead stump or line of scrub.
From fire you discovered god and words
and steel and gold and divine right and pain.
From pain you discovered much more than that.

From pain you found compassion
from compassion you found love
from love you found peace
and from peace you found war
and pain.
And pain.

And it's the day after a storm;
things have changed.

You are sweeping up the shattered glass shards
from your broken sidewalks
and the narrow streets after the storm -
cheering that at least it finally rained,
and your fire provides such a clear view
into the mysteries of long nights ahead.





~

Saturday, August 13, 2016

Singing Saturday



Tonight I sit again amongst the vagabonds.
Tonight I sing the chorus of heaven on earth.
Tonight I dance with every single maiden,
whores some call them, though such an 
ugly word 
should not be used to describe someone 
forced to embrace an unembraceable
truth of this existence.

Tomorrow, I'll bow low and my fingers will
work the dirt and my nose will breathe in
the dusty air and my eyes will see again why
I keep living, day in, year out...

But tonight, I live as though the sun will 
explode.

My soul is taut like the strings of a used
guitar.

My heart leaps up and over as though from 
a bridge.

My body moves along with the sultry human 
currents.

The vagabonds clap - voices rise in chorus;
the maidens embrace me as a fellow whore.

Tonight, I am at home..  
Tonight, I am singing.
Tonight, I am not alone.



Above: Colliding galaxies in an area of the sky known as Stephen's Quintet.  An embracing of truth, two becoming one.  I love symbolism as portrayed by the sky.

~

Love On A Friday Night, 2016



It's faster these days.

You get on your phone
not to talk, but to type
and write tiny love letters
to the one you are thinking
about...

Unless you think 
of more than one, 
then
you type messages to each 
of them, all of those girls,
or all of those boys,
or both,
praying a sick little prayer
that they all don't decide to
take you up at once
on the same Friday night.

That's not love, that's
a rout, a defeat, a flogging, 
an epic fiasco the dogs
(and the cats and the rats)
won't let you forget.

But even that too is faster 
these days...

The phone rings...

Not to talk,
but a message,
a short love letter,
two words...

'Fuck Off.'

It's that kind of Friday night -
good thing for you
it only comes once a week.



~

Thursday, August 11, 2016

Thursday, One Hot Summer



Thunder rumbles like war,
but the storm has passed -
the clouds blow by carrying
minor gods, bold warriors,
life, death, dreams, things
unimagined by the faces
that watch the horizon
for the return of the giants.

I used to think of evil in
those terms; giants, ghosts
demons.

Now it's random gunshots,
the need for control,
the greed for money,
words whispered sidelong,
downcast eyes that lie -
lies.

The thunder rumbles still,
further, further away.

But I'm watching...

And when the wicked giants 
steal a march to take us 
as we breathe deeply in sleep,
I'll be ready,
eyes to the ever distant
horizon.