When you look at me,
sometimes it’s very odd.
I feel as if you are seeing something
that I don’t yet know.
Figuring the future.
Got it down pat.
But I don’t want to know,
unless you show me.
When I look at you,
I wish your flurry of flights would end.
Stay. We’ll share stories.
Category Archives: poetry
A theory of nonsense
Is there a Forever
Who can scope the great mind
A yolk in an egg
Then what is beyond the egg
Monkeys and typewriters
ad infinitum
Think your deep thoughts
and they surely will write ‘em
Stories of ours
will be amber-ingrained
and lain among flowers
all freshened with rain
Holding the fort
under my thumb
i have felt
felt
then, enveloped
in warmth,
i have sent four soldiers
as peacekeepers,
with trimmed nails
and an artistic bent.
Here is a Book of Faces
of a nobler sort.
Each one (that can be seen),
beautiful in some way.
If we but read between the lines,
we can divine their colours.
So many are umbral now,
I fear.
But I am fatalistic, cynical.
I hope I am wrong,
when I cry
for the ones who smile.
Puppers
We were nine.
I believed everything you said.
Touching a toad gave you warts.
Step on a crack,
you break your mother’s back.
Kill a spider and it rains.
We made grasshoppers spit tobacco,
knew the divinity
of buttercups, daisies,
and dandelion chains.
Such puppies in love.
On my way
In a while,
maybe,
I will not know you.
Don’t cry or be afraid
when you do not know me.
There’s a short story
yet to be told,
and it begins its writing
with a halting hand.
Even as I stand over a tiled drain,
I make the water hotter.
That spinal rush.
That warming touch.
Ghost writer
All murky she sat,
with her palindrome pen,
as she flavoured the localized ether.
And her Hallowe’en cat
was asleep once again,
as it lay on the carpet beneath her.
When she’d written her prose,
and its vapours arose,
she danced (for the spirit was willing).
Her compadres were lazy,
and the rest had gone crazy,
so the market was hers for the killing.
[Art by Bryan Baugh]
Adamless Eve
Dearest Eve-
When you are born,
may you grow
in sacrificial love.
May you bathe
in the galloping days,
take the hand of many,
and rejoice in that which is given.
When you teach,
we will follow,
laying aside all that is false.
This is your time.
We will be ready.
The oddness
Could it be a tangle of ganglia
that makes me think odd things
and care about devil’s details?
You see a tree, a rock, a brick.
I think of searching roots,
the alchemy of an acorn,
compactions of crystals
from Earth’s hot breath,
and cuboid ovens cooking in colours.
A moment more
I want to hear a snatch
of all the songs ever sung.
The gong of all the bells ever rung.
I want to see, smell, taste
the flowing rains
that have spattered
on the canvas tops of wagons
and the oaken decks of rolling ships.
Please give me but a while longer
before we lay our last.
Aremyfeetofftheground 