What is here,
by design,
is umbilical to me.
This feed of life
and blood of red.
But now,
instead,
a sorry head
thinks of strife
and the future of a knife.
Category Archives: poetry
Stewing in the green
You know,
don’t you.
You can tell.
I sit in the greenery,
but perceive only symbols.
All of its inhabitants
seem impatient,
as if to chide me
for this microscope of mine.
I am strafed with ill-considered bullets,
held down with malice,
but find a friend
in an unlikely place.
alexa’s home
A pajama morning,
and I’m barefoot on the splintery deck.
Creamy coffee smoke’s rising,
and a gull’s keen scream beats up a warbler’s song.
There’s a sun-gotten image of a fulsome tree
trapped and cancelled between smoky panes.
Inside, I speak to a machine, who answers tritely
in the accent of the day.
The Following
Awoke,
did I,
to trap a dream
untrammeled in its art
But hurriedly it lost its gleam
Though I drew it part by part
How to capture?
How to keep
such singleness of soul?
Such loving rapture
born of sleep-
‘twas one of Heaven’s foal!
Menacing
That oily lit street corner
in the bronze dark..
awaiting a scene
but, instead,
so stark .
Rawhide
Move on, we must.
In boxes and bins,
I carry my proxy love
to the Stow-Away garage.
Outside,
the smirking cat has his wild bones on,
drawing a bead on a tattered squirrel
that curves down a dead-bowed limb.
Night
In the lush bush,
there’s something that laughs.
Treed,
in a frightful dream it lolls,
fetching cheshire smiles.
~Move on~
the blue man says,
and we must.
I must.
But, there is no donkey tail to pin.
I’m blind, as i finger the braille
on this pincushion map.
***
Art work by Theophile Steinlen – Chat au Claire de Lune (from Pinterest)
Packing my bags
An apprehension
of not knowing the next move
An assumed word
left out
that should have been there
The world goes cartoonish
Walk with me
for I may not know the way
Talk with me
for I know not what to say
Do not trust me
anymore
for I am poor
and I watch a different show
Night shift
This is wee,
the hour.
I play coy
with sleep,
thinking
that if
I ignore it
and feign
that I am
fighting it,
it will engulf me
out of spite.
But no.
Its navigator
plies me
with pages
from afternoon fades,
jukes in studied loops.
Sheep have gone out of style,
I think.
Pillow talk
When you lay down,
tears no longer fall,
but they pool
in the cups of your eyes.
Sky pilot
Lay prone
in the hammock of home.
No drink, no smoke, no drug.
Let the blue loom of the sky
seep its dye, so sterile, so dope.
Great is its storied fresco.
Rest easy that it waits for you.
Aremyfeetofftheground 