Do you even realize you’re doing it?
some say.
I say wut?
The whistling! The whistling!
They are peeved.
Somewhere else, I hear
I love it!
I say pardon?
and get red.
I’ll whistle your language
whatever it be
to pipe you up closer
or farther from me.
Hero
A scene of old develops and sharpens.
It’s the start of some chapter
in a boy’s learning.
This memory is of being ten.
It has cold misty rains at a train station.
The buying of a ticket
with nickels and quarters and wide eyes.
He is going to see El Cid in Montreal
by himself, with given permission,
maybe implied good riddance,
and certainly a flight to something
contrived, but noble.
It’s a way to forestall fear for the future.
To puzzle out why close people fight
and bury the fallout;
to feel the budding of self-assurance
and, finally, to admire a hero
whom all would love and despair.
Yes, he wanted to be
someone’s hero.
Cubbyhole
There’s a place of peace and rest, I think.
In daydreams there are hints.
But lost they are in just a wink,
and leave no fingerprints.
My valley is of rolling green,
with castles in the mist,
and starry glitter nightly seen
as by the heavens kissed.
At torment’s end, forgiveness.
Release from worldly cares.
A pardon’s leave to live in this-
a rarity of airs.
Though just a dream, I hold it fast,
abandoning it never.
In days of present, future, past,
it holds me close, forever.
Bone yard
She had a liking
for bones of old
for calcified houseplants
rooted in dryness
for the toothless cat
buried beneath the midnight maple
Would that their wasted stories
could be exhumed
and augur well for resurrection.
something to cry about
what is relax
is it Peace
how can do
is it a leaving
is it resignation
giving up
losing grip
is it trusting
retiring
is it bought
and
is it something
to cry about
yes, i think.
.. folding ..
Hello,
I thought I had no nice paper, and then remember this.
It, it made a satisfying noise on folding. One imagines that it will be used on radio plays.
I am older than you, born on the south coast of England, then relocated to Wales some years ago.
A small family who now lives nearby, to include my grandson.. I do, indeed, live in a cottage, they do say over 500 years old. Can you imagine the history?
It is cold today; some villages have snow, so we are tucked in by the fire, dog in her basket, all big eyes.
The cat has moved down from where she sleeps on tissue paper, has her back to the fire.
Mine is a longer story, some of it unfolding here. I spends days working, playing, some days teaching, and some in other paid dutiful employment. I enjoy what I do.
View original post 1,279 more words
Ungrown
Lord of somethings,
How does one who fixes us
find a way in?
Past facades,
careful constructs,
ego and id,
scar tissue and regret,
to bind an ungrown soul?
My Man
hunch up those shoulders
carry that hollow barrel chest
on spindly trembling legs
practice your ghostly motions
stare obscenely out of eyes like yellowed olives
your gates are closed for good
and i stand
holding you up
listening to disconnected mutter
while you piss black tar
dribbling onto the floor
and you say “I’m sorry”
my man
oh my man
there’s a hole in my heart.
the thyme has come, the walrus said
The fish in that sea
they came seldom and sparsely
they were most of them babies
of a fingerling’s age
But, Rose married one, see?
and don’t judge her too harshly.
‘T’least he didn’t have rabies,
and time‘s long without wage.
Haha.
a hidden truth
Something innocent held in the hand
but fisted when surprised
An unpopped kernel
A dropped pin
A habit of shame
undeserved this time
And later
unfurled fingers carry a pocked imprint
of the worthless thing
that with a little more pressure
might have been diamond.
Aremyfeetofftheground 