Wish all of you a safe, prosperous and Happy New Year!! Some of you may all ready be in 2007, the rest of us slow pokes will catch up at midnight!!

A Higher Intelligence

Just built a fire for the cat.
She loves to lay in front,
stretch and paw at the carpet,
soaking up the heat in her old bones.
She’ll curl up and nap,
as cats are prone to do,
then stare in the fire, and
let her thoughts wander as any person would.

A Seedless Apple

He rattled on about
the accomplishments of his father,
not once did he mention any of his own.
He rode “dad’s” stories
like a show horse jumping rails:
“Back in ‘83 he went and did this…”
“I know he told you about the time…”
The anecdotes pranced, whirled in a circle,
perfectly trained, perfectly mimicked.
He wasn’t stealing, or borrowing
it was the only life he knew.

Iron Blood

I watched her eyes
as she squatted with her back against the wall:
fear and curiosity; understanding, but not defeat.
Jimmie Russell didn’t respect
a woman that hit harder than him.
He stood tall hoping she’d stay down,
not make him any smaller than he was.
Beer and whiskey hung suspended,
like smoke under a 60 watt world;
words were sucked out of the air
with the first crash of blonde hair and chairs.
Life could be difficult for a woman
that accessorized with her fists.
The cops weren’t called, they never were.
Sherrie inched up the block wall
smearing blood on the backside of her hand;
this wasn’t the first, nor would it be the last time
an uninvited grope of her ass
would give a taste of the iron in her veins.

Random Thoughts On Christmas Eve

I could express my feelings on War and Peace,
but, I never read Tolstoy, so I’ll pass
on sharing my intellectual ignorance.

I’m not praying/hoping/wanting a White Christmas,
I live in the South by choice, but snow
on post cards, photos and movies is beautiful!!

I believe in the Christmas Story, I was raised so.
If I didn’t my mother would come out of the grave
and that’s a conversation I’m not ready to have.

Silent Night is my favorite Christmas carol.
Besides being heart warming, I think silence is
where God resides, and the world needs more of both.

I appreciate the support all of you have given me
on my blogging adventure this year. I have very much
enjoyed getting to know you through your words,
poetry, wonderful paintings, photography and stories.
Don't forget the less fortunate; remember the soldiers.
And above all else be kind to yourself from this Christmas forward.
God Bless!!


Pat

Holes In The Wall

On my wall I have a portrait of my grandson, and
paper plate dolls my granddaughters hung
with red and yellow push pins.
There’s an eight and a half by eleven photo
of my brother’s Jack Russell terrier,
printed on 20 pound copy paper, dangling
from a trio of blue, gray, and green plastic knobs.
To the far left is an unframed charcoal
my daughter sketched of grumpy old me, and,
you guessed it, a purple tack centered at the top.
A clear-faced, cheap, round clock—hanging
on a color I forgot, reigns dead in the middle
with a jerky second hand that abhors silence.
I have a calendar with a Van Gogh print,
“Imperial Crown Fritillari In A Copper Vase”
stuck and re-stuck on the first day
of what’s been a good turn of months.
Arranged like pieces in a puzzle that never fit,
some cocked to the side, some overlapping; all
appreciated with purposes and memories different.
The box is still half full of multi-colored pins,
and several spaces left for holes in the wall.

Friday Before Christmas On Monday

It’s Friday before Christmas on Monday.
I may write poetry all day,
ignore the telephone when it rings,
watch raindrops try to hold onto glass,
sliding despite their best streaking grasp.
A small squirrel just skittered across a muddy path,
will it’ll get chattered at for tracking up the nest?
Garbage men are touring cul-de-sacs
clanging beer bottles and soup cans
racing to get off early today. I hope they do.
Jewelers are selling baubles under glass, clothiers
have mannequins dressed and partially dressed.
It’s Friday before Christmas on Monday,
I think I will write poetry all day, and
give the credit cards a much needed day off.

Enough Is Enough

Walk more the lady said.
I’m walking 3 to 4 miles a day,
4 and 5 days a week!
Walk more! Walk more!
I feel like Forest Gump as it is;
grow my hair and beard longer
and head to the Pacific Ocean.
It would be interesting, see places
I’ve never been, meet new folks
to quick-step with my pace of crazy.
I wonder if she’d think it okay
to walk on board a 767 for the return trip?


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Road Craft

The chipmunk lay spread eagle,
pressed like a flower in a book.
His timing was poor, or
he was focused on his destination
more than the route to get there.
A procession of traffic
passed over and over,
by days end it was apparent
there were more artisans than mourners.

Fire Tender

The moon slipped
beneath the surface
of a black sky, like
a hand disappearing in silk lingerie
tending the fires of night.

Seasonal Rats

Rats crawled in my head last night
ate their fill of brain cells, and
defecated on all good sense.

I was a genius for a few hours,
Paul Newman blended with Brad Pitt,
built the Pyramids of Giza
with mud bricks of aluminum cans.

Thoughts are slowly rising,
like ghosts from a nuclear mess,
they’re wearing one another’s arms and legs,
but what the hell,
I did get rid of the rats.


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Old Brrr

Winter is scheduled to arrive next week,
I see it marked on the calendar.
Don’t have any celebrations planned,
no gifts, cheers or welcome back signs.
It won't be disappointed I snub its return,
but Fall refusing to leave dressed in the 70’s,
now that’s an insult “old brrr” can’t ignore.


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Early Morning Turn On

I pour my coffee
from six to ten inches above the cup.
I don’t know if I read this,
or it’s something my creative mind invented.
But, the theory is
by smashing liquid into liquid,
the flavor molecules get so excited
they leap to titillated taste buds,
making a cup of coffee almost sinful.


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Backyard Lightning

They barked like they had
lightning in their throats;
a horrific storm of terror
safe behind a hurricane fence.

I went over, and stuck my fingers
through the security of their threat,
the ferocity of their thunder
flashed with fiercely licking tongues.

Black Fire

Ghosts spawn in the seepage
of pustulous words,

they mimic and mock,
torment and taunt.

Truth is known,
but lies are chosen,
darkness breeds black fire.

Lost And Found

Where’d that poem go?
I know I had it here.
Shook the keyboard,
nothing fell out.
I looked under the mouse,
won’t mention what was there.
Ran my fingers through my beard,
just a few cracker crumbs from lunch.
I bet it’s hiding in the dictionary.
Wonder what I can do
to make it come out?



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Fresh Air

The cold air invigorated my lungs
like a travel magazine does a shut in;
there were no walls, conditions,
filters, climate control or safety.
This breath could’ve been
the shriek of a hawk, or croak of a frog;
it may have come from the woods
on the chilling howl of a coyote.
Doesn’t matter if it was used,
it was new and fresh to me.

Inside The Lines

God pulled out His crayons today,
I know He does that everyday,
but today He colored inside the lines.
There was no gray in the white,
no white scribbled over the blue,
and the sun kept yellow all to itself.
I would give Him a star for His work,
but I think He has enough of those.

For The Love Of Green

I don’t rake leaves,
I mutilate their edge-curling bodies
with the double rotating blades
of my red, riding lawnmower.

The traditional procedure, I confess,
is to sweep them in piles,
pack their fallen bodies in plastic bags,
or burn them down to ashes.

But, coming from a long line
of work evading entrepreneurs,
it’s much easier to turn the key,
engage cold steel, and ride.

This might sound heartless, or like
I enjoy my creativity too much. Maybe, but,
I’m aiding the decaying process, and the lawn
always shows its appreciation in the Spring.

Tale Of A Leaf

The shadow wagged
like the tail of a dog;
the semblance ended
with the movement.
The one expresses gratitude
for a stroking hand,
or something to eat; the other
was clearing out a space
in a crowded place to die.


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Aging Days Of Fall

As the dead come and go
in old men’s eyes,
Winter haunts
the aging days of Fall.

Life is more memory than form,
shadows are thin, and skeletons
beg comfort from the Sun.

There’s no walkers or wheelchairs,
prescriptions needing filled,
just a sparseness of living,
until there is none.


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Uncomfortably Warm

The world was warm yesterday,
at least my tiny speck of it.
I slept without my usual shirt,
the cat didn’t mind, but
the leather recliner was a bit sticky with it.

A cold front is moving in today,
I’ll stock up on bagged firewood.
I don’t know where the wood comes from,
but it fits perfectly in the galvanized tub
sitting next to the marble-faced hearth.

There will be a fire tonight, replete
with pops, cracks, hisses and rubbing hands.
I’ll sleep with a comforter over me, my shirt
will be where it’s suppose to be, and night,
like sand, will slide through the fingers of stars.


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A Stranger’s Gift

She called me over, actually,
interrupted my walk, and asked,
“do you see it? do you see it?”
I squeezed my vision
through spaces in tangled vines,
and around a few die-hard flags of Fall;
there on a limb not ten feet away—
the closest I’ve ever been, a Red Tail Hawk.
The lady didn’t know me, nor I her,
but what a gift to give a stranger.

Single Words

She told me I always
have to have the last word.
To that I replied,
“somebody does…”

She says I never listen
to a single word she says.
I said I try, but the multitude
of words she surrounds it with
make it impossible to hear.

(The first verse I'm guilty of. The second even I'm not that stupid)

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Class Acts

He jumped from behind a bush,
not in Australia,
one he was holding on a sidewalk
in front of the Wharf in San Francisco.
He used it as a carpenter does
a hammer, a saw, a square:
scared the passers by, and once
they wiggled free of embarassment,
put money in his bucket.
I went, and bought a basket of crabs,
sat on the finger of a pier, and watched.
After an hour he leaned his tool against a pole,
and headed back toward the vendors.
As he passed in front of me, he looked down—
I think he noticed I’d been watching,
we both smiled, then laughed.
He disappeared around a corner,
I cleaned up my mess of shells and paper towels,
and moved on to a pair of gold and silver mimes.

Water Or Stone?

Do water and stones speak
with different, discernable tongues?
The one must be tremulously whiny,
because its skin is see-through thin;
the other, a deep, bass vibrato,
it has no lips to articulate speech.
I walked to the edge of the lake
picked up a smooth flat stone,
gave it a flick of the wrist,
splash splash splash splash splash…
Was it water, or stone
that had the last word?

Leaf-Fish (Saturday's poem early)

Are falling leaves an airborne species of fish?
An absurd question, I agree. But, one
hitherto never explored, and
henceforth not to be ignored.

Do they have gills? Certainly not!
Scales covering flakey flesh on bone?
Of course, we all know the answer to that.

But, they do swim in currents of air,
like fish in currents of water. They both
provide nutrients to higher forms of life.
Is the question becoming less weird?

Leaves don’t have fins and tails,
nor eyeballs on each side of their form,
but both have veins, and skin,
and a skeletal structure of sorts.

Color is paramount on both lists of best traits,
sizes and shapes equally diverse, and
each gather in numbers impossible to count.
I ask, is the answer more confusing than clear?

This question won’t be debated
by modern minds of good reason
(similar minds once thought the world was flat).
So, it falls to the poet to espouse some absurdity,
in the reality of everything we see.

Tis The Season

Thanksgiving Friday
parking blues
Wal*Mart Xmas

Stocking Up

Military cargo planes,
designated C-something,
flew tail to nose, tail to nose,
like prop-plodding mules
over a blue-desert sky;
engine wash, like agitated dust,
covered everything with noise.
The horizon pulled the belly packed beasts
closer to their point of deposit;
wood songs resumed in rustling leaves,
squirrels stocking up on Winter stores.

Change Of Address

I tossed my thoughts
in a copse of bare trees
to let them network
with filigree shadows,
and chip-chirp-chatter;
they needed the graphics
of sky and earth,
a change of address
from Windows and screens.


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New World Table

Had lunch with an old friend today.
The tiny café table didn’t have enough room
to spread out thirty years, but
art, poetry and The Isle of Skye
fit nicely between her plate
of falafel and my gyro sandwich.
She’s going to buy a house,
and live in a town named
for an Indian chief, or his wife,
pronounced “seh-noy” not “seh-noy-yuh”
as outsider-eyes would fool one into thinking.
I’m going to buy a boat,
and sail from “bis-troh” to “peet-suh-ree-uh”
in search of a table
large enough for a long visit.

Bypass

Bypass construction,
six lanes to two,
artery clogs

What We Hear

I asked my cat
if I’d fed the fish.
She replied, no
I hadn’t fed her a fish.

Something Old, Something New

I had my hand on the inside of her thigh,
nothing special or unusual about that,
except it was my hand on her thigh;
the girl every guy in high school fantasized about
while embarrassing his mother’s sheets.
We were friends back then, but our words
always met on the outside of our mouths.
Now, many years later, and
more than milk money in my pocket,
we whirled dreams around our tongues,
mine was old, hers new.



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“Into Each Life…”

God washed his birds yesterday,
mail boxes and dead leaves too;

rivers in gutters fell over the edges
of a waterfall system of drains.

Streets bathed, but not behind the curbs,
led home, and away, and back again;

God washed his birds yesterday,
a Sparrow fell from its perch.

Creepy Crawlies

She didn’t leave
with the guitar player
who winked at her,
picked love songs like roses,
and laid them at her feet;
it was the construction guy,
who didn’t buy her a drink, and
whose eyes crawled
in and out of her blouse like spiders.
He did leave a tip.

Two Point Two Belly Flop

We’ve all known a man, or a woman,
that the only thing that springs
from the diving board of their tongue,

is a whine, a complaint, a curse,
a double somersault negative
with a back stabbing twist.

Immediately, you want to grab the words,
like splashed globules of
mangled, water-puzzle-pieces,

and put them back behind their lips.
But, the ears have already been soaked
with a two point two end of dive belly flop.


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Physics At Four A.M.

My eyes opened to physics at four a.m.,
the big bang and falling apples,
relativity, black holes eating the apples
disappearing into a theory of everything;
particles vibrating off strings, one to five;
a membrane transcending dimensions,
three to eleven, and then back again
to what caused the bang…oh! and
chalk calculations that easily erase.



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Off The Wall

A shadow on the wall
talked to a curious dog on the sidewalk,
what they said was without sound,
what was understood not known.
The dog eventually moved on, the wall
waited for the next shadow.

Weather Report

Fog hangs like viscera
from a disemboweled morning sky,
a tragic event of water saturated air.

A male dog hikes-up in sympathy
on the feet of commiserating trees,
mallards paddle in a mourning line,

squirrels chatter eulogies limb to limb,
the lake holds a moment of silence,
all respects paid, the afternoon looks good.

Dinner Plans

An old frog
croaks for his supper
in the crater
of a mud-puddle moon;  
a black snake slithers
from the hollow of a log,
a red tail hawk circles overhead.  

Not So Secret An Admirer

A friend of mine introduced me
to the words of Mary Oliver,
another Mary with words of her own.

They’re some of the greenest I’ve ever read,
like new born twigs with soft velvet leaves,
suckling on raindrops, nuzzling breasts of sun.

A pond is not just an ole fishin’ hole,
nor dogwood blooms a fancy Easter dress; they're
quaint little notes, left, by not so secret an admirer.

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From A Distance

When I was an adolescent
I wanted a pair of penny loafers—
Bass Weejuns,
the expensive, popular ones;
the kind Burlington Gold Toe socks
were matching partners
with the in-step of the shoe.
I did eventually get a pair,
not Weejuns, but
from a distance they looked cool.
The humpback cracks in the sidewalk,
linoleum tiles buffed by a janitor
that always looked down, and never smiled,
didn’t know my feet were scuffing a scam;
I knew the ones I wanted to impress knew,
but from a distance I did look cool.


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Mud Everywhere

Oh! Mr. Cardinal
you have your feet in the mud,
you’ll track it everywhere
from bird feeder perches
to rain scoured clean limbs.

I know you were taught better
than to trail mess behind mess;
I reckon appetite takes precedence
over all good rearing. I thought,
only, politicians acted like that.


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On The Menu

I looked into the black face
of my first cup of coffee,
studied the steam
rising over nervous bubbles, and
up the turret sides of ceramic walls.
It was time for this rumination
to be taken to a post of sorts,
and executed as an offender of habit.
With each taste it died without whimper,
sip and slurp by whip of lips and tongue.
The ham and swiss for lunch
will be tooth decay for lions.


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Gasping Breaths

Gasping breaths,
falling life,
eerie wind,

red truck rusting,
rubber flat feet,
cold leaves huddle,

Fall moon silent,
dark thoughts rustle,
lone dog howls.

Between The Lines Passé

I read a poem, sometime back,
about words behind words,
like a pack of wild teenagers
playing hide and seek,
these were very well hidden.
I can’t remember the author, but
it was published in “...Review”
(bag lady of notoriety sporting
an old hat with new paper flowers).
For instance, “it’s a cold, but beautiful morning”,
would have dry-eyed witch laughing
curled up inside the last “u”—
who would think to look there?
Certainly makes me wonder
what’s hiding in “see Dick run”?


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Cleaning Help

The wind isn’t
very good yard help,
she sweeps the leaves there,
and then here, and then there.
Most days she works hard
but never cleans a damn thing;
I’d hire the moon, but
he only does windows.

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Continuity

I dog-eared the page,
broke the continuity of forests
cut, logged and pressed.

Everything read before
bled through the cracks,
flowing onto what I’ll read next.


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Wherever, Wherever Is

A private jet just flew over
whooshing away to wherever.
I don’t wish I was going there,
wherever, wherever is.
Like a bullet they pierced
the belly of a cloud,
I heard it scream,
watched it roll, and turn inside out;
silence caressed it
like a body bag zipped,
then drifted off
to a graveyard of dreams.

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Laughing Ghosts

(I thought in honor of Halloween I'd post the poem the blog is named after. I have placed a link at the bottom of me reading the poem.


Weathered-gray,
semi-petrified slats,
framed the dark holes
that once beamed
with light and life.

The porch,
shattered with broken teeth
and languid tongue,
was void of speech,
but not of sound.

Ghost’s laughter
echoed in the trees,
shading the wrinkled hat
cocked to one side,
that once sat square,
and kept the rain outside.

I clicked my heels
down the hollow of its throat,
looking for evidence
of the home it’d made.
With everything torn and scattered,
and holes set to trap,
I decided to leave, and
let the ghosts have it back.


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Early Morning Rocky Road Relief

I woke up with fear
standing beside me, insisting
I sit up for a talk—
having been kicked out of a bad dream,
I agreed we had things to discuss.

First, I thought it was rude
to wrap it’s gripping hands
around my running feet,
interfering with a panic flight
from what and to where I don’t know.

Second, my dreams are reserved
for action/adventure, XXX, fantasy,
but absolutely never horror!
I felt like I presented my case
historically accurate, and beyond dispute.

It expanded like a gas-filled balloon ready to burst,
bellowed out, “blame it on the Rocky Road”;
leaving a lingering foul stench, it left.

What We eat

She watches the glass
like I do a favorite TV show.
There’s no channels to change, but
when I feed the fish she licks her paws,
and meows with a pleading whine.
The ultimate optimist, I guess,
but, a fantasy that’ll never happen;
paradise, a quarter inch of glass away,
a formulated, nutritional diet on the floor.

Like A Buzzard Circling

Like a buzzard circling
the dying breaths of a wounded world,
Winter salivates for the coming feast.
His 9 to 5 is feeding on all things dying,
dying and rotting, painting the nostrils
of skittering masses with overcoats,
scarves, and dirty long underwear—
worn over and over, you can’t see those,
and the smell mingles with the fallen,
angels and trees, contorted in
an Armageddon pose too ghastly
to be remnants of what once was alive.

Painting Fruit

We look for meaning
in everything we read;
it has to be there,
why would it be written without?

The sadness and loneliness,
a bicycle ride,
wearing dead leaves as lingerie
are all ascribed to the writer,
why describe what’s not?

Is poetry catharsis?
Personal preening for the readers eyes?

Of course it’s not, or
at least not always,
sometimes,
it’s just a bowl of fruit,
and wax at that.

October Leaves

The wind rolls their corpses
under tires in driveways,
it’s not suicide, nor murder,
they’re already dead.

No pity for them...
what’s the point?

Broken blades,
petioles too dry to take a drink.

October’s the month for leaves,
a year ago today
you backed out of my life.

Out Of Stock

I know men and women that discard lovers
like canned peas with expiration dates,
love is just dust, tending circles on a shelf.

Of course, they’re not politically correct.
Haters of the opposite sex…
I’m not qualified to say.

Rotating inventory,
from a retail point of view,
is a good thing to do, but

running out of stock in Winter, really sucks.

Dying Words

I’ve been talking with the trees in my yard,
daily chit chat about bird things, and
rain that promises to visit, but never appears.
They remember yellow and orange stories
fragmented into distractions of time,
crisp, bitter feelings that fall to the dying.
Today they are very talkative, but
soon they will stand cold and silent.

Act II, Same Star

There’s no band
that plays at twilight
to paper dolls dressed for theater in the sky,
frozen in dreamy-eyed poses, and
still tongues murmuring things that could be said.

Angels walking on invisible stilts
roll the Sun on stage
to scissor-cut applause,
changed into a costume of moon robes,
and flashy beads of stars,

the impersonation begins...

Unquenchable

I pondered the depth
of a raindrop once, and
found the water too deep:
the lives it took,
and the ones it gave,
the fruit that slid
its memory down my chin,
the rust it painted
on old tin roofs, and
the umbrellas
bounced on
like a trampoline.
I pondered the depth
of a raindrop once, and
found a thirst it couldn’t quench.

Remodeling, But Open

Friday the 13th, late night October,
Summer checked out, and
cold poured into my pores, all of them,
goose bumps poked out, like occupied flags.

Remodeled the exterior of my body
with a sweat shirt and long pants,
cleaned up the inside with hot coffee,
and a thorough mopping of Bailey’s Irish Cream.

New season, new residents
deserve upgraded digs,
thinking about a hat for the penthouse,
the roof is getting awfully thin.

What We Are

The moon is such a fickle lover
it draws hot blood to yellow thighs,
drains us free of light-lust dreams, then
vanishes without touch, or tear.
No notes left by the coffee pot,
fragrance to linger on sheets, or thought.
Gone again, ‘til it needs our skin,
we’ll be waiting, we are what we are.

All Scratched Up

Sometimes, I’ll have a problem
lay against the back wall of my skull,
and scratch at it like a dog with fleas,

thumpthumpthump
thumpthumpthump...

most irritating to say the least, and
normally in the middle of the night.

I stroke it, massage it,
drag my nail-bitten fingers
over and over its obnoxious hide,

but it sits right where it is,
thumpthumpthump
thumpthumpthump…

The loss of sleep is inconsequential,
putting the Sun over scratched-up skin
wears like hell!

A Hoot Owl Hoots

I remember him sitting
with his head in his hand,
glued to a Formica countertop,
smoking Kool Menthols, slicing through
the blue-grey boredom to make change.
He hated that hardware store,
being a fixture in a block box;
the key turned at seven in the morning,
not again ‘til six at night.
It provided the electric fryer
with drumsticks and breasts, but
his preference was fresh caught fish.
The south Georgia swamps,
rivers, and Cypress knees
hold the memories of his steps.
A hoot owl hoots
in the silence of his sleep.

Wasting Time

The vanity glass,
that has my bathroom
tattooed on its face,
revealed a ghost haunting
the brown pigment
holding life in my eyes.
I’ve never seen this before.
It must’ve been hiding
behind the front of the deodorant can,
or slipped out from
the hanging silk plant,
that occasionally moves
without a stint of wind.
I bathed my vision
in a blur of Visine drops,
when the peeling paint
on the back wall cleared,
the only thing gone
was a waste of time.

Keeping The Beat

I read a book of poems
by a Pocket Poet.
Maybe, it was the first,
actually, I think it was.
Neither he, nor it
would fit in any I have,
they’ve all gotten smaller,
seems there’s less need
for carrying things.
The poetry flowed,
like the offspring of melting ice,
running down the hot hand
of a shadow darting under city lights,
keeping the beat,
keeping the beat...

Something From Above

I ain’t got no poem!
Checked my pockets
front and back, looked
between my toes—
won’t mention what I found;
thumbed through some pages
of a Louise Glück book,
none hiding in there.
I could take my old black hat
turn it up to the sky,
dance around the cul-de-sac
chanting, “gobbledygook, gobbledygook,
let the flood of words begin.”
Surely, a drop or two of something
would be delivered from above.

After Midnight

It was 12:30 a.m., and
I was standing on the beach
relinquishing my rights
to the next to last beer I drank.
I looked up to see a host of stars,
silently peering down,
sober, as far as I could tell.
There wasn’t much to talk about,
they knew what I was doing, and
I knew what they were up to.
I climbed in the boat,
turned the lights out, and
wondered if the flaming, little voyeurs
would still be pervertedly peeking,
when title to the last past onto the sand.

A Hanging Of Sorts

“Your poems are like clanking skeletons
hanging from a tree. They need
skin and nerve-bitten fingernails,
eyebrows that need plucking,
a beer-cratered belly button, and
hair that changes color from
red to blue to green to orange.”
Quite a critique I thought.
“Flesh them out!” (a blue-gray
corpse stolen from the grave
by corporate somebody waving
a white towel from the 32nd floor
of a glass phalanx, signaling surrender
to thinking as an intelligent life form).
But I like bones, and
the wind-chime rattle they make,
as invisible scurrying couriers whisper wonders,
sinew and silk nooses can’t hear.

(This isn't written as a response to anyone. More to the internal argument between me and my muse. The poem, as most do, took on a life of its own. Hope all have a great wekend!)

Hanging On A Push Pin

After Saturday
the calendar page flips up.
September 2006 joins its ancestors
of birthdays, anniversaries, holidays,
ending Summers, beginning Falls,
sunrises, sunsets,
new moons, full moons,
and all phases in between.
There will have been 30 full days
of goings and comings,
but only one marks
the last time we’ll say goodbye.
I wonder if the push pin
can carry the weight?

Candle’s Arse!

Mood lighting is enhancement, not the mood.
It beckons the shadows of seduction
to dance like titillated warriors around
the reflection flickering in your eyes.
It has allure and ambience,
draperies of intimate invitation
hanging in the background, the background only.
So I say “candle’s arse”, when you say
that’s what makes the photograph hot;
it’s you, and only you, that
has the breath to blow it out.

A Different Beat

The phone started early today.
A man that called drunk yesterday—
looking for work,
called back this morning, seven a.m.,
at least he remembered he needed a job.
A couple walked the outline of the cul-de-sac,
pounding a heart-percussion thump-thump
to the melody of an exuberant feathered flutist.
The phone rang again, and again, unanswered;
I listened to the soloist sing to heaven, or a lover,
until the drumbeat, slowly, faded away.

Mudflats

White sandy beaches
are just that,
white, sandy, and
burning hot to any daring feet
in the middle of the day.
Look and admire,
do not touch,
meant only for postcards, and
swimsuit models to be powdered with.
Mudflats are where life is.
Charcoal-gray skin,
with uncountable slimy sores,
sucking and oozing briny pus.
Sulfur swings from nose hair to nose hair
dropping down the throat,
slamming with a sickening thud
in the pit of queasy stomachs.
It clings to feet and hands
like week-old, chocolate pudding,
but not so sweet to lick off.
Mudflats are where life is,
the tide breeds what it will.

Lights Out

Today, the rain sparred
with trees, bricks and four lane slugs,
like a boxer throwing jabs,
whap-whap! whap-whap!
step back, step back...
Black cloud spectators thundered
for a follow-up hard right,
hoping to see somebody
get their lights knocked out.

Friday’s Affairs

The sky is sad-gray today,
I guess it's
anticipating a storm.

Garage door repairman
fixed in fifteen minutes
what I spent four hours cussing.

Garbage cans line the cul-de-sac,
like green-hated gossips,
anxiously divulging the week’s trashy tales.

I heard a new moon is rising tonight,
I’ll send up a howl,
let it echo in dark craters for you.

Dark And Spotless

Somebody pin-popped the Sun
like a fat yellow balloon,
strewing pieces on leaves
already heavy with Fall,
over chain link dividers
of who-mows-what, and
a large piece covered
the granite-grey stubble
of our child-scratchy cul-de-sac.
A mailbox, two houses down,
slowly chewed up a shred
hanging from its mouth;
the lady next door brought one home
smoothly pasted to the side of her SUV.
Shadow-maids in long nightshirts
picked up and cleaned ‘til the end of dusk,
leaving everything dark and spotless.

Abstract Of Delusion

He skywrites personas
without wings and props,
plays hopscotch on lily pads, and
hides in the mysteries of angels.
Life is an abstract of delusion,
skipping stones off the still waters of sanity.
We used to be friends, but
the angels turned out to be mirror images
of an all consuming black hole;
I was trashed in a torn photograph
with an old black hat full of smelly felt-air.

Born To Bear

How fast I changed
when I heard my first cuss word,
and knew what it was.
I rolled it from cheek to cheek
like hard candy, savoring
the juice as it slid
sweetly down my throat.
There was never a thought not to use it,
only contemplation of how and when.
Then, as if, a hangmen holding a noose,
I placed it around the neck of innocence,
and without hesitation
executed the sentence I was born to bear.

Ruby-Throated Red Barons

I’ve turned the back deck
into an aerial theater of war.
They swoop from the trees
protecting feeder and turf,
Ruby-Throated Red Barons,
diving, climbing, hovering and daring,
rapidly firing squeaky-chirp expletives
at anything and everything, including me.
Eyeball to eyeball,
two hundred pounds
to three point one grams,
I retreated defeated,
not the least ashamed.

Sugar Water Relief

I hung a second
Humming bird feeder,
and within minutes
doubled the number
we’ve been seeing.
Were they hiding in the trees?
Have they been sending subliminal messages,
and after a month I finally understood?
Guess, I’m the U.N. of sugar water relief,
amazing what something to eat will do.

In The Air

Winter in Georgia is
three calendar pages away.
The night air is starting to cool,
and my taste buds
are requesting hot cocoa and marshmallows.
Stacks of firewood,
like gapped-teeth school kids,
stand along the roadside waiting to be picked up.
Geese are flying in migratory formation;
they don’t leave anymore, but
they still feel something stirring their blood.

Growing Mess

God’s pipes are leaking again,
water is dripping everywhere,
and I don’t have any buckets.
The lawn is slushy wet,
the cul-de-sac is drooling,
like a one year old sprouting teeth.
Aren’t there any plumbers in Heaven?
No do-it-yourself, Home Depot angels?
I’d volunteer to lend a hand, but
it’s better if I hang around
to clean up the growing mess.

You Decide Which

The rain descended
upon the concrete road
like a horde of wild men wielding
a million flaying fists;
blow, after bursting blow,
slammed into white,
granite-freckled skin.
The Sun leaped
from behind the clouds,
like a fire-fat, super hero,
chasing the water miscreants
into a field of tractor-dug graves.
An incident of injustice, or
a matter of time and place?
You decide which...

Giving Way

Autumn is nudging the back of Summer,
Summer is refusing to budge,
not ready to come in from play;
there are new blooms on the Gardenia bush,
with tantrum temperatures close to ninety.
The inevitable is going to happen,
leaves will tint-up with color,
sweaters and light jackets will be bodyguards
fending off cooler air.
Lawnmowers, nearing hibernation,
are devouring every green blade they see;
Autumn is pushing the back of Summer,
and Summer’s grudgingly giving way.

Kublai Khan Of Foliage

Kudzu hooligans
stand in contorted green gangs
next to Southern metallic-drooling roads.
They never cause mischief during the day,
but at night, shadow-slice the bloodless arms
of leaf-leering headlights.
They conquer by inch, rule for miles;
the Kublai Khan of foliage
breasting anything without legs.
Truly, an import snafu,
weed-rich patches
of great, fertile minds.


For those who don't know about Kudzu here's a link:http://www.cptr.ua.edu/kudzu/

Summer’s Farewell

My Crepe Myrtle has bloomed,
she put on white gloves
for Summer’s farewell Ball.

The grass is swaggering
with bellies full of rain,
reaching for bristling whiskers
hanging from the Sun.

Holly's need a few inches off the top,
weeds are enjoying
a momentary sprout of luck.

Bradford Pears are holding hands
with plump old lady oak, like
a guardian of two skinny-trunk waifs
window shopping for Fall coats.

Revolving Sacrifice

The sun slid
orange-face smashed
down a blue-altar wall.
It didn’t fall in a hurry,
leave desperation scratches,
it fell g r a d u a l l y
so pine-needle-priests
could sprinkle handfuls of bleeding fire.
A ritualistic blessing,
a promise of rebirth.
Night prayed to the stars in moon-vestments
for a dawn of revolving sacrifice.

Labor Day Weekend

I can't begin to tell all of you how much I appreciate your visits and comments on my blog. When I began this the last day of January this year, I would've never guessed how many talented, and interesting people, from around the world, I would meet. I will be gone for the holiday weekend. Hope ya'll have a great weekend!! See ya Monday!!

How’s Tricks

I write poetry because I want to,
not because I have to.
I could let my internal organs
blow up in my peritoneum cavity,
spew out my belly button
like an overly excited fire hydrant.
Sometimes, they come like a shiny, wet baby,
with a gestation minute from yahoo to lookout!
Other times, the teasing tarts play hard to get,
show a little cleavage here, a slapped face there.
Whether fast or slow, they all arrive,
take in some air, run from PC to printer,
put on a white paper suit,
catch the red-eye-Postal-shuttle
looking for a good-time, publication date.

Initial Carving

I carved our initials
into the clear backs of falling raindrops;
they told the trees, and
before I knew it
we were the hot-topic whispers
spreading from wind to breeze.
I hope you don’t mind,
didn’t mean to be indiscreet.
Just thought they’d pile up
in shallow water graves,
and quietly go away.

Name Tags Required

Some days, my brain
rushes to forgetfulness,
like a fly to flypaper.
I jiggle and twist,
pull one thought loose,
and stick two others
in the nether regions of irretrievability.
You’d think a half century plus
of remembering in the nick of time,
the right name
would’ve been an easy find.

Dog Ear Dams

I dog ear pages,
always have,
probably always will.
I know it’s not copasetic,
book abuse of some sort, I’m sure.
I’ve been asked
if I wanted my ears permanently creased,
and folded after every conversation.
Of course I don’t,
they would eventually tear off,
making me look
like a half-eared Vulcan!
Bent corners aren’t man-made dams
diminishing the flow of bank-bursting words.
On the contrary,
they’re evidence of previous forays
into screeching, howling pages,
a comfort knowing the shadows
peering through the under growth of lines
have long been tamed.

Moon In The Lady’s Song

You bounced your songs
off the moon last night.
I listened hard
for the notes that were mine.

Shootin' eight ball
with stars in the sky,
left planet pocket,
fire-rum with lime.

whoa-oh-oh, whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh
whoa-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

The lake had footprints
scuffed on her skin,
chasing splash-laughs,
and Friday night sins.

I heard of secrets
strummed on moonbeam winds,
I listened and listened
with hope what I'd find.

whoa-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh-oh
whoa-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

They Look Like Me

I’ve read Oliver, Collins, Angelou,
taken a nip of old bard Bill,
Byron, Thomas, e.e., WCW, and even
Hemingway spilled gin on some verse.

Stood my words in front
of the reflection of theirs,
sucked their gut in, brushed wild hairs,
plucked a nose hair or twenty,

slid panty hose over bulbous stanzas,
covered metaphors with fat stubby fingers,
cracked the mirror with a flying keyboard,
they still looked like me.

The World Turned

We ranted,
we raged,
we spewed revolutions
like salty spit,
from tongues that knew
Lennon, Dylan, and how to Howl,
with hands soft as newborn snow.

We wrote songs,
and poetry, and essays
that enlightened heaven,
where angels pondered our words
like saviors and potty-trained prophets.
Dust laid siege to our feet,
the causes were neither lost, nor won,
now we know why.

A Thirsty Grave

His head can’t fit
through the neck of the bottle,
nor his hands…
nor his feet...
but drowns in swallows
from the upturned tide of liter seas.
Demons pluck light from his eyes,
strip by strip,
flicker by flicker,
like vultures on an asphalt feast.
Dark omens of bone-wall wells
overflow the drink of a thirsty grave.

Assembly Required

It’s quiet now,
after the tirade
of an afternoon
black cloud spitting fit.
I wonder if God was putting
lightning bolts together, using
an eight language instruction manual
with backordered parts?

Upside Down Day

Blood flows like water
shot from the bottom of a dam,
when perfectly laid out morning clouds
become foot-slippery pebbles
on an upside down day.
There’s never any warning,
some kind of bad luck roll of dice.
You run and run,
like a gerbil in a cage,
‘til solid ground grabs your feet,
and blue skies reflect in the puddles of sweat
wrung from the furrows in your brow.

Wild Hairs

Where do you go
when the last email is sent?
Do you snuggle-up warm
under the enter key, or
kayak hours of rollercoaster cyber-rapids?
Maybe, you wrap your arms and legs
around the night’s last note
of an old “beater” guitar.
Questions! Questions!
that don’t need answers,
just wild hairs sprouting
in the cracks of my thoughts.

Winding Down

Liquid sun crawls through her hair
like worms in a bait bucket,
yellow and dirty, grey tufts
of pillow-tangling strands.
No more hiding behind
plastic bottles of wash and wear youth,
she can’t remember why.
Hands on the clock slowly turn,
unwinding...

Open To Interpretation

I’m not responsible for interpretation,
just stretching these lines like new fence wire
wrapped around the punctuation to keep it taut.
If someone hangs wet hubris here, what is it to me?
Flapping cloth of thread bare ego?
Maybe they like to look second hand.
I’ll just pull and twist and tack and start again,
the lines aren’t meant to keep anyone in.

(This poem ws not written as a response to anyone, or any event. It was penned as a challenge to use the word Hubris in a poem. Maybe not a good one, but it's done!)

God Is

in the tea bag
permeating hot water,
rising as steam.

in the grimy pockets
of the “work for food” man,
waiting for change.

in the dust on blinds
seeing and not seeing,
silent and still.

in the dark shadows
of a circling hawk,
God is…
God is…
God is...

Georgia Coast Sampler

Scrub oaks belly-bowed,
scaly-skinned beach guardians,
too many blows to stand tall,
not ready to lay down.

Spanish Bayonets—
yucca gloriosa,
remembering wars lost
flying white-blossom flags.

Brown pelicans
endangered, but surviving,
fall from the sky—
dinner guests uninvited.

Barrier islands, like salt licks
to the Atlantic’s tidal tongue,
piney-stubbled, stepping-stones
for hair-down breezes, and
bareback riding, marsh-pony suns.

View From Shore

Canvas hands held tight
the reigns of wild winds spooked,
the lake churned up
green and fractured,
whitewater dust.

Long flowing letters
of calligraphy-blonde hair,
raced across
a blue-marquee sky, advertising
the sailor’s holy grail.

Angel Of Hardwood

I could mop the linoleum floors
that call this house home.
Scrub their hides free
of every step and scuff made,
on the thin-skin of flimsy rubber backs.
These old tiles need
to stay pine-scented fresh,
the angel of hardwood,
with scrapper and nail gun,
is circling nigh at hand.

Bath Time

When grey, mother-angry clouds
chase off sun-seething taunts,
leaves wiggle and cheer
expecting a cool afternoon bath.
No soap to get in their eyes, nor
cotton covered fingers
shoved in tiny dark holes,
hiding whispered secrets
only you and I know...

As Long As I Can

I wonder if you’ll love me
when time comes
to wipe away a trail of beef and barley soup
from a shirt someone else buttoned,
to a fissure of lips and forgotten teeth
that once set wild fires raging in your ears.
Will our memories dance in fragrant flower fields,
or become casualties of this war I’ll lose?
Your hand is tender against my cheek,
I’ll press against it, as long as I can.

River Cat

Pristine ripples chit-chit-chattering
with stone cold faces,
like white-haired ladies on a Sunday afternoon;
the river preens and licks and purrs.

Shadows dance between dimpled banks
playing like children with whispering winds;
the sun smoothes her skirt over grassy whiskers,
the river preens and licks and purrs.

Winding bends echo secrets of root-fingered giants
massaging the fur on watery skin;
she raises her back to the soothing touch,
the river preens and licks and purrs.

Ideology War

The cold called for a truce,
my fever evaporated like fog.
I still have the damned cough,
it refuses to lay down arms.
A rogue band of thugs,
hiding behind mucus-stained,
bombed-out lungs,
sniping at non-combatant sips of coffee,
terrorizing daily conversations
with the hack, hack, hack
of its germ spewing ideology.

Cyclic Reunion

It’s hot!
Hottest Summer on record,
some experts say.
Is the brown grass browner?
Dirt in dust drier?
Are rivers of salty sweat
running like class 5 rapids
over butterfly tattoos?
My knowledge of such things
is not so well refined.
Last night it rained.

Indelible Flames

I know so little
about this art of words,
like a child playing with matches,
I spark and smoke, and
set tiny pieces of paper on fire.
Read, read
write, write
flash of fire…
burnt stick smoldering.
I want to set a house ablaze,
watch meaty black-smoke fists
bruise the baby-blue-face of sky.
Sirens shrieking,
bells dinging,
neighbors in semi-circle,
wide-eyed clutches,
searing their nostrils
with indelible flames.

Appointed Time

Red, deep red
ripe tomato, sitting
on the windowsill.
Your fate has been determined,
the knife’s being sharpened.
What crime did you commit?
Which potentates offend?
A gruesome execution:
head severed from
the smooth skin
of a fat round whole,
body drawn and quartered.
Meat and entrails with sweet onions
washed in vinegar and oil,
lightly salted and peppered,
for this thy sentence served, amen!

A Boy In Buenos Aires

I’ve been mugged by a gang
of common cold viruses,
never saw them coming,
very professional in their stealthy approach.
They stripped my nose of smell,
and left it bleeding gray gunk,
decorum dissuades further description;
my throat, with viral graffiti scratched on its walls,
begs cherry flavored, mentho-lyptus mercy
for the indignity of such gravelly, grating art.
It is Summer!
they’re supposed to be marauding
in the Southern Hemisphere.
A boy in Buenos Aires is running and laughing
with clear nasal passages,
while I take a decongestant every 4 hours.

Laundry Note

I put my heart in your laundry,
please wash and gently dry.
Hang it in your closet,
like a favorite blouse
you can’t wear enough.

Old Glasses

My glasses are at the bottom of the lake,
looking at fish tails, and chicken bones,
and mud that used to be dirt.

I laid them on the back edge of the boat,
an invitation for any blind foot
to be mischievous with my sight.

Thankfully, an old pair was found,
I could see to drive home;
the nursing home on highway 20
seemed to sparkle in the afternoon Sun.

Language Of Love

We etched skin-doodles
on memory foam,
night-silk hieroglyphs
with pillow-cased, Rosetta stones.
The maid picked-up the key,
and tossed our sleazy swirls
in a rolling laundry tomb.
The erosion of agitated water-spins
won’t fade what we never shared.

Familiar Faces

The wind has a face
with freckles and tasseled hair.
It runs from tree,
to fence, and jumps
in a half-opened window.
It’s not a stranger, it belongs
wherever breezes brush against walls;
picture frames are left with prints of dust,
touching glass-faces of old friends known.

Writing Under The Influence

The poem I write
on this hairy night
with words that need bathing, and
rotted teeth trailing their soul
to the grave of this lonely page,
is a dirge for the poor reader
who endures this verse;
inspiration’s lying on the floor,
passed out drunk feeling sorry
for never getting laid
by any hot-babe lines.

Point Of View

The beer sat on the table,
surrounded by bobble-heads on bar stools.
They spit and slurred
about half-full,
half empty, or
stagnating in the middle.
All arguments seemed equally persuasive,
so I decided to interject
my particular point of view.
I picked it up
examining from top to bottom,
let the cold condensation of its nature
slide down my upturned arm,
as I drank it, then left.

Obituary Of A Summer Day

I looked out my window
at the stampeding hordes of ghost raindrops,
not a single leaf flinching
from the memory of their falling.
The Sun scraped dust-bleeding claws
down flakey bark-skin, and
bent-back blades of Bermuda—
begging a drink for dignity’s sake.
There was no mercy in her breathless denial,
nor Holy tears to bless the dying.
Day drowned in a pool of fire,
night mourned the darkness of its soul.

Golden Little Eggs

There are coffee beans,
from Indonesia,
processed through
the digestive tract of a tree dwelling mongoose,
harvested, washed and dried,
then sold for hundreds of dollars a pound;
a four-legged
hop and drop factory,
leaving processed goods
like cookie dough on a jungle floor.
No rent, light bills or union wages,
just piles and piles
of golden little eggs!

Patio Stones

His gaze never travels
the shortest distance between two points,
shoulders slink permanently
down ladder rung sides.
He answers to a name,
but usually “hey you”,
a day-labor check for beer and anonymity.
Dreams dulled with the shine
on the last good pair of shoes he owned,
memories are midnight hooligans
rolling his prostrate bones for sleep.
He’s multiplied in geometric progression
building every city’s future.
We walk on their backs
like gray, octagonal, patio-stones
kicking dirt in the cracks.

Peanuts In Pepsi

There’s a sixteen year old kid
in the bottom of this plastic bottle,
chewing peanut icebergs
floating in a salty-cola sea.
An old man sits beside him smoking Kools,
on a paint peeling stool, both
tunneling schemes
under barbed wire roles.
The bottle’s destined for the recycle bin,
the old man was pulled to freedom
on braided cigarette smoke
wrapped around his lungs, and
the kid still puts peanuts in Pepsi,
like pennies in a black hole dream.

Losing Battle

I like my coffee hot
but inevitably I drink some cold.
I pour new to freshen the tepid taste,
rejuvenate with a microwave blast.
It’s a losing battle,
temporary methods
to bolster an incidental routine.
My tongue and lips have accepted this,
but never in your kiss.

Consumer Report

Monday morning,
shower heads weep,
hair dryers howl,
deodorants stifle,
zippers clench teeth,
lip glosses smack,
perfumes choke,
ties hang,
front doors bang,
cars growl,
economic forecast, good.

Stone Cold

I think I want to go.
Go where?
I don’t know, just go!
Barter a deal with sunset,
stow away in a disappearing flash;
throw a rope around Orion’s belt,
swing off like Tarzan in the night.
Is this a mid-life crisis?
Tired of chewing crap like a cud?
Maybe, I’m just afraid
to watch the last ripple
from a stone that’s laying cold.

No String's

“Itsy-bitsy” turned 60 today,
bombs are littered like candy wrappers,
the weatherman promises
rain after six o’clock, and
super mosquitoes
prowl Greek tenements,
blood-junky gangs looting a fix.
Headlines are diet food
for those watching
their propaganda levels.
A new world champion
ate 53 3/4 hot dogs in twelve minutes,
sixth straight title,
bare buns, no strings.

4th Of July

Will be gone until next Tuesday night. Hope all my American friends have a safe and "fun" (whatever your definition of that may be) holiday. Canadian friends the same for Canada Day. And, the rest of you a wonderful weekend!!

What’s For Dinner

I swept the floor,
dabbing at the corners with extra care,
making sure every speck
of lint, leaf-piece, and
the memory of you
slammed into the dustpan
for one last free ride.

The sun backed over
linoleum cracks,
crawling over the African Violet
sitting on the kitchen window sill.
The door knob turned
letting dirt snuggle up to the lonely kiss
of forty five degree base boards,
asking what’s for dinner?

Drowning Me Awake

I cried sand tears
in a dream with shadow-tap-dancers,
their rhythm was my breath,
their darkness my soul.
Veils of shrieking angels
wiped at my scaly cheeks;
the cold flame of our last dinner
raged in rivers of midnight sweat,
drowning me awake
to the lost imprint
on your side of the bed.

Three Haiku/Senyru

Cardinals splash
in concrete birdbath--
water bill is due

Birdsong
in afternoon heat
cold beer calls

Cool breeze waggles
Bradford Pear leaves--
birds sit silent

(admittedly I'm a novice at this)

Brace Of Breasts

Her breasts stared at me
like menu items
from a favorite restaurant.
Not many places you can go,
and bury your face
in an entrée of choice.
The rain tickled
the smooth skin of glass,
we held our laughter inside.

She’s Going To Be A Butterfly Soon

She’s going to be a butterfly soon
the cocoon’s unraveling fast.
Her memories drift,
like gauzy ghosts
in perfect harmony,
back 79 years to now.
You can see her colorful wings
ready to fly on the breath of God.
Morning and night
blend into fogs of passing rites,
she’s going to be a butterfly soon.

Unto The Least Of These

Have you ever considered
the depth of a raindrop?
Not in millimeters,
diameter,
the incestuous child
of pi r squared,
and pi(ab).
How many does it take
to make a blade of grass grow?
A tree?
A forest?
Is their a finite supply
that falls and rises
like tides
on dwindling seas?
Are they tears
wept for flesh-bare angels,
that fall silent
without a crust of bread?
What happens
when the last one falls?

Grouchy Head

Grandkids are two-legged creatures
that leave potato-chip-footprints,
juice box cartons with vacuum-slurped sides,
and battlefields of fallen toys,
too forgotten to be put in the hallway memorial.
They have questions stapled to every breath,
“can we go...?”
“can we watch...?”
“can we have... pleeeease?”.
But more than things
that grump an old man’s bristle,
they leave their laughter
on chairs and tables, and
even nestled in the fur
of the cat’s grouchy head.

Merry-Go-Round

She stalks the shadows
that hang from them,
like wild, dead horses
going merry-go-round,
round and round.

The accident occurred
in the middle of the night,
a bedroom black and dark.
No one heard the train
that slammed through
plaster, glass and bone,
but the damage was life-time long.

She walks without limp,
speaks articulate vulgarity, and
sucks the sun
from her children’s eyes.
Merry-go-round,
round and round.

Paper Dolls

Ever thought of people as paper?
Some, a fine linen,
eloquent,
nice to touch;
others, shiny-slick,
like used car salesmen.
Most are just 20# copy
going through the motions,
12 pages per minute.
Me, I’m ripped
from a faded yellow pad
left in the Sun too long.
Been wadded and unfolded,
so many times,
the creases and tears
are more readable, than
the words once there.

Somewhere Between 33 1/3 & 78

I overheard a conversation
between faces liver spots had yet to squat.
They talked about vinyl records,
like stone age tools studied in pre-CD 101.
These weren’t babies
with jewelry sequined on their lips;
they wore suits with ties and pantyhose,
and cell phones holstered to their belts.
When I got home I looked in the mirror,
then scolded the glass for sneaking
a shaggy, bearded, old man inside.
I remembered my mother standing
at the ironing board lecturing me,
about bringing some long haired boys
from England into her house!

Ask Martha

There’s three mice
under my finch feeders
scurrying around,
chewing and chomping,
what the birds
have knocked off.
I hate the skin-tail rascals!
I shoot at them with my hand-pumped
Crosman 2100 Pro Classic.
Theory: One BB, one mouse.
Actuality: Ten BB’s, no mice.
There are plenty of Red Tail Hawks
to swoop down, and
obliterate the worrisome lot, but
they sit on their dead-limb perches
seemingly oblivious to free lunch.
Home Depot carries the WMD’s I need,
pellets in packets,
pellets you sprinkle loose.
I could get a gross of traps,
load them up with cheese, and
set out tiny tea cups
with a nice herbaceous red wine.
Should the table be set with linen napkins,
or yesterday’s shredded news?

What’s Mine Is Mine

Tangling tongues swelled
into burning skin-seas,
flopping down exhausted
on orgasmic, moon-sweat cloth.
Star tines tingled
as they inhaled second-hand lust,
you whispered "again" and "again"
in my fountain-of-youth ear.
The linen canopy
that covered what we stole
was washed and tumbled dry,
but, that distance in your eyes
will always be mine.

Keyboard Poem

My keyboard and I
stared at each other
with the same blank look,
we both were at a loss for words.
I suggested something about
my visit to the Doctor,
it backspaced
two clicks past the “D”.
Like a player piano
the keys typed out
“klopjeighnvbdkeildnfd”.
Two beers later,
I agreed.

Untitled

Do you ever wonder
if the poem you’re writing
is the last you’ll give a title to?
The last line,
last word,
final number in a long sequence
started with a red crayon in an eight pack set.
It’s not like a breakfast of blueberry pancakes
liberally doused in Aunt Jemima’s buttery best,
certainly missed, but
quickly forgotten over corn beef and beer.
Will it come from an ecclesiastical famine
turning pages of fresh words
into white fields of choking dust?
Or, the silent trumpet
of an angel in a checkered apron,
calling you in at long last
to wash up for eternity?
Could this be the reason
some poets write poems untitled?

Hero du Jour

My back screamed
with a fiery tongue
when I used its muscle
to make me look strong.
I should’ve consulted it
before I went into action, but
a pretty lady was in need,
the perfect opportunity
to be hero du jour.
A “purple heart” wasn’t issued,
no camera flashes for cable news.
I just hobbled off the field of chivalry,
a prideful old fool,
nursing my wound.

Attitude Adjustment

The muse is not dead,
just tired from working
under a hot South Carolina Sun.
She complained,
a poem a day was sweat-shop labor
(I reminded her
she did get most weekends off).
Not good enough, so
I took her to a real job,
where sweat felt good in a rogue breeze,
thirst wasn’t metaphorical, and
red dust hung in your nostrils,
like bats in a cave.
Going back today
to clean up some odds and ends,
next week her keyboard and screen
will look like a lover she thought was lost.

Weather Balloon

The air was still and quiet,
but hung heavy, like
an over-filled water balloon
cocked in the arm
of a six year old general.
Humidity doesn’t care
if you’re a poet, jogger,
worm-grubbing-beast or gardener,
it has one shot everyday,
and today’s was
a shirt-soaking bulls eye!

No Dying On Thursdays!

You don’t die on Thursdays!
Didn’t you get the memo?
No dying on days of the week,
any other time is fine.
Work has to be stopped,
services arranged,
tears washed out of
shirts and blouses,
bungled up words
have to be stumbled over,
it’s just a mess,
can’t you see
it’s just a mess…
but you went and did it anyway.
I know all the other
Monday through Sunday passers
were glad to see you, but
they have eternity
we just have today.

(Dedicated to Terry, the best first cousin a younger cousin could have)

No Freezer Burn Words

No, I don’t pull my words
from the freezer,
place them in the microwave to thaw.
I chase a rabbit
running across the lawn,
take one from behind
its frightened ear.
Another comes from
my Venetian blinds,
after I dust it off
it’s good to use.
A robin plays stork
and drops one on the stoop;
the neighbor’s keys
slip from her hand, and
two or three fall out
from a denim mini-skirt.
The hot coffee
I just spilled on my hand
provides the last to end this poem,
*&^%$#@!!

Patrons Of My Art

Could I spend each day of my life
typing letters into words, line and verse?
Chronicling the Sun’s walk
from Charleston to Malibu, without,
stopping at a gas station for a map?
Reporting a chameleon’s ascent
of my backyard deck, clawing and jumping
to the faded red pinnacle of Barbeque Park?
Watching gold finches take off and land
from butterfly bush to seed terminals,
writing about their amazing careers
without a single flight delay?
Of course the answer is yes, but
Citicorp and Georgia Power
aren’t patrons of my art.

Send Out A Memo

There’s a word
I would love to see
obliterated from language,
some think
the world can’t turn without it.
Minutes would only be 60 seconds,
there wouldn't be a market
for rattletrap metaphors,
yellow note pads
could grow up to be trees,
and pompous asses
would have to join a theater group
to prance around on center stage.
Send out a memo,
we need to have a meeting to discuss this.

Goodbye Bailey

“Be there at 4 p.m.,
don’t be late,
Friday afternoons are busy”.
They would squeeze her in
between the poodle with bad teeth,
and the Rottweiler with bad manners.
I know she quit eating two days ago.
I know the fur on the back of her legs
can’t hold anymore blood from her bowels.
I know…
I know…
but I’m the one that threw the ball,
fed her scrapes of steak and bacon,
watched her eyes multiply 7 x 13.
Now I’m the one
that has to make sure,
she’s on time
for her last appointment.
I wish we could be late.

(for the best dog ever)

Meaningful Relationship

We threw words
like tossed shots
of bad vodka;
they didn’t need to mingle
with sensible tastes,
gullet and belly
were the places for fire.
Tomato juice and celery,
Worcestershire and salt,
weren't required mixers,
we supplied the blood.

Great Art Blog

Found this in my travels yesterday and fell in love with Joyce Ripley's art. Check it out: http://hermitthrushstudio.blogspot.com//

My Ringtone Is...

I want to live
on an old dirt road,
with a serpentine grass-spine
that chiropractors can’t fix, where
ringtones download from wind song,
and critters leave prints,
not carcasses.

I want the sun
to teach me how to wear a straw hat,
daylight and dusk
the only hands on my clock,
and shoe leather
that reports the weather
every time a stone’s kicked in the ruts.

Recycled

I walk every morning
on pimple-granite asphalt
with surnames
Street, Court, and Trail;
past concrete drives
with rubber scars,
and three-wheel futures
laying on their sides.

Yard trees sway
like domestic zombies
with genetic memories
of forest galas, and
God walking in their shade
on split-hoof paths.

Bones and voices
scratch at the bottoms
of my high-tech treads,
waiting for the return
of light-step laughter, and
night to whisk it away.

Midnight Geometry Test

I can’t draw a straight line
with a ruler,
dead sober,
150 watts bursting glass seams,
on any given day,
if my life depended on it!
But, you want me to walk one,
pitch dark,
dead drunk,
headlights whizzing by.
Sir, would it be acceptable
if I crawled
from point A to B?

Suvetar

She dances with wheat,
sun-painted,
fire-licking
the lips of sky;
a goddess with
dirt-rouge cheeks,
joining stares
with bark-skin eyes.

She dances…
I dance…
tree-warriors skip
like water-harp gods.

The sun is planted
in the soil of night,
watered with
the sweat-lust of Spring.

Medium Rare

Poets are perceptive
little boogers,
who the hell knows why?
Somedays it’s a gift,
other’s a curse.
We see the world spinning
on a high top tennis shoe,
laces untied and slouching,
hanging like bangs
in the face of a star, or
skewered on an axis,
slow roasting ‘round the sun.
You say that’s not reality,
there’s scientific evidence
to refute this fantastical claim,
but then,
you’re not a poet, so
I’ll take my clouds medium rare.

Rock-A-Bye Baby

Pain hangs over
her eye lashes, like
fraying laundry
forgotten on
rust-skin poles.
I wonder
who’s rape-seed memories
she cradles
on sleepless nights?
What lullabies she sings?

Scratching My Beard

I think I offended you,
but never meant to.
My fingers punch keys
that aren’t always
connected to my brain.
I would cut the rascals
down to nubs, and
end their quick-click-vulgarity,
but then,
I wouldn’t have them
to scratch my beard,
and wonder
what it was I said.

Save The Potato Chips!

Have you ever considered
the plight of potato chips?
Me neither, but
think about the grinding and crushing
after each crunching bite.
A future of digestive pulp,
passing down the esophageal tunnel
(with no bright light, and
grandma to greet you),
an acid wash in stomach holding, then
a colon coaster ride.
They are sold for this end,
brightly packaged and advertised,
“you can’t eat just one”!
There should be a note
printed between cholesterol,
and saturated fat content,
“you’re actively committing genocide
on this community
of thinly sliced,
deep-fried, salted spuds”.

Swimming Lessons

Most pairs of eyes,
out of half as many heads,
only focus on the day to day.
Jobs and bills,
carpet stains,
a neighbor
tucked tightly in blue jeans,
are things
that can’t be ignored,
subsistence must be maintained.
But, since
you’re treading water,
anyway,
why not
learn how to swim?

Walking The Dog

Walked outside,
birds chirped
pretty bird,
pretty bird…
dog sniffed
for the perfect
patch of grass.
Shot-up
my senses
with their fix
of black coffee,
reflected on
how many
gazillion days
dawn worked
without a day off.
Breathed in deep
morning air,
she found
what she was looking for.

Question Crumbs

I wonder if you’re sleeping
in a foreign dream
I know nothing about?
Is the air you’re breathing
paid for ‘til check out time?
Did you leave a wake-up call
for the sound of my voice?
Questions are all you left me,
so I’ll drop these,
like a fairy tale,
hoping you’ll
find your way home.

Inevitable

Leaves clamor,
like Sunday morning preachers
castigating sins
of a North
by too late wind.

A cold front settled
on addresses changed,

she left him...
he left her...
does it matter?

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Family Affair

I woke up at 2:00 a.m.
with The Graduate on T.V.,
I watched it for the umpteenth time.
Anne Bancroft stirred memories
of every young man’s dreams,
Benjamin rescued Katharine Ross
from a life of becoming her mother, and
Simon and Garfunkel blended
spices in a minor key.
Riding off on the back seat of a bus,
all smiles and laughing,
life was young,
and fresh,
and free,
but mom would always be the first.

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

The Great Compromise

My cat sits on the table
beside me at night,
waiting for ice cream
she knows is on the way.
The older she gets
the earlier her vigil starts.
I prefer chocolate,
her favorite is vanilla,
we compromise, and
get chocolate,
she only licks
the bowl half clean.

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

But Now...

How do you
fall in love with a photograph?
I don’t know,
never have,
but now…

I’ve always
preferred wood
to paint,
even graying and split,
but now…

The back of her head
could have snakes
slithering
on rotted skin,
but now…

I don’t care.

Front Lawn Flirt

The Sun is just a tease!
She twirls around
on the front lawn
enticing me to come out,
and dance on wet grass.
I pirouette
from mailbox to water meter cover,
do somersaults
over the hurricane fence.
A bucket full of pansies whispers
from petals to bees,
tiny wings grab
feathers full of air,
like rungs on a ladder
climbing for a safer view.
Dusk starts wiggling gray fingers
through the blond hair
of my dancing partner’s head;
she turns with
the flash of a smile,
then disappears
like never here.

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Marked $2.50, obo

I read a poem
about people wearing
helicopter beanies, or
flashing lights on their heads,
if they made love
the night before.
I thought,
should I be so lucky, my
whoopee-whirling-strobe-light
device of signification,
would’ve been sold
at a garage sale
in another life long ago.

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

The Next Taste

She lived life
like a kid scraping fudge
from the sides a bowl,
one dark glob,
after sweet, dark glob,
lips and chin
smeared with the evidence
of the joy in her years.
Her bowl lost flavor, and
the rich, sugary stains
faded
from the reflection
in cold, fixed eyes;
the next taste
was sweetest yet...

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Trading Up

I want to live
in my neighbor’s house,
eat his food,
kick his cat,
watch his grass grow,
drive his clunker of a car,
sleep with his wife,
listen to his kids
say I don’t know,
covet his neighbor’s life,
go back home
and start all over again.

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Where Is Your Heart

Where is your heart,
day after the rain?
Is it wringing out wash
you left hanging
to catch night tears?
Is it wandering
a dirt road
with dust groupies
circling,
like scavengers,
tearing at your steps?
Did you throw it
on a night stand, like
quarters, dimes and keys,
while you wrapped around foreign words
under sheets you didn’t know?
It’s not here with me
sharing birdsong and petrichor;
where is your heart,
day after the rain?

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Spring Fever

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Thank you Aurora!

Brain Waders

I use hip waders
to wander around my brain.
Some people have cluttered attics
with cobwebs stretching
from lost memories,
to frenzied forays looking where.
Mine’s a swampy bog
with gray-beard moss and
slithering thoughts,
nestled in the tangled essence
of a miasmic fog.
It’s not so bad
being lost
in black-water silence,
as long as you know
to walk around the holes.

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

It’s A Living

“You’re drunk again!
Go get a job!”
were the words
she flung back on the floor
rolling up to my feet, as
the door slammed in its jamb!
Harsh I thought,
too harsh indeed!
After several beers of reflection
I showered off the insult,
put on the snakeskin boots
she gave me for Christmas,
clicked my heels
over to Wild Cat Willie’s,
and hustled rent
the best way I know.

(This is not autobiographical, by the way)

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Sleight Of Hand

It’s to the audience
we write,
we sing,
we slide a tap
across the sanded floor.
It’s their thoughts
we reach in and steal,
then clone them as our own.
They’re none the wiser
we pick them clean,
they applaud,
they cry,
they laugh for more.
Does that make us thieves?
Is there some primordial
intellectual property law
we’ll be charged with
on Judgment Day?
Who knows?
Who cares?
Is that my hand
in your ear?

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

An Autograph Of Sorts

A rainbow
is the license plate
of a hit and run storm.
It’s the signal—
if you’re around to see it,
the worst has passed.
All those promises
you made under the bed
can be left there,
like an inflatable Ark,
ready to slide in and out of
every time the clouds get dark, and
lightning autographs your fear.

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

No Goodbyes

The Sun
turned its back
to the wind, and
left like an old man
grumbling about
slither-tongue politicians, and
fat-smiling, oil executives.
He shuffled
over the edge of the world,
trailing orange expletives,
cursing Solaritis,
flaring headaches, and
nine adult offspring,
gravitating around
his means of support.
In the last flash
between essence and memory,
goodbye was never said.

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

It’s Just A Chair

Oh, plastic,
preformed chair,
how many tales
have you held,
from back to behind?
Have they been sad?
Wondrous?
So large
your arms stretched
in disbelief?
So small, your
synthetic polymerized molecules,
never realized
they were holding
the weight of the world?

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Anti-Venom

Writers want
to be published,
recognized,
lauded,
applauded,
generally have their egos
over inflated,
so when,
scaly-skinned editors,
coiled behind
P.O. Boxes,
sink viperous rejection
into the shins
of their
latest creations,
they’ll have enough left,
to send them out again.

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Three Words I Know

I breathed in
morning’s cool air
then watched it tumble out,
disappearing where,
I don’t know.
A bird pecked
its breakfast,
up and down,
then flew away,
where,
I don’t know.
The neighbors
backed their cars,
turned, and
headed down the street,
where,
I don’t know.
It seems
I’m at a loss
for knowing much,
why,
I don’t know.

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Next In Line

A drop of dew
slides off
the down-turned,
shiny back
of a Holly leaf,
to the slick surface
of the one below.
It, too,
hangs at an incline,
so down it goes again.
There’s nothing
beneath the last,
it’ll be a fait accompli,
face first into the black,
grainy surface,
where a thousand generations
have gone before.
No whimpers,
crying,
begging,
nothing audible
as it kisses death’s door.

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Dirty Look

Bird out my window,
what kind are you?
the State bird?
the early bird?
the late bird?
bird, bird?
Don’t look at me
that way!

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Tomato With PB and J

I eat soup for lunch,
not always,
but most days.
I love the stuff:
classic chicken noodle,
savory pot roast,
fajita steak with rice and beans,
thick and creamy clam chowder,
so forth,
and so on,
Monday through Friday.
I don’t have a favorite, but
I do miss the tomato
with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,
when there was two to share.

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

For Gold And Souls

We thrust our faith
through native skins
on the cutting edge
of European steel.
Disease was bartered
for gold and souls,
history was painted
with Crayola red.
“Sugar and spices”
and all things that
brought joys to the tongue,
were born in the
jawbone of an ass.
The bells ring, and
call the faithful to worship,
the flock is fleeced,
and the money changers
count the change.

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

A Son’s Memory

She sits looking
with the same eyes,
and half-smile
that’s always been there for me.
I dust off the glass
she lives behind,
a portrait,
the only memory I know.
I’m older now
than she ever was,
one of two
who carry her blood.
Did she know
when she looked
in the camera lens,
our eyes would always touch?

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Free Offerings

The newspaper
lays still in its plastic jacket,
protecting it from dew
and hiked-legged expansionist.
There are living words
in its free pages, like
ants crawling in tunnels
looking for temples to build.
I’ll crack the locks
on the front door,
walk up the drive
to its freshly wetted form,
take it to Waste Management’s
depository for such things,
sit back down at my desk, and
listen to the birds sing.

(all rights reservd Pat Paulk 2006)

Table For One

She said she was
a liberated woman.
I replied
that was a good thing,
I guessed.
No man
would ever tell her what to do,
what to wear,
what to think,
do this,
do that,
ever again!
I looked back
over my shoulder
to see if someone
was standing behind me,
turned my maitre d’ eyes
to hers and asked
if that would be one for lunch.

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Question Of The Day

I opened my blinds
to fourteen new Azalea blooms,
pink-skinned and curious;
the first in a litter of hundreds
nuzzling the breast of day.
A wind-weathered page of newsprint
clings to the trunk
of this nascent generation of petals,
trying to escape the inevitable.
I wonder
how long it can hold on?

Parts Left Over

I decided to write
a really good poem,
filch a few metaphors
from unsuspecting words,
pawn some letters and vowels
for a stake in a line.
After I’ve picked every pocket,
piled up my bag-lady trinkets,
I’ll take the jigsaw pieces, and
fit them into a verse.
Like putting together
a bicycle on Christmas eve,
I left out the damn simile!

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)