Today

hot shower
muscles say ah…
stress-eaky clean.

Mother's Hand

She laughs at me,
I know she does.
I’m just a pull behind,
drag along,
one man sideshow,
entertainment for her friends
to grind between giggling teeth,
and slap around with girl-silly tongues.
I’m addicted,
like a child to the smack
on the back of mother’s hand.

Cold Breath

last fire log
Bocelli sings—
cold breath

Three Click World Tour

We used to discuss travel
in increments of pre-measured time and length,
primarily hours and miles;
an eight hour flight across the Atlantic,
five hours to watch
the waves roll from West to East,
ninety four hundred miles to find out
Joey’s just another name for road kill.
But, now we can go
from Atlanta to New York
in the push of a button and three clicks.
It’s the same to England,
Montana, Slovenia, Japan, or
a nudist colony on the moon.
We ride the backs
of spring loaded mice,
no peanuts, coach or first class.
Jet lag has turned into
Chronic Finger Spasms, and
flight attendants
are sorely missed!

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Sunday Morning “Bondo” Time

There’s been a multi-beer pile-up,
just above my furrowed brow.
Somewhere between 1:00 a.m. and 6:00 a.m.,
the NASCAR whooping,
butt wiggling,
tight jean ogling,
crowd crooning cowboy,
made several lane changes
from Mardi Gras Olympiad,
to snore-weaving,
Stonehenge-recliner, exhibit “A”, and
back again
to “tell me I didn’t do that” reality.
The only thing left to do
is pull the mangled mess,
of crunched up beer cans,
through my throbbing forehead, and
bondo another dull, gray patch
over thin fenders of toilet-promises,
already swirling away.

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Me And You Lord

It’s raining!
Has rained every weekend, now
for the last gazillion years!
The glass isn’t half full,
it’s full from the outside in!
Animals are pairing up,
two by two.
Is it Spring
putting the spasm in their loins?
I’m sure it probably is, but
I hear an awful lot of hammering, and
somebody that sounds like Bill Cosby
shouting “me and you Lord!
me and you...”

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Tide Changes (painting by Bremandy Beal)

oak shadows
kiss saltwater reeds—
tide changes


(all rights reserved Pat Paulk/Bremandy Beal 2006)

Manners Deleted

There are those in this world
that take rude
to a gourmet level,
finely garnished
with sprigs of tunnel vision,
locked on the one-channel screen
of their bathroom mirror.
Being from the South,
this is like metal shavings
mixed in the grits.
You can force ‘em down, but
coming out,
they'll start a War!

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Cold Coffee

I used to watch the news
for an hour or two,
every morning,
drinking steamy, black coffee,
never letting the steam
leave the rim of the cup.
Guess, I was trying
to be sophisticated
for upcoming conversations, or
ready to run in case “they”
dropped the bomb
under the crawl space of my house.
Who knows…
Now, I blog around the world
picking up haiku, haiga and poetry,
tidbits of this and that,
all strung together
like the tail of a kite
rising,
rising…
coffee’s cold.

(All rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Cold Hands

Spring is trying to come.
It’s crowned,
several times,
between the dying thighs of Winter,
but, quickly retreats
inside a warm, moist womb,
afraid of cold hands.

Panty Hose Lips

Her lips
were like worn out red panty hose,
grainy,
tasteless,
floppy around a kiss.
My mouth wanted fire!
I got gum-slime, and
a pre-view of geriatric sex.

Invitation

steamy love note
on bathroom mirror—
waiting...

Walk With Me

Let's get naked,
and walk to the moon,
past the International Space Station,
maybe peek in the windows
see if they're conducting
gravity-free sex experiments.

Our geriatric sags
would float like dog ears swimming;
our feet would leave prints
with toes and heels,
not sterile NASA treads.

I'd lay you down
in the Sea of Nectar,
ride a wild moon wind
from Africa to Africa.

We'd drink sun
from the cupped palms of our hands,
moon nosey satellites,
posturing for a front page spread.

Boogie board back home
on a couple of rogue meteorites,
wave at Masters and Johnson,
going around the world
for the billionth time.

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Water Stars (Bremandy Beal/Pat Paulk)

water stars,

flecks of moon-skin,

lover's night

Breakfast

fried bologna,
eggs and buttered grits—
grave concern

3 Haiku/Senyru (my feeble attempt)

gray Winter clouds,
intermittent blue sky—
our love

sagging power lines
miles of bending poles—
too many neighbors

yellow-face moon,
contrail scars—
passengers debark

Rain In Red Pajamas

When rain falls on steep-sloped roofs,
and chases leaves in gutters to the ground,
it maintains its first born hue.

It drips from thin, bare limbs,
hangs out on high rise hedges,
crystal clear shimmering in the sun.

But, strip the earth of top soil skin,
and expose the sinews of Georgia red clay,
the tiny wet rascals slip into clingy, red pajamas,
and stay,
and stay,
and stay!

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Horizon's Cradle

Sunset covers up
with the outgoing tide.
The moon sings lullabies, and
runs her wave tipped fingers
through the last wisp,
of orange rippled hair.

Sunrise yawns early
as she peeks out from under
the horizon’s blanketed care,
beginning again the daily chore
of polishing the sky, and
removing cloudy stains.

(previously published in Poetic voices)

Daily Special

Your eyes tell no secrets,
and your words are carefully picked,
like spices in a concocted recipe,
zesty ingredients to flavor the taste.

The language sounds familiar,
but unrecognizable as intimate speech.
I wonder if I'm a menu selection,
a daily special, one day a week.

(previously published in Poetic Voices)

A Musing Tale

Our muses have never crossed paths,
as far as we know.
Hers speaks fluent French,
and makes love to feral cats.
Mine chews tobacco,
spits with a deadly aim, and
is a connoisseur of fried dill pickles.

They’re hard working creatures,
both in their own unique way:
Haiku, Tanka, and poems of the heart;
rambling free verse,
leaving Redman stains on the keys.

It would be criminal
to allow them out in polite society;
the internet has been the perfect venue
to extract beauty from the beasts.

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2005)

3 a.m.

Where’s the world at 3 a.m.,
when my eyes pop open
responding to a bladder,
that won’t allow
my last beer before bed,
the dignity
to sleep the night through;
when my arthritis
plays pinball with my
knees and elbows,
scoring double points,
and an extra ball
for striking all four at once;
when I slide my hand
across satin sheets to find comfort
in the touch of your warm skin,
only to be reminded
you’re sleeping
with someone else,
in another world at 3 a.m.

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

From One Day To The Next

She stepped from the train
with no place behind her to go.
Shadow-boxed eyes
and a vinyl, red suitcase
with crisscrossed strips of gray frugality,
were all she had to hold sanity, and
clothes she’d never worn new.
Her mother would be glad to see her,
it’d been two years,
a broken nose and jawbone,
since the last time she’d laundered wounded tears.
She’d go to church on Sunday,
let her ear drums soak in the preacher’s sermon,
like bruises in a hot bath of scented make-believe,
then confession on Monday.

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2005)

Maybe, Maybe

Maybe, I’ll write a poem today,
maybe not.
Maybe, I’ll get some work done,
or start on my taxes.
Maybe, I’ll wage a war against fleas
on the dogs, but
definitely not the cat.
Maybe, I’ll eat a peanut butter sandwich,
with dill pickle potato chips,
and an ice cold Miller Lite.
Maybe, I’ll cast a thousand emails
on the Pentium sea of fiber optics,
and see how many weirdoes drift back.
Maybe, is a word
that leaves ALL options open,
maybe...
Maybe,
I’ll do just that.

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Dancing Angels (Mandy Beal)

Mississippi Gulf Coast (Mandy Beal)

The Beast Is Slain

The sun split the belly
of a gray-dragon day,
spilling bloody
yellow entrails
over houses and fences,
hanging like
shredded linen in the trees.

I walked on the sidewalk
pressing golden slime
into the treads of my shoes;
birds bobbed for curious worms,
stepping lightly,
on flooded lawns.

Windows worn thin
from staring eyes inside,
washed their sills and jambs
with the blessed plasma
of a slain Winter storm.

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Fleeing Overcoat

The ground crunched
with frozen answers
to hurried steps;
the wind chased
a fleeing overcoat,
to be left outside
a closing door;
fiery flames roared
at stingy hands
that grabbed its warmth;
an old chair embraced,
when asked to rest
a cold, tired soul.

(previously published in Skyline Literary Magazine)

Pierced CD's (Pat Paulk)

Walking through Barnes & Noble
there were teenagers everywhere,
laughing,
they’re always laughing;
marking their territory
in packs of three and four,
between rows of literature/poetry,
and non-fiction drama.
I picked my selections, and
squeezed by a group of three giggling girls,
when one jiggled her earrings,
stacked like silver CD’s,
in my direction,
“Bukowski! I love his poems!”

Y'all have to check out today's column at the Crabby Critic.... otherwise known as The Quotable Me, by our colleage Nick Zegarac. This has got to be one of his funniest yet. As they say about Nick, love him or hate him, either way, he's on your mind.....

Pondweed Arms

The moon exposed a Winter lie
across the mirrored-face of water silent.
They skirted along the banks of sin,
their feet careful not to drown in love.

There were crackles in home fires burning,
but missing pulses stole the warmth.
Empty beds waited for turning keys,
and soft steps shushing loose-lip floors.

Darkness brooded from thought to rage,
woven in schemes with alibi threads;
the last kiss of a Winter lie,
forever cold in pondweed arms.

House Of God

Some look for God
inside bricks and mortar,
steeples, windows and
doors that close.
I found Him in the rust-red
of Dogwood leaves,
hanging like gifts
accepting my thanks.
I looked in the limbs, and
He sang from a bird,
then tickled my ear
with the touch of a breeze.
In the laugh of a child
He rolled on the lawn next door;
a mural He painted
on a butterfly’s wings.
I’m not a deist,
my beliefs are more Christian than that,
I just prefer to worship
in the house He made.

(selected for publication in the January Issue Of Poetic Voices)

Less Said

Her heels,
advertised
to my attentive ears,
to check out
how good her ass displayed
in tight,
Made in Mexico jeans.

I obliged, and
discovered,
she needed shoes
with quieter heels!

Response To A Rude Chair

The chair complained
about the weight of my lethargy.
I grabbed another handful of M & M’s,
and ignored its squeaky lamentations.
I was trying to write a poem,
and thought it rude to interrupt
with such trivial grievances.
It wasn’t like I didn’t know
the buttons on my shorts
were dangerously close to decapitation;
the elastic in my Fruit Of The Looms
used up all its stretch,
to touch the polar points of my pelvis.
So I sprayed WD-40 on all its joints,
and silenced the critique
of my slovenly, creative ways.

(copyright Pat Paulk 2006)

Sky-Fire Beard

Morning rose with a sunrise beard,
sky-fire yellow
on a blue-gray face,
chasing off the residue
of a half-moon night.

A coyote strutted
through the steam of my coffee,
disappearing between spindly legs
of a safe place
to sleep the day away.

The coffee grew cold, and
work crept closer on the clock.
I showered and dressed, but
decided not to shave.

Mad, Mad Artists

I read about the madness
of Bukowski—
the tiger
he kept on his back,
to write the perfect words,
in the perfect sequence;
a multi-grain poem
in a white-bread world.

Van Gogh,
had one ear too many,
the prostitute
one not enough.

I heard if you want
to commit suicide,
become a writer,

I’m in the tunnel,
basking in the light!

Ugly Brown Moth

Standing on my deck
surveying green thickets, and
gold finches
flitting from twig to feeder,
an ugly, brown moth
lighted by my side.
I brushed it away
without hesitation or thought.
If it’d been a butterfly,
I would’ve let it stay.