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.