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!!