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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