Laughing Ghosts

Deep Fried Puddle

2009-11-10T10:09:00.005-05:00

A frozen puddle
reminded me of a chicken thigh
lightly dusted with flour,
waiting on a deep dive
in roiling oil.

I thought about
stepping on the metaphor
but, decided not;
soon enough
it’d be cold broth
for a rising, hungry sun.

Hint Of Humidity

2009-04-07T07:41:00.005-05:00

I zipped up my zipper
in a cold Spring wind
(I’m sure you understand why).

Nature doesn’t have call waiting, or
a button to place it on hold.

I checked for tracks
on the denim of my legs,
no trace of the legacy of age,

only a hint of humidity
to fishermen down wind.

Gray Cold Cloud

2009-04-01T08:27:00.010-05:00

I crawled into the stomach
of a gray cold cloud
hiding from the fire-grip talons of day.

I rode bareback on a worm
through gauzy veils of flash-back memories;
not so good, not too bad.

I wrote anecdotes on naked roots
of roadside flowers, billboards,
for the dirt-blind eyes of sniffing sneaks.

I wished in the well
of a dromedary king, all
in the stomach of a gray cold cloud.

Authors note:
I promise I'm not stoned, tripped-out, or stumbling drunk through the labyrinth of insanity. Of course, you may see it otherwise.

Fatal Crash

2009-02-04T10:55:00.001-05:00

I was recently in a head-on collision
with a Mac-Attack.
The sesame seed metallic hood
crumpled under the force
of my pearly white grill.

The double beef passengers
left this world
through the tunnel of appetite satisfaction.

A memorial service
was held in a chapel of grease;
their names recorded
in the book of my blood.

Wind Feet

2009-01-30T10:16:00.008-05:00

The wind kicked the water
with wrinkled feet, and
crusty white toenails.

A foul mood
(being kind in my assessment).
Maybe, a cold Moon

rankled its shanks
as it cuddled up for
a dark-side one night fling.

Whatever from
the gouging heels of fury
lifted water hide off bottom bones.

.

A New Toy Poem

2008-12-07T09:25:00.010-05:00

Like a kid with a new toy
I launched a poem
from a harbor of thoughts.
It sailed the waves of louvered blinds,
quietly on the stain of a Mahogany sea.

It disappeared in a valence fog,
reappeared upside down
navigating the stipples of artic ceiling.
I feared the letters without arms and legs
might fall in my eye and never be seen again.

It flipped without incident
came straight down the wall, only to
run aground at three on the snag of a clock.
Fifteen ticks later it slid freed at six, and
digitally anchored in this e-cove screen.

Squirrelly Beat

2008-11-21T07:55:00.002-05:00

Its tiny little feet
beat across the top of the fence
like claw hammers
playing a slat-key xylophone.

Murphy’s paws sped
to an Aussie’s four-four time,
but the critters tune
was an octave too high.

Ring Tone Number Four

2008-11-19T08:32:00.001-05:00

I heard the competition
bellied-up like a Chinese carp;
a sweet and sour rumor
caddish tongues couldn't wait to take out.

If true,
my phone will sing itself hoarse;
ring tone number four on the menu.

A Walk In The Light

2008-11-18T09:51:00.002-05:00

Stepping stones of sunlight,
with hardwood cracks between,
led from the bay window blinds
to the marble masked fireplace.

I stepped on each,
tip toeing
back and forth,

looking for enlightenment
to shoot up my bones, and
jolt my cluttered cranium
into organized order and solace.

But, all I got was a path of swept floor
and a pair of dirty socks.

Better Times

2008-11-14T08:54:00.001-05:00

The moon trudged
across the night sky
like a bag-lady dressed
in dirty, stringy rags.
Her rusty wire cart
left a trail of faded stars;
wheels eerily squealing
from ghosts of better times.

Pushing The Wall

2008-09-18T07:27:00.001-05:00

I’ve never mastered poetry,
though I’ve written hundreds.
The keys click, click again
like a street mime pushing,
pushing, pushing the wall
and then some more.

There’s resolution,
even initial satisfaction, but
the wall is still there, and
the stones of the last poem
turn to dust and blow away.

Single Ply Truth

2008-08-22T07:31:00.002-05:00

It happened.
Surprised the fire out of me
when she said I googled you.

Why would she do that?
I spend my days sucking
acid reduced breakfast, lunch and dinner,
exposing the delicious smell of bacon frying
as the poopological con it really is.

I have mostly gray hair, and
a belly the size of a prize winning watermelon.
I do have all my teeth, and
some really sexy sunglasses.

Regardless her reasons
the odiferous truth is there,
my words are full of boaters good eats and drinks.
I am a shit poet.

Unroll a few lines of this single ply poem,
and wipe the grin off your face.

Work

2008-07-08T06:50:00.002-05:00

Thanks for being missed. I have been working my "poop" business and haven't had time to write or visit. Tis the season for boating, and boaters are faithful worshippers at the ceramic alter of party necessities disposal. I'm open and operating 7 days a week and haven't had too many days off since 5/30. But that's good. Hope to be back blogging soon.

Ashes Of Ghosts

2008-05-23T06:39:00.000-05:00

Words can be empty
even when full.

You can tie them together
like garlic in panty hose,

hang them from
the toe of a lost poet’s dream;

they’re still just words,
empty when full,

ashes of ghosts howling
in the period after goodbye.

Even Though

2008-05-21T07:03:00.002-05:00

i woke up this morning
with my bones melting
pooling in the soles of my feet

i squished
when i walked to the bathroom
sloshed when i stopped

yeah though i walk
through the valley
of the shadow …

I still fear!
leaving puddle-prints
of skeletal slush

2008-05-18T07:17:00.002-05:00

Thanks for all the comments. I've been very busy trying to start a new business: Pumping poop on Lake Lanier. I hope to have the boat rigged out and EPD/Corps of Engineers approval this week and working next week. In the construction business I've taken enough crap to build a mountain range, it will be nice to get paid for taking it. Hope to be posting and visiting all of y'all soon.

MySpace

2008-04-11T07:46:00.008-05:00

Adrift in MySpace
where distance has evolved into sacred chambers,
hidden places,
and thoughts adorn silicon-chip walls,
as photographs,
skewed from whispers of illusory digital mache.

Bacterial Stones

2008-04-08T17:11:00.001-05:00

The doctor called it a skin infection,
cellulitis to give it a proper medical name.
I thought it was the shepherd David
slinging missiles of bacterial stones.

There was a whoosh and whoosh windup--
which I didn’t see, but
the pain to my lower left shin
was Goliath as I ever felt.

Three thousand years of being dead
played havoc with the psalmist’s aim;
for this I “make a joyful noise”
and give praise unto the Lord.

Bouncing Off The Walls

2008-04-04T07:32:00.004-05:00

There’s no sun today
arcing high like a basketball
floating down
through the steel ring of afternoon
disappearing in the nylon strings of night.

Only thunder clouds that cover,
like a robber’s mask,
with a muffled voice rumbling
to hand over my joy,
especially the stash
I keep hidden in the dog‘s leash.

I understand why
we won’t be playing outside today,
but Murphy-- my Aussie--
could care less about basketball,
and the only thief he’ll be barking at is me.

Light One Up

2008-04-02T10:56:00.003-05:00

Are stars the flickering tips of cigarettes
being smoked by fallen angels that never sleep?
The sun, a fat smelly stogie burning down
to the last puff this world will ever know?

Paper rolling postulation?
Unfilterd thoughts of fantasy?

At the very least a musing
lighting up a smoke of imagination.

Something I Said

2008-04-01T08:09:00.000-05:00

Words fall,
like soldiers on a field
of someone else’s choosing,

fatally wounded
in the trigger pull
of sound proof ears.

A Song Too Far

2008-03-30T09:42:00.002-05:00

A mocking bird's song
skips like smooth stone-notes
across the lake
in a descending breezy scale.

In flight, or
water lips kissing,
momentarily,
whistled seductions,
the end is near:

a fading ripple dying
on sand and shell,
an unanswered inquiry
floating, floating down,
falling short the desire
of a waiting Spring dream.

All To Do With Temperature

2008-03-26T09:08:00.002-05:00

I’m proud of my southern heritage:
“y’all” gliding from ear to ear
like a lazy-winged heron
piggybacked on a warm Georgia breeze;
wobbly-legged, centuries old oaks
with sparse patches of moss whiskers
pointing down to their sprawling root feet.

I have nothing against the North,
even know some “Yankees” I like.
It’s the bitter cold and gray of Winter,
and snow that won’t melt butter
like a bowl of hot Jim Dandy® grits.

Cleaning Required (Or Not)

2008-03-24T19:02:00.001-05:00

You said I was looking down your blouse;
it was your pony tail,
that flopped from the back to the front,
when you bent over to get something from your bag.

It looked like a tilted fountain of hair
streaming strands in a carefree circle,
suspended
on filaments of shadows and light.

Of course when you questioned my gaze
I couldn’t believe I’d let such an opportunity pass.
I’ll promise you this: if your shirt should be
so risqué again,
my eyes will be tracking in dirt from my mind,
hope it won’t be too hard to clean.

Last One Out Lock The Door

2008-03-10T09:45:00.001-05:00

Death is like a door in a room.
We paint over it, even the knob,
so, it’s inconspicuous as can be.
If we can’t see the handle
we surely won’t open it by mistake.

We can nail boards from jamb to jamb,
add sophisticated locks that require a key,
a combination, and a dead bolt with hardened steel.
Security measures make us feel safe, except
in the pit of our stomach we know
it opens from the other side, locked or unlocked.

Goodbye

2008-03-07T22:45:00.006-05:00

The Sun fell from the sky two days ago
I thought he would bounce several times,
maybe longer; all balls bounce even low on air.

Instead, he formed into a spirit with a white straw hat,
and slipped quietly through the air conditioner vents,
and ceiling tiles until he reached the roof:

a last look at the construction next door,
the tears, the folded hands and sighs.
He hopped on the back of a saddled prayer,
rode due West to the edge of the world,
turned, and left the sunset as goodbye.

for Benny
goodbye my friend goodbye.

A World Of Fleas

2008-03-06T08:49:00.002-05:00

Have you ever wondered what a flea would think
on the back of an elephant?
It would have to crawl and bite
every square inch of rough, dusty hide;
a world traveler, a sophisticated “insectellectual”
with a million frequent parasitical miles.

I can see it theorizing, when the trunk
blows back a snout full of water and dust,
a storm of biblical significance occurred,
and somehow the population of wingless flies
brought down the climatological wrath of God.

Of course, we know, maybe like Angels in heaven,
it’s just the sleepy-eyed giants way
of protecting its sparse-haired skin from the sun.

Hypoathlechondriac

2008-02-29T09:19:00.002-05:00

Where’s the guy with the hurt toe?
His toe is in his head
kicking echoes like soccer balls
with a very small audience of thoughts.

I don’t mean to be cruel,
it’s the simile I like.
Can’t you see two thoughts on one side
whispering and drinking diet cokes;
another, on the other side, top row
laying flat, sound asleep.

All the while a skinny little toe,
booting sounds from ear to ear,
creates echoes of its own.

Above The Law

2008-02-27T09:55:00.004-05:00

Silent as rain drops sliding down glass
fibrosis and inflammation are stealing his breath.
It’s not like he could put locks on his lungs to keep
them from burning and scarring all they touched.

They’ve been scanned and shot at with steroids,
alarms went off with shortness of breath;
no way to haul their butts to jail, they haven’t
committed any infraction of law to issue a warrant.

I sit here drinking a beer, and writing a poem,
he lays there sucking life from a hose.

Inside Out

2008-02-22T08:10:00.002-05:00

God squeezed the clouds
like over soaked wash rags,
dripping drops of crystal heaven
on the cracked cries of thirsty dirt.

It’s the best rain we’ve had
since Noah’s ghost passed through
sometime last year,
maybe, the year before.

The trees shook like wet dogs,
some patches of grass
drank so much
they were inside out with water.

Thanks!

2008-02-19T18:56:00.001-05:00

My grandson said to tell all of you he appreciated all your comments. His grandfather does too!! He's 13. Andrew you are right, I can't be that old!!

Untitled

2008-02-17T18:25:00.001-05:00

Here are two poems by my grandson Aaron Stallman. A proud offering by a proud grandfather!!

Those who live in times of was,
and those who live in trophies or honors.
Those who see not life,
they are blind with vision dark as night,
for they see just their past.

Listen advice as old as time itself,
see the day,
live the future,
forget the Past.
Keep marching forward,
your battle is not over.

By Aaron Stallman

Everytime I hear sir names,
I see their faces.
Wonder who they were,
why they were,
and when.

Everytime I hear sir names,
the faces of past I see.
This gift I bear,
I know not how,
why, I cannot say.
One thing I know,
this gift I'll bear always.

By Aaron Stallman

Stroke By Stroke

2008-02-14T20:46:00.005-05:00

The fog is muscled-up thick
preventing me from finding shore.
Every direction I turn
I’m head-locked tighter in dilemma.

I can’t just sit in its grip,
there must be a way to slip free.
I’ll stab its muddy-bottom feet,
with the long pole I hold,
until, it lifts them out of the water.

Line Up Of Three

2008-02-13T19:47:00.004-05:00

I’ve narrowed the search to three suspects
in the crime of my disappearing poems.

My stumble fat-fingers that press
two or more keys more often than one,
refusing to follow to the letter
all instructions from the brain.

Murphy, our Australian Sheppard
that has his own poem, is the least likely:
he’s the number one pet,
the only time he touches the keyboard
is to remind me of his daily date with his ladies
on their sniff, walk, and pee, and
their sniff, walk and ______.

Now, to the feline of “bitch” fame.
She always wears black, and
mischievousily roams the house.
I’ve interrogated her thoroughly, but
she refused to confess with a kiss-my-ass hiss!!

What happened????????????

2008-02-12T18:48:00.000-05:00

I lost February's poems.

Took My Breath Away

2008-01-28T12:05:00.000-05:00

I’ve struggled with men over a football, struck
dimpled balls on fairways and greens into a hole,
flirted my ass off turning “NO” into yes, Yes, YES!!
Won or lost, it was the challenge I loved most.

But, with this breath-stealing, snot river cold,
there’s no line to cross, no holes to enter,
nothing I can finesse into a positive score.

Suck on these, swallow two gel caps,
sleep for hours, and wake up the same.
Of course, it’s not my first,
I was deflowered as a child (perverted little viral beast).

It’ll have its way with me a few more days, until,
this mucus lusting lothario takes another's breath.

Bare Limbs

2008-01-24T12:29:00.000-05:00

The trees outside are bare,
with limbs swirling around their trunks.
I’m not a fan of Winter, but
nakedness I advocate all the time.
There’s been many a pole
I’ve watched bare limbs twirl around;
doling out green leaf after green leaf,
making sure the covering wouldn't return.

Favorite Time Of Day

2008-01-21T08:08:00.000-05:00

I walk Murphy, my Australian Sheppard mix,
most days, but, with the wind chill being 14
he’s just going to have to bark, whine,
growl--under his breath, and bounce off the walls.

A rescue we got back in June, that didn’t know
how to play with toys, people, nor other dogs.
He was scared to death of men, but, never me,
which I thought was very strange.

All of the above has favorably changed:
he scatters his toys all over the house, and
some things that cause us disdain. We walk
with a regular group of four, or five bitches--
all their owners are female too. It is our favorite
time of day, I hope my long johns can be found.

When The Well Is Dry

2008-01-19T16:04:00.000-05:00

What’s the point of writing, just to write?
The well is dry, there’s no words left
hiding in the mortared walls of my creativity.
I look at the snow, snow we rarely get,
and see just that, instead, of an invasion
of white hedonistic flies procreating on dead grass;
eventually, leaving the slush of their sin
to stain our soles going out for the mail.
I drop my thoughts down the dark shaft,
again and again, hoping for lines to fill
the empty strapped slats of a page.

A Fool And His Gold

2008-01-07T08:14:00.000-05:00

The sun races through her hair
like fire-angels playing tag.
The sparkle in her eyes is probably fool’s gold
but, I’m addicted to the glitter of that dream.
I definitely know better having sluiced
many streams and creeks the same.
All I need is one, and maybe this one's mine.

From Fog To Fog

2008-01-01T12:44:00.000-05:00

The fog on the lake New Years Eve
was smooth and silky, seductive and mysterious.
The fog in my head New Years day
was neither seductive, nor mysterious:
it had the fury of a woman scorned,
the fiery quills of a porcupine cornered.
Thankfully, though, the memories
will fade into myths and legends, since
the batteries in the video camera were dead.

Howling Madness

2007-12-26T07:32:00.000-05:00

The wind, like a rabid dog,
mauled the tender skin of my face tearing
succulent warmth with carnivorous icy teeth.

Trembling trees with cowardice,
bare to the curves and fractures of their spines,
moaned with sympathy, but, dared not
pull the beast from the feast of my suffering.

I endured the ferocity, the viciousness
of its demented assault; gathered
an arm full of fat lighter and dry logs
to soothe the stinging in my wounded cheeks.

Thank you all for your kind offerings, and continued support with my long absences. Hopefully this will change soon and I can get back to doing what I love best, well, second best anyway.

A Little Rain Must Fall

2007-12-03T09:18:00.000-05:00

Where will the dancers be
when rain ceases to fall?
poets when thirst ridicules words?
They will be clanking chimes of bones
performing in a wind that has no soul.

Forests won’t remember carpenters,
clouds won’t darken with the smoke of war;
sunsets will set fires in the sky, and nights
will sleep soundly without voices wet to mourn.

Fixing Flats

2007-11-28T08:25:00.000-05:00

A leak sprung in my mind:
a screwy thought, maybe, but
more probably my worn out way of thinking.

I should take it somewhere,
get it patched, plugged or replaced.
Think of it, a new mind with zigzag treads
that’d wouldn’t hydroplane on stormy days.

Out of my budget, so I’ll pop another patch;
skid around on bald resolve, fixing flats.

A Green Recipe

2007-10-30T09:56:00.001-05:00

It may be time for oil barons to be boiled.
Add vegetable politicians, julienne or chopped,
dice up a few judges, add garlic and salt.
Simmer and spice with cloves of lawyer tongues,
stir in all-media seasoning till it tastes dollar free.
Obviously, can’t do this, but it’s appetite for thought.

She Is What She Is

2007-10-26T07:36:00.000-05:00

Her sleek outline curves from stern to bow
like a smile, friendly, with a red gunwale gloss,
wet and glistening, inviting sunrise to a kiss.
She isn’t a faithful lover: the sea slips
its smooth hand down the belly of her keel;
the breath of a passionate night to come
whispers in the taut cables of her mast.

Religion

2007-10-22T08:32:00.001-05:00

Religion, as a word in Scrabble,
has very little value at all.
In the overall schemes of two-legged beasts,
its worth is incalculable in dollars and cents.
In the bony shadows of widows, and protruding
bellies of orphans stuffed from breasts of air,
its purity is proven when the lest of these are fed.

Waltzing With A Dream

2007-10-16T07:46:00.000-05:00

I plan someday to stop working,
not today, but, hopefully not too far off.
Sit on my porch, and watch the sun, clouds,
wind and rain paint miracles across the sky.
Of course it’s part of our culture to retire,
go fishing, play golf and eat peanut butter
and banana sandwiches whenever we like
(take a handful of pills for eating whatever/
whenever we like, too). I, also, want to write;
write words that have the flavor of a juicy apple,
where the dripping sweetness to the last bite
leaves you with the seeds of more to come.
It’s a dream, a hologram of thoughts that spin
like animated dancers in a waltz that may never be.

Miss October

2007-10-04T07:59:00.000-05:00

The temps here have started
taking off their steamy attire for Fall.
It’s been a long Summer tease, but
we’re getting ready to crawl under the covers,
and snuggle-up through the night
with a calendar babe of color.

Zorro

2007-09-21T08:35:00.000-05:00

What do you do
when you’re created without a tail?
Obviously, you become a cat;
a cat named Zorro, furry, black and white.

It must’ve been hard
to grow up without a tail to chase, but
what foul air missed in swishes and twitches,
ears and long stretches made up with scratches.

To sleep forever for pearly white teeth,
is one way to slip out without saying goodbye.
But, you left everything cluttered with tears, now
your memory will have to clean up this mess.

( For my sister who just lost her cat)

Fanatical Followers

2007-09-12T10:08:00.000-05:00

My shorts are getting seasonally shorter, and
my jeans are hanging precariously close to a fall.
I prefer the shorter to the longer, unless it’s
the un-hemmed intrusion of night into day.
But, my choices are whims of illusion, my pants,
fanatical followers of the realities of air.

Harvest Time

2007-09-09T08:14:00.000-05:00

Her eyes have squinted tracks on sunlight
more years than first glance would show;
a smile flushes out a flock of stars
from a temple with priests of lightning and rain.
She dreams with the maidens of poppies,
but still walks with children of cloth and steel.
It won’t be long before tears make mud of earth,
and her harvest filtered through clouds and light.

Blessed Dysfunctional Clouds

2007-08-30T07:40:00.000-05:00

The thunderstorm, that needed Viagra
to express its pleasure as a virile entity,
cooled the afternoon enough so I could
sit on the back deck, and listen to a hoot owl
and hawk harmonize on the same dinner melody.
I’ll never know if the screech, or the hoot,
won the take-out prize, but, I thoroughly
enjoyed the dysfunction of the afternoon storm.

Breakfast Marauders

2007-08-27T07:26:00.000-05:00

There’s more to life than cinnamon pancakes,
and fat-sweet bacon frying in a non-stick pan.

But, when

the raging fragrances of breakfast are close
to breaking down the olfactory gate, and

drowning

my appetite in buttery maple syrup,
it’s time to cease my Sunday morning prayers—

“we give thanks...”,

and slice and stab the source of the raiding smells,
sending them to the bowels of contentment.

Skin Art

2007-08-23T08:11:00.000-05:00

If I ever decide to redecorate
the birth-issue-fits-all-ages skin God gave me,
I’ll probably rip off two patches
of peel-n-stick blue sky, and
lay them over my dried-out hairy arms.

I have enough sun covering
the hills and valleys on my forehead—
ground cover that never needs mowing;
maybe, some moon-cream to moisturize,
and bring out a soft night luster.

I already plan to get an earring when I retire,
but, before that, I might steal two studs
from Orion’s belt, and brighten up my nipples.
I can hide those under my shirt.

Stud-Mutt With Means

2007-08-21T10:20:00.000-05:00

Murphy loves tassels on shoes,
strings on rugs, and gritty lumps
from the cat’s litter box. Yes,
oh yes, that is what it is.

Dry Onion Soup mix is a favorite,
two packets to a box, chewed and
scattered all over the kitchen floor.

He’s in love with the girl next door,
who won’t give him a prayer of a sniff.
Milk bones and Pedigree dining at six
have him acting like a stud-mutt with means.

Needle-Tooth Pricks

2007-08-16T08:08:00.000-05:00

She will stick a hollow steel fang
in my arm, or hand, depending where
she finds a vein unwilling to roll over.
Then, draw the plunger back sucking
my blood into a plastic “vial” throat, with me
sitting helpless on sterile butt-sticky tissue.

If she hits the mother lode on the first stick,
it won’t be as excruciating as the last. But,
I know better, my veins are tunnels of
make-the-eyes-squeeze, dog-slink rollers
away from needle-tooth pricks.

Always A Meal After

2007-08-09T09:02:00.000-05:00

It’s been over two years since a fish bellied-up
above the ceramic castle in our aquarium.
It floated like a yellow cloud over those
it swam and ate and nipped at as peers.
I slipped the net under its fin-still form,
a dripping mesh hearse for the ride to the trash.
Wet coffee grounds to coffee grounds, covered
on a pile of gnawed-to-the-bone chicken legs;
the burial done, time to feed those that are left.

Keeping Up With

2007-08-07T09:22:00.000-05:00

The crape myrtle is full of itself,
decked out in fine Summer blooms.
You’d think it was going out for lunch,
or receiving guests for afternoon cards.
Of course, it’s just keeping up with the petunias
wearing purple and white, everyday the same.
And, they’re determined not to be outdone by
uppity impatients sneering at them from the shade.
My God! A yard full of one-up-it petty “petalites”.
The grass, in lingerie shadows, will not be left out ,
and nothing will stop the pines and pears from
braiding their leaves with moon-dyed ribbons and stars.

Two New Dogs

2007-08-02T08:31:00.000-05:00

The one hates the other,
the other is playful and young;
neither of these “anywhere-on-the-carpet”
dog food re-processors is house broken.

The first, was a male Australian Shepard,
street trained, between one and two,
or seven and fourteen in canine math.
The second, a male black cocker with
a schnauzer nose, cuddly, cute
and quick as a blast of back-fire smoke
when escaping the Shepard’s snout.

The younger came without his manhood,
the Aussie’s are intact for another week. But,
even without his testosterone birthrights,
I’m afraid he’ll always piss-out yellow post-its
telling the cocker to get out of his house.

All Weather Wear

2007-07-28T10:08:00.000-05:00

Today, I’ll wear
a starched shirt of sun,
trousers of pressed trees,
and shoes of tasseled grass.

Later, let rain
trickle over my ears,
like long silver hair
under a broad gray hat.

Providing for my worldly needs has taken precedence over writing and visiting blogs. I apologize for not getting around, but next week I should be back to normal, hopefully.

Don’t Do windows

2007-07-23T08:07:00.000-05:00

I’m lying in the gutter of this keyboard
begging for a long, hard drink of words;
swill from a rusty can of sentences, or
backwash from a brown bottle of lines,
anything to slake this blank page of thirst.
I’m not embarrassed to put it in print;
I am what I am wallowing between these keys.
Spare me a guzzle or two of letters,
I sure as hell won’t wash your windows,
but I will type out a line or two of verse.

Whooshfulness

2007-07-16T07:35:00.000-05:00

The ceiling fan droned on and on
about the fruit of its whirling
being a full blown relative to wind.
With the evidence breathing down my neck,
it was hard to deny some validity to the claim.
As the only witness, judge and jury
to the “whooshfulness” of this argument,
I accepted it as a techno cousin of a breeze,
but not enough oomph to be a sibling of a gale.

When The Wind Blows

2007-07-13T08:35:00.000-05:00

Trees, why do you tease the wind
with your green tasseled skirts
lifted above your waists?
What can you hope to gain
from your flirtatious wiggling about?

The wind is nothing but pure lust;
no semen in the thrusting of its loin.
You know this, yet, you continue to undress.

Don’t you hear the mocking bird
laughing at your silliness? The cardinal
flew behind the neighbors house
embarrassed by the gyrating of your trunks.

Enough! Enough! of this XXX exposé.

It’s not so much I mind you acting like a tart,
I’m just tired of cleaning up your mess.

Day Moustache

2007-07-12T09:25:00.000-05:00

Morning has come,
like the milkman used to,
picking up empty stars, leaving
a blue basket of Grade A clouds.

I have a haircut at nine,
grass to cut after that, then
the rest of the day is mine
to drink it in at my leisure.

Moonlight Prayers

2007-07-09T08:09:00.000-05:00

A boat in dock
collects more spider webs
than leaves do sunlight
on a hot July day.

Maybe, they’re attracted
to water as we are:
leaning into mother’s breast
when no other comfort will suffice.

They weave their moonlight prayers,
fragile tethers to nature’s pangs.
But, for the sweep of a black bristle broom
their fate would be a midnight feast.

Waiting

2007-07-05T08:03:00.000-05:00

The leaves are listening,
being very still
for any murmur of wind.
Are they waiting for gossip
on rustling cousins two streets down?
Fire and brimstone sermons
from root-ripping itinerant clouds?
The air hasn’t spit out a hint
as I watch, and they wait.
Most likely it’ll be neither,
just silence on a long hot day.

Harvested

2007-07-03T07:55:00.000-05:00

Your eyes,
sad as rotting tomatoes on a vine,
now, past wanting
the hungry pull of a hand.

I can’t imagine
the fruit wouldn’t have been
chin dripping sweet, but

there’ll be no tasting,
no savoring juices
exciting the genitals of a tongue.

When death
lays like polished granite over your eyes,
the pain will be gone,
the fruit finally picked.

Small Rewards

2007-06-30T08:09:00.001-05:00

I sweat dream-drops
into the diamond-tipped dust
of callused hands and concrete alteration.

The sun burned passion into my thirst
causing me to strike the cask of orange stone
many times without speaking a word.

I may not cross the waters into Canaan,
march around Jericho and topple walls, but
the job is done, and I can sleep in, in the morning.

Working

2007-06-27T06:34:00.000-05:00

Working out in the field this week. Will return by Sunday, I hope.

Saturday’s Ghosts

2007-06-23T09:30:00.000-05:00

Well, now it’s Saturday.
The long neck ghosts aren’t rowdy
punching holes in the walls of my head,
but they did wake me up talking about:
pine trees chewing on the chin of the sun,
egg rolls swabbing tongues with duck sauce,
a Texas Hold-Em game that held me up.
Their chit-chat of Friday’s antics make me
determined to give their pop-top cousins
something to talk about in the morning.

Miller Time

2007-06-22T07:13:00.000-05:00

Friday again,
my favorite day of the week.
The day I go to the lake,
grab a half dozen, or so,
bottles of Miller Lite
around skinny forty degree necks,
watch the brown glass sweat
as I drain their chilled-out lives
down the stressed-out throat of mine.

powered by ODEO

Shoot For The Stars

2007-06-21T07:50:00.000-05:00

It’s been awhile
since I shot my potato gun
at the stars

never hit any

but the thunderous fire
that bid farewell
to the missile of its birth

was close enough.

powered by ODEO

Toast And Jam

2007-06-20T07:47:00.000-05:00

The sun—
a favorite poetic theme,
spread its honey-gold jam
over the lightly toasted ravine,
with the far crusty edge trimmed off
by a serrated muddy creek.

What better way
to take the first bite of day?

All Used Up

2007-06-18T08:22:00.000-05:00

His body rummaged through
drowning lungs of inevitability,
searching for the proper breaths
to accompany him to death.

There were only a few left—
short, gasping rattlers,
but he used every one
before the next occupant took his bed.

Water-Wool Thread

2007-06-15T07:08:00.000-05:00

Water-wool sheared
from wild herds of rain
spins the finest crystal thread.
The first time I kiss you
will be stitched to the last, and
you’ll never feel the scratch of a seam
from our beginning to our end.

Heart Of A Storm

2007-06-13T06:37:00.000-05:00

I watched your jowls
flush up with fury,
jagged electric veins
pop up and down
your stout gray neck.
I listened to you threaten
cowering trees, and neighborhood cats.
Yet, underneath all that whoosh and fume
beat a heart full of tears
for thirsty roots of dying souls.

Dressed For Love

2007-06-10T10:30:00.000-05:00

Silence draped the night air
like a satin gown flowing
over moonstone slippers
stepping on the cracks of a ruffled sea.
It was formal and eloquent,
articulate in whispering soundless words,
definitions beyond meaning, expressions
tangled like tongues in a midnight kiss.

Sorting Echoes

2007-06-08T09:23:00.000-05:00

They called at 8 p.m. last night
while we were listening to seagulls
squawk about being seagulls,
waves and sand arguing over boundaries
neither have, nor ever will honor,
an over-the-shoulder retort of a red hot sun
shoved into the silence of a watery night.
We decided to wait to return the call,
our ears were busy sorting through
the echoes of all we’d just heard.

A Mother’s Chill

2007-06-06T13:16:00.000-05:00

She sits wrapped in a towel,
trying to stay warm in a poolside breeze.
Her children, a boy and girl,
swimming with wings holding her breath,
unable to feel what she feels.

Naked Beauties

2007-06-04T11:25:00.000-05:00

I dog-ear waterfalls,
like memory pages
in God’s premier issue
of all time naked beauties.
Their roaring words slam
onto indifferent rock ears,
tangling strands
of green and white,
always flowing,
always pulling me
into the never ending
wetness of a first love

Fast Food Mugging

2007-06-03T08:42:00.000-05:00

A murderous gang of fast food fries
mugged my heart in Greenville, Alabama.
As best I can determine, since my eyes
only read obits in the now and back when,
they made off with approximately 24,382 beats.
I also think one of the greasy slick sticks
slipped a hand inside the vest pocket of my lungs,
and lifted several hundred old and fading breaths.
Not a lot when calculated in minutes and hours,
assuming I have years to recover what was lost.

Music To My Ears

2007-06-01T07:28:00.001-05:00

Do you hear it?
Tell me I’m not crazy…
I hear cello music
stripping caulking from my windows,
hanging notes on my ears
like antique baubles
that chime in perfect harmony
with every thought I have of you.

Forbidden Fruit

2007-05-31T08:24:00.000-05:00

I know right and wrong,
admittedly, wrong better than right.
When I choose what I know I shouldn’t,
pangs of guilt like Ninja warriors
spider-crawl from the pit of my stomach—
they thrive in dark, smelly places,
throwing their poison tipped shuriken
at every thought milling about ear to ear.
Likewise, on the rare occasion when I squeeze
my fat belly through the eye of a needle,
angels shake off dust from a closet in my brain,
and leap to sparks that gleam in my eyes.
Now, that I’ve shown I’m familiar with both,
why do I want what I can’t have?

Maximum Capacity Twelve

2007-05-29T08:01:00.000-05:00

Instead of a graduation ceremony,
from the hallowed halls of politician “U”,
the graduates bow before the altar of
“all sides of any issue”, and flick
their tongues through “tickle your ear” blades
of cheap plastic—donated of course, shredders.
Now don’t get weepy eyed, and
pressurizing your veins with sympathy,
all feelings and intelligent thought
have been disconnected from their brains.
They also get to carry one home
in case any of the flapping strands
start bonding together in an honest opinion.

Menu Of Molecules

2007-05-25T07:10:00.000-05:00

It’s belly swollen, like
a water hose ready to burst,
stretched out on warm asphalt
digesting a meal of critter a la carte.

I could envision it slithering
through the weeds and tall grass,
flicking through a menu of molecules,
airborne specials of fur and fright.

Think-N-Wear Thoughts

2007-05-23T08:50:00.001-05:00

I love Spring mornings
when the sun towels dew
from bushy heads of green,
and white cloth clouds
scrub night from baby blue skin.

My think-n-wear thoughts
flap in a tumble-dry breeze,
refreshing what I’ll put on my mind,
before I start sweating out the day.

Squinting Rosewood

2007-05-21T07:15:00.000-05:00

I woke this morning
to my brain sweeping
the detritus of dreams
under the rug of a first yawn.
The sun, with feathers of birdsong,
wiped the dust of darkness off
the squinting rosewood of day.

A Special Rose

2007-05-18T09:21:00.000-05:00

Roses are the most common
floral expression of love.
Six for $9.95 at Kroger
says as much as $29.95
at the florist shop with
the little bell that thanks you
for coming in and going out.
Twenty bucks is a lot to pay
to say your welcome to a bell.
But, for someone more special
than common can convey,
the first ray of morning sun,
cut diagonally above its fiery roots,
is the only stem and pedestal
that can hold my thoughts of you.

Alphabet Rust

2007-05-17T09:16:00.000-05:00

Like old “Buk”
I’m looking for the perfect poem,
one that captures the birth of a world
in the dot above the “i”.

Of course, if I found it
I’d be done, and have no need
for metaphors kept in zip lock bags,
nor synonyms in a screw top jar.

All my boxes of “a’s” and “e’s”,
separated from the “t’s” and “q’s”,
have no value as alphabet rust, only
strung together are there threads to read.

powered by ODEO

Duets With Dust

2007-05-16T13:59:00.001-05:00

He’s wearing sunglasses
and holding a plastic saxophone,
a red silk shirt and no pants;
whiskers protrude from his snout
like arms on an old TV antennae.
It’s a stuffed animal, of course, with
a “press-here” button in the empty paw
that makes him bump and grind,
and toot a tune that’s irritating as hell.
A jazz rat playing duets with dust,
limited engagements, as I allow.

Feet Don’t Fail Me Now

2007-05-15T07:58:00.000-05:00

Calories stormed the walls
of mouth and teeth
under cover of fried chicken,
mashed potatoes and gravy.
They compromised my tongue
with unholy bribes of taste,
repelling down the throat
into a warm sea of Belly Bulge.
They're intent on colonizing
the outer territory of my waistline,
but I’ll damn their venture
with the lapping flames of my feet.

Honey

2007-05-11T07:28:00.000-05:00

I love honey
in whatever form it comes:
a sweet, slow-mo waterfall
raising the level in a glass pool
of smoke-the-tongue barbeque sauce;
a word whispered in my ear
drizzling dreams on unglazed thoughts
from a ladle of sterling lips.

powered by ODEO

Mercy Of Clorox

2007-05-10T07:02:00.000-05:00

It’s laundry day,
and I have a basket full.
There are blue jeans I wore
when the weather turned cool, shirts
still sweaty from last week’s walks.
Bras and panties (not mine of course)
and a pair of defenseless briefs,
even Clorox can’t absolve.

Can’t Teach An Old Dog New Tricks

2007-05-08T16:37:00.000-05:00

I caught a whiff of a lady's perfume
while taking my afternoon walk.
It must’ve got hung on a leaf overhead
waiting on a nose to break its fall.

My eyes burned vision like tires on a car
trying to catch the owner of the scent.
It was smell pleasant enough, and
I thought it’d be polite to return sniff for sniff.

They were way too slow, and had to wait
on me before rounding any curves. So,
my organ of smell was all that got pleased,
and it was pleased on several more turns.

Sun Puppies

2007-05-07T09:48:00.000-05:00

Shadows scamper around my yard
like a fuzzy litter of frisky pups.
They yip and nip at a passing breeze,
stirring up the ire of jealous, old pansies.

Darting in and out between legs of light,
a mother that protects her paw-less heirs.
They nuzzle and nurse on sagging rays
growing taller and stronger by end of day.

powered by ODEO

On The Road

2007-05-06T09:30:00.000-05:00

Sunday Morning CBS reviewed
every movie
coming out for ‘07 summer release.

Some, seemed exciting enough
others
the allure of chocolate boogers.

My girlfriend watches this show
religiously
church, as it were, with inspired commercials.

I always sit scratching hair off my thoughts,
wondering if
Charles Kuralt ghost writes the show.

Putting On Airs

2007-05-03T08:34:00.000-05:00

We all have personal waste factories
with internal smoke stacks pointing “south”.
There’s no switches, levers , or valves
to control accidental emissions release.
They rumble through working guts of automation
(fine tuned by the hand of God)
in their own inconvenient timing, of course.
Most cover the end of the line with fancy filters,
colorful, sized-to-fit cotton or high dollar silk.
Useless for protecting the immediate environment,
works well for putting on airs, if you get my drift.

Illuminating Infrared

2007-05-01T11:59:00.000-05:00

Today, as I walked on
the backs of waving shadows
part of a conversation jumped
from a pair of wagging pony tails
to an ever inquisitive appetite
in the belly of my inner ear.

The one blurted out to the other, as if
I was one of the myriad of tree reflections
flirting for the attention of rubber soles,
“you won’t believe what Alan did
when he turned out the lights”.

Everything in me stopped,
except for my feet that knew better
than to turn around to hear what Alan did.
When my mind caught up with my stride
I switched on my peeping-tom,
night-vision imagination, and filled in the blanks
with illuminating infrared.

What’s In A Name

2007-04-30T07:38:00.000-05:00

A cardboard box sits on my desk,
navy blue on the sides and ends,
white on the top and bottom.
There’s no mystery what’s inside:
blank checks, check register and
deposit receipts from the young
drive-through teller who insists
my first name is “mister”.