Honey

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.



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Mercy Of Clorox

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

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

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.


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On The Road

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

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

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.

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What’s In A Name

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”.

Junk Thoughts

I took a couple of junk thoughts
I had laying around, and
tied them in the shape of a cross.
Covered the frame with paper-thin dreams,
and tethered it with hope to fly.

I ran on the soft sand of clouds
pulling it high with the wind of will.
It rose and dove, and danced this two-step
several times before it reposed at a height of pride.

It looked good hanging out with the sun,
new best friends kicking up the dust of blue sky.
All was well, right and fine with my fancy
‘til its pal ran away from a brood of dark bullies.

They took their saw-toothed sticks,
and beat my dream to its death.
All that was left was a frayed end of hope,
a whispering will of wind, and
a mind full of junk thoughts.


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Headstones Of Trees

I watched a worm squirming
in the beak of a robin
feeling sympathy for its plight.

There was no hope of escape,
only a moment before
being gulped into oblivion.

Doesn’t seem fair to be
Monday’s blue plate special,
especially without recompense,
or a ceremony for sacrificial service.

But, nature has its own set of ethics—
actually, she doesn’t. We’re the ones
that write books of rules
printed on the headstones of trees.

Spare The Rod Spoil The Tomatoes

Staked the tomatoes today,
they’ve gotten tall enough
to be tethered to rigid control.
Sun and water are necessary peers,
but, could cause them to fall.

Moonshine Muse

Another poem about writing a poem,
which means, my muse is no where to be found.
I’ve looked in the bottle of beer I’m drinking,
she’s not surfing the foamy waves of my thirst.

There are kids across the street
batting a ball over the sound of laughter,
but I don’t see her in the gray of dusk, nor
in the audience of grandparent eyes.

Stirred the stew of paper on my desk,
her carrot head didn’t roll to the top.
She’ll sashay her butt in around dawn, likely,
stinking of shine from the ladle of the moon.

Family Reunion

His thoughts,
unlike a covey of shot at quail,
will never reunite
under the bramble of wintry hair.

He spends hours
talking to whiney ghosts
hiding under the rockers of his chair,

and often goes to visit
the only child of his parents,
like a brother he never had.


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One To Blame

It’s the guns!
It’s the guns!
No, it’s the people that shoot the guns.
Pressures of modern day living.
Life is too fast.
Leadership failure.
Mad human disease.
Overcrowding.
Globalization.
Moral decay.
Maybe some of all,
mostly, just the hatred of one.

Chill Out

Yesterday, the wind
was jovial in conversation,
and easy to hang out with.
Today, it stormed out
with a bitter tongue,
and obviously wants
to spend the day alone.

First Grade Poem

I write poetry because
I enjoy playing with words;
putting them together like
six year olds their first day at school.

They all have quirks
that define who they are:
ribbon and lace dainties, scrappers
with scratched knuckles and knees.

Some mingle well,
others cry to go back home.
It’s the ones with a far off gaze
that tell more than letters show.

Inspected By

I clean my glasses once a day
with tap water under the faucet.
My fingerprints, from scratching my eyes,
come off with little effort at all.
The smudges that are hardest to remove
are halter tops barely covering
what they smartly advertise,
and back pockets on ladies jeans
you couldn’t slip a peek down in, to see
if there was an “inspected by “ label inside.


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Shadows Are The Fingernails Of The Sun

What?
You say this can’t be so?
Of course it is!
There are times the sun rubs the earth,
and shadows are nowhere to be found.
But, if I show you the palms of my hands,
my fingernails are hidden from your view.
There is no place the sun touches that
eventually a shadow will scratch its hide.
So, shadows are the fingernails of the sun,
if you still don’t believe disprove it if you can.


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Cheeseburger All The Way

People that don’t show age
should be ashamed, I think.
It’s not fair to those that do:
belly buttons with their faces
bowed in prayer; skin that
looks like a topography map.
What is it that keeps them young?
Attitude? Refusing to eat fast food?
Exercise? God forbid!!


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Loose Breeze

A chilly little breeze
rustled flirtatious fingers
through the curious hairs
peeking out of my open shirt.

I quickly turned around,
not wanting to appear
accepting of its advances.

It brazenly nibbled
the outer edges of my ears,
and whispered lewd suggestions
sending shivers down my spine.


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Easter

Death reigns
for a moment…
sunrise

Sunrise breaks
the bonds of night…
Easter

In The Shadows

I’ve been trimming tree limbs
trying to get sunlight
to my disappearing grass.
It doesn’t like the shade,
too dark, too cold, deadly.

Accessorizing

A poet takes their bones and bowels, and
wears them like a string of cultured pearls.

A very fashionable accessory
that goes with whatever they write.

Don’t Tell The Well

I confided my darkest secrets
to the crumbling brick hole
of an abandoned well. Certainly
seemed a safe place to lay to rest
the remains of rotting thoughts.
I never expected my every word
to be repeated over, over, over...

It Ain’t Fair

When I get over saturated
with my golden brew of choice,
I wilt, stumble and fall.

When I load up the flowers
with the crystal liquid they’re addicted to,
they could pass the most stringent breathalyzer.

Out Of Here

The Sun flies
over the horizon—
homerun

Happy Trees

The oaks in our front yard,
like a pair of randy young studs,
fling about their flirtations
at every hussy passing breeze.
This is how they procreate
I understand, I understand…
but, Lord God Almighty
why does everything,
including my nose and truck,
have to be coated with their joy?


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Posted: Private Property

A tiny speck of a splinter
moved into the palm of my hand.
I didn’t advertise “skin needing caretaker,
only sharp and pointy apply”.

I’ve made several attempts
to evict the slivery interloper, but
it screams to my bleeding-heart fingers
invoking some archaic squatter’s law.

I have the latest in high tech weaponry,
tweezers and a Swiss Army knife.
I will prevail regardless of consequences
to retain what has been mine since birth.


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Blazing Hawk

The sun climbed a tall pine,
as it does on cloudless days.
At the top, it leaped and flew, like
a blazing hawk honed in on a prey.
Its fiery feet grabbed the horizon, then
slipped away in the dark of night.


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Late Afternoon

Soft, white petals
tumble down the slope
of a gentle breeze.

Birdsong, like
a kite tail, follows
a setting sun.

My thoughts
end the day
on the night ahead.

Beef Stew

Turbulent emotions
roil like a boiling stew;
one minute it’s sliced carrots
snorkeling in the broth, the next
shriveled up pieces of beef
surfacing with the ghost of you.

Passing Through

The breeze tosses a flag
up and down, like a child,
up and down, like a child.

A robin jumps from limb to earth
singing songs, eating worms,
singing songs, eating worms.

Shadows cover lawn and drive,
touching both, holding neither,
touching both, holding neither.

A Toast

May all your blues be skies,
your darkest hours full of stars;
may the last tears you shed
water the seed of a rising sun.


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Spring Concert

tree limbs
blooming with birdsong—
standing ovation

Back-Ups

The school buss's brakes
squeal at 6:50 a.m.,
Monday through Friday.
We have an alarm clock, and
the television is set to a timer
that goes off ten minutes before.
I guess if the power gets knocked out
grinding metal on metal will replace
the obnoxious beep, beep, beep;
rain, thunder and trash can lids performing
gymnastic routines up and down the street
will suffice for the morning weather report.

Tapped Out

I looked at my hands to see
if any words were loitering about.
None lounging in the wrinkles
pitching pennies to scars and scratches,
bungee jumping from bent knuckles, nor
poised off the nails of fingers ready to type.
I took a toothpick and ran through the life lines,
nothing but remnants of some melted M & M’s.
This poem was written courtesy of the keyboard,
I was able to tap-tap-tap it for a generous loan.


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School Of Thoughts

My thoughts,
swimming like a school of porgies—
jumping, darting,
crinkle up the placid surface
of the first low tide of the day.

Would You Believe

A toothy T-Rex
came into the house, and
ate the cat, just like that.

One bite,
two gulps—her meow
was hard to swallow.

He left as he came,
all I need do is explain,
it was that bitchy cat, or me.


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(I promise the cat wasn't harmed in the writing of this poem; even an emaciated, hunger-crazed T-Rex wouldn't mess with her)

Watermark Express

Drops on the shower door, like
tiny locomotives on invisible rails,
streak through “S” curves and straight-a-ways
hauling off the remnants of a day
digging in garden dirt.

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Eating Worms

lottery blues...
birds delight
in their morning fortune

Last Stand

The last of the firewood
stands in the firebox, uniform
split and trimmed, like soldiers
in a light armored troop carrier
waiting to take on fire.

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Sibilant Sing Along

The shadow of the deck chair swayed
to strumming strings of brass wound notes
floating on shallow pools of filtered sun.
Neither sharp, nor flat, nor stuttered staccato,
just soft, and pure, and steely sweet.

Two Act Day

With high reaching wings,
and propelling blades, it ignores
the wistful wants of waiting clouds
to take the hand of a rising sun.

Seagulls circle like tethered toys
looking for silver glints of edible scales;
a pair of mallards indignantly demand
drive-through orders of hand tossed bread.

Coffee cups echo with chit-chat noise,
frying bacon wafts like a sirens song.
Morning has directed her characters of choice,
this afternoon we’ll see the wind perform.

Rude Reminder

This actually happened exactly as written.

Yesterday, on my daily walk,
a boy of about four or five
looked up at me and said, “hey! old man!”
Of course it immediately brought
my blue-sky-wandering thoughts to the top
of his lightning-striped, helmeted head.

I kept going
rummaging through my repertoire
of appropriate replies for delicate ears,
and the best I could find—
after clipping off the gray-haired adjectives,
was, “hey! young boy!”

Feeling like I’d offered equal tit for tat
I started searching through the trees
for that patch of cloudless reverie I left parked
under the pale eye of a daytime moon.

My Nikes perked up their pace for several steps,
when, like an arrow shot dead center of my back,
I heard, “I’m not young, I can ride a bicycle!”
No need to stop, turn, and hip shoot a retort,
I knew he was right, I’ve been riding for years.



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Night Songs

This is a piece I wrote years ago. Definitely needs some editing, but as I don't have time right now, here it is in the raw.


In the middle of a particular forest rests a tiny pond guarded by shady oaks standing years of faithful watch. Reflections of dangling moss adorn her aging face like gaudy earrings. Willows bend and sway like uniformed school children nodding to the old watcher’s tales of all they’d seen come and go.

Night ushers in the audience of moon, stars, and bands of gypsy clouds to catch the evening show. Programs are never issued, as the bill of players is always the same. The creatures that go unnoticed during the normal course of day slip out of their bramble hovels to entertain those with ears to hear.

Crickets arrive first nestling in their dew-coated, grassy chairs; Katydids light on leafy platforms announcing the concert is ready to begin.

The maestro for the evening’s festivities is a squat-legged, bulging-eyed bullfrog named Cat Gut Slappy. Cat Gut diligently carries out his nightly duties as generations of Slappys before him have done. His ascension to the post of leader of the band had only recently taken place. His father, Razor Lips Slappy, had to pass on the mantle as the deep rich tones that once were his, were now more scratch and rattle, than clear and soothing. His reign over the woodland troupe had lasted longer than any of his predecessors. He had been credited with adding a jazzy flavor to the concerts, and after much haggling between the generations, it was accepted.

Razor Lips sits perched on the highest knee of a friendly oak on the far side of the pond so as not to distract from his son’s authority. He swells with pride, and blinks back tears from his sagging eyes, watching his son carry on the family tradition. No one knows how long the concerts have been taking place, but, it really doesn’t matter as the family of night creatures enjoys sharing their gifts of whistles, chirps, croaks and clicks. On nights when the moon is full, and her light bathes the entire community, he forgets himself, bellows out with a rush of air that reminds all around his time has past.

Cat Gut hops on the flat rock wallowed out by grandfathers, too many to remember, reverently placing his feet on the history of his ancestors. Silence blankets the arena like freshly fallen snow. As his eyes survey the host of onlookers the stars momentarily hold their twinkle in anticipation of the feast of notes preparing to float their way. His gaze falls on an elderly matron toad, Ribibal Sweets Slappy, his mother. Unlike her husband she can still belt out the songs that serenade the heavens each night before the angels close their eyes. The son gives a wink to his mother, and the low earthy tones of dusk begin.

The Katydids stroke their violins producing wave upon wave of tenor melodies, while the crickets fiddle harmonies flavoring the string sections contribution.

Cat Gut turns to Billy Bang and the tree frogs to join in with Ribibal adding volume to the choral background; sopranoes, Rhapsody Red Robin and Ruffle Sassy Bluebird, chirp in at Cat Gut’s nod applying the final touches to the lively array of night songs.

In the cool of late evening listeners reflecting on the cornucopia of sound are satiated with delight. The moon and stars give silent yawns, then gently pull the gypsy clouds over their eyes, and drift off to a restful sleep.

Shadows In The Rain

Shadow wings
over a gypsum moon,
born of a soft white sun
in a brass-lamp world.

Paper dolls weep
in rain walls without doors;
tears are seeds of laughter
in the hands of an old muse.

Tissue Thin Shoes

Do you ever feel like
a pair of tissue thin shoes
exploring the depths
of every mud puddle
two malicious feet can find?

You thirst for sun and clouds, then
slam through watery reflections
leaving rivulets of silver linings
draining back into mimicking mirages
for other worn soles to be plunged.


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Dressed To Sell

The "For Sale" sign
in the neighbor’s yard
sways on knee-less wire legs
dressed in a white and blue,
wax-board, starched suit;
brown grass shoes with
scuffed-up curb toes,
round out the attire
of this street side hawker of homes.

Sunset

Fire bristles
on the feathers of her wings;
clouds, smoke-memories
of a fleeing flight.

Blow On The Bones

My thoughts shoot,
like dice across
a split-felt mind of random,
tumbling black dots decelerating
from blow-on-the-bones frenzy,
to craps, or roll again.

Pending

Storms approach from the west
promising colder days to come.
Today, I head south to demand
payment for work two months past,
a light rain starting to fall.

Be My Valentine

Two mallards chase around
the shrinking footprint
of last week’s rain,
frogs, hidden in the brush,
serenade their Valentine mood.

Garden In A Weed

We plant the seeds
from the fruit we are.
Some, in fertile dirt beds,
others, wind born spillage,
in gutters and cracks.
Raindrops and sun
nurture weed and flower;
does God prefer the one,
over the other?


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Spurned Lover

I kicked sleep out of bed at 3:30 a.m.,
tired of cuddling its soft, warm skin;
I had thoughts to wrestle with,
conversations to rehearse prior to being spoken.
Its feelings were probably hurt,
but I had things to worry with,
it’ll just have to get over it when it can.

Double Down

From behind
crow caws and caws,
dark horizon

Phone call,
check’s not in the mail,
oh shit...

Skeletons To Bones

The majority of thieves in the world
don’t wear ski masks, carry weapons
of gunpowder and slice destruction,
performing their drama in front of
rewind and freeze frame security cameras.

They wear ties, pressed suits, heels
that announce the authority of their presence.
Weapons of choice are cell phones, board rooms,
lap tops, and employees that left click
the death sentences of whomever they choose.

I don't mean to imply that all business people
are high dollar crooks addicted to blood. But,
we all know those that snort greed and ambition
up their brown stained nostrils, multi-tasking
from prey to promotion, skeletons to bones.

Focus

My reflection wobbles
up and down
the dark sides of the cup I’m holding;
features fade in and out,
as I sip the bitterness of coffee.
The question that comes to mind is,
am I coming into focus,
or slowly disappearing?

My Tears

My tears, like beads in a rosary,
count the wasted decades of love,
scattered shards of memories,
dimples in dust to be swept out.
Explanations are for your ears only,
to me they’re rocks comforting glass.
The blood that spurts from each word I write
will never convict you of a crime, but you
sliced my heart with the steel of another’s lips,
a taken life cries for vengeance.

Poetry In A Garden Of Fire

In gardens of fire we grow
gold moon studs to pierce
the dark tongues of midnight dreams,

origami shadows with sun-feather wings,
hollow lightning chimes
to dangle in the wind-beards of storms.

There’s no yellow fruit, green, red,
or sprouts breaking earth, only words
rising from the furrows of fallen stars.


Today is the one year anniversary of Laughing ghosts. For year two, a new name, slight change of color, but the same old poet, at the same old address.

Faux Spring

Fire roars
in the hearth,
waxing gibbous moon
rises over a chilling
chorus of croaking frogs.

Flower In The Woods

When you pick
a flower in the woods,
you’re stealing its wild heart.
For a time it becomes yours,
pumping rain and soil
through the veins of your dreams.

It dies, they always do.
You don’t feel remorse,
nor mourn the bruised petals of beauty.
After all, it’s just a flower in the woods,
and tomorrow you’ll find another.

Ceramic Felon

Grabbed for the cup,
instead of being picked up with my hand,
it shot over the mouse pad
spewing its steaming brew on the desk.
Papers were ruined, the computer speakers
acted like a defiant breakwater, but
my favorite calculator, with soft rubber keys,
either boiled or drowned;
it flashed err…, then off.

Tagged

I was tagged by Russell Ragsdale. Because he looks so cute in his Darth Vader PJ's, here are 5 things some may not know about me:

1.) I graduated from a non-denominational seminary in the '70's. I have never preached a sermon (my kids might disagree with that), God is too kind to impose that on the world.

2.) I play rock golf. A game I invented to keep me somewhat amused while I walk. The rules are very simple. I see how many times I can kick a rock without it going off the 7 to 8 foot wide asphalt trail I walk on. As the trail twists, turns and undulates, it's not as easy as it sounds. My best is 9 times.

3.) I traded in a dilapadated vertebrae in my neck almost 4 years ago for a sturdy, reliable pre-owned one. Not sure the mileage on it, but so far it's running fine. I also got a shiny titanium plate/plaque to go with it. All for a paltry $108,000.00. Quite a deal!!

4.) Because of the above I quit playing real golf, started writing poetry and playing rock golf.

5.) I've cheated 4 times (not at all what that immediately brings to mind) and played the real game. If you haven't gathered I love GOLF!!

Cold As...

The damp, cold air
reached through my skin,
grabbed my bones, and
shook me like a tambourine;
teeth chattering,
hair follicles stinging,
sniffing back a waterfall
trying to form a scenic view
flowing out the end of my nose.
Saying it was as cold as
the shriveled breast
of an old lady dressed in black,
stirring a caldron full of dead rats,
seemed an understated simile to me.

How Far Will You Ride?

When the wind blows, and
you pull out your token to get on board,
a mocking bird will ask,
“how far will you ride?
How far will you ride?”
An answer isn’t required,
it’s only a reminder there is a destination,
the journey’s just time spent in between.


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Scent Of A Rose

I saw you in the shadows
of a dream I had,
riding wild horses
on the petal of a rose.

Drifting like snowflakes
on a dark silent night,
you held out your hand
and I reached with mine.

Light broke our hearts,
and swept away dream,
but your memory is mine
in the scent of a rose.

Picture Gallery Full

I saw the hawk again,
yesterday on my walk;
it flew down from a high perch
to a lower one just off the trail.
We exchanged glances, then
it froze in a straight ahead pose.
Not needing a second invitation
I grabbed my cell phone,
pressed the camera icon, aimed
and clicked to take the shot;
it flashed “picture gallery full”.
I quickly selected options,
erase all, and erase all again;
threw my arm back in the air,
searched through the viewer,
and found only a bare limb.

The Promise

I know I promised
to mop the kitchen floor.
I said I would,
I will, I will…

after I walk,
after I nap—
and anything else I think of.

If there’s time leftover
I’ll push and pull,
rinse and wring,
you have my word on it.



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Tart Of A Poem

This page
begs for a poem
to sully up
its clean white reputation.
Who am I
to stand between
paper and desire?

Outlook For The Day

Morning slipped out of the dark.
Definitely there, but more out of obligation
than enthusiastic about performing its daily chore.

Noon, always a brief moment, seems to be
lining up with the same overcast attitude.

I’m sure afternoon will be infected by its peers,
a disposition more related to night than day.

In The Light

I made a turn
down a dark street,
and when I came out
I dripped shadows,
like raindrops,
everywhere I stepped.

I rolled in the light
like a dog in dry grass,
I just wanted it off of me.

The sun eventually
dried my demeanor, thankfully
the trail of black spots
disappeared.


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Conquistador Pat

Like a Spanish explorer, or conquistador,
I claimed this plot of ground as mine.

I planted a mailbox like a flag,
with an address as a coat of arms.

Borders were set with neighbors right and left,
and allies established across an asphalt sea.

I defend it against mice and ants—natives
that refuse to civilize to higher standards.

The gold of flowers and birdsong are plundered
for consummation by my eyes and ears.

Posterity will consider the worth of this venture,
and settle the spoils of conquistador Pat.

Conversation Overheard

The wind escorted
a handful of brown leaves
over a serpentine curb onto the concrete drive.
They rattled and chatted
about global warming, or being gone
before the lady with the red Honda returned.
Since I don’t speak wind, or
any particular dialect of leaf,
it was the best interpretation I could make.


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Forgetful

I pulled out a book of poetry
I had read before;
started at the first poem,
and stopped at the third dog ear.
Nothing had changed since my last visit:
words were the same,
line breaks hadn’t moved,
but the metaphors seemed to jump at my eyes
like a small child wanting to be picked up.
Maybe, they did this before, and I don't remember.
I played with them, rolled them over and around
the edge curling planks in my mind, then
closed the pages, and smiled at my forgetfulness.

Shadows Don't Kiss

I don’t recall agreeing
to live with your shadow.
It moves like you,
in fact it mimics everything you do.
But, its touch is cold, no
actually it’s worse than that,
there’s no discernible temperature at all.
There’s no color of you to explore in its eyes,
no cheeks to warm against my own.
I’d press my lips to this dark ghost, but
there’s nothing there to kiss me back.

Thoughts On A Log

I hung my thoughts over
a log in a stream, and let
the cold rush of water
wash away stain after stain.

I threw them in the feathers
of a hawk on a limb;
he shook and flapped
till they all ruffled dry.

I placed them back
under my scalp and skull,
pressed and neatly folded
ready to wear in the lines of a poem.


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Within Reach

A drowning man grabs for rescue
at the cold, watery hands
stealing his last breath.

Splashed supplications splay the air,
screams are desperate offerings,
sacrifices on fading ripples.

The sky is neither blue, nor gray,
reason disappears like smoke in fog.

A drowning man grabs for rescue,
at the only thing within his reach.

Mama’s Recipe

Ate black-eyed peas,
and collard greens,
a New Year’s day tradition
to bring luck and prosperity.
A custom of Southern origin,
without any proof it works, but
who’s going to argue with good raising,
and mama’s recipe for spicy greens,
ham bone peas and white rice.

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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