All Weather Wear

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.