Something From Above

I ain’t got no poem!
Checked my pockets
front and back, looked
between my toes—
won’t mention what I found;
thumbed through some pages
of a Louise Glück book,
none hiding in there.
I could take my old black hat
turn it up to the sky,
dance around the cul-de-sac
chanting, “gobbledygook, gobbledygook,
let the flood of words begin.”
Surely, a drop or two of something
would be delivered from above.

After Midnight

It was 12:30 a.m., and
I was standing on the beach
relinquishing my rights
to the next to last beer I drank.
I looked up to see a host of stars,
silently peering down,
sober, as far as I could tell.
There wasn’t much to talk about,
they knew what I was doing, and
I knew what they were up to.
I climbed in the boat,
turned the lights out, and
wondered if the flaming, little voyeurs
would still be pervertedly peeking,
when title to the last past onto the sand.

A Hanging Of Sorts

“Your poems are like clanking skeletons
hanging from a tree. They need
skin and nerve-bitten fingernails,
eyebrows that need plucking,
a beer-cratered belly button, and
hair that changes color from
red to blue to green to orange.”
Quite a critique I thought.
“Flesh them out!” (a blue-gray
corpse stolen from the grave
by corporate somebody waving
a white towel from the 32nd floor
of a glass phalanx, signaling surrender
to thinking as an intelligent life form).
But I like bones, and
the wind-chime rattle they make,
as invisible scurrying couriers whisper wonders,
sinew and silk nooses can’t hear.

(This isn't written as a response to anyone. More to the internal argument between me and my muse. The poem, as most do, took on a life of its own. Hope all have a great wekend!)

Hanging On A Push Pin

After Saturday
the calendar page flips up.
September 2006 joins its ancestors
of birthdays, anniversaries, holidays,
ending Summers, beginning Falls,
sunrises, sunsets,
new moons, full moons,
and all phases in between.
There will have been 30 full days
of goings and comings,
but only one marks
the last time we’ll say goodbye.
I wonder if the push pin
can carry the weight?

Candle’s Arse!

Mood lighting is enhancement, not the mood.
It beckons the shadows of seduction
to dance like titillated warriors around
the reflection flickering in your eyes.
It has allure and ambience,
draperies of intimate invitation
hanging in the background, the background only.
So I say “candle’s arse”, when you say
that’s what makes the photograph hot;
it’s you, and only you, that
has the breath to blow it out.

A Different Beat

The phone started early today.
A man that called drunk yesterday—
looking for work,
called back this morning, seven a.m.,
at least he remembered he needed a job.
A couple walked the outline of the cul-de-sac,
pounding a heart-percussion thump-thump
to the melody of an exuberant feathered flutist.
The phone rang again, and again, unanswered;
I listened to the soloist sing to heaven, or a lover,
until the drumbeat, slowly, faded away.

Mudflats

White sandy beaches
are just that,
white, sandy, and
burning hot to any daring feet
in the middle of the day.
Look and admire,
do not touch,
meant only for postcards, and
swimsuit models to be powdered with.
Mudflats are where life is.
Charcoal-gray skin,
with uncountable slimy sores,
sucking and oozing briny pus.
Sulfur swings from nose hair to nose hair
dropping down the throat,
slamming with a sickening thud
in the pit of queasy stomachs.
It clings to feet and hands
like week-old, chocolate pudding,
but not so sweet to lick off.
Mudflats are where life is,
the tide breeds what it will.

Lights Out

Today, the rain sparred
with trees, bricks and four lane slugs,
like a boxer throwing jabs,
whap-whap! whap-whap!
step back, step back...
Black cloud spectators thundered
for a follow-up hard right,
hoping to see somebody
get their lights knocked out.

Friday’s Affairs

The sky is sad-gray today,
I guess it's
anticipating a storm.

Garage door repairman
fixed in fifteen minutes
what I spent four hours cussing.

Garbage cans line the cul-de-sac,
like green-hated gossips,
anxiously divulging the week’s trashy tales.

I heard a new moon is rising tonight,
I’ll send up a howl,
let it echo in dark craters for you.

Dark And Spotless

Somebody pin-popped the Sun
like a fat yellow balloon,
strewing pieces on leaves
already heavy with Fall,
over chain link dividers
of who-mows-what, and
a large piece covered
the granite-grey stubble
of our child-scratchy cul-de-sac.
A mailbox, two houses down,
slowly chewed up a shred
hanging from its mouth;
the lady next door brought one home
smoothly pasted to the side of her SUV.
Shadow-maids in long nightshirts
picked up and cleaned ‘til the end of dusk,
leaving everything dark and spotless.

Abstract Of Delusion

He skywrites personas
without wings and props,
plays hopscotch on lily pads, and
hides in the mysteries of angels.
Life is an abstract of delusion,
skipping stones off the still waters of sanity.
We used to be friends, but
the angels turned out to be mirror images
of an all consuming black hole;
I was trashed in a torn photograph
with an old black hat full of smelly felt-air.

Born To Bear

How fast I changed
when I heard my first cuss word,
and knew what it was.
I rolled it from cheek to cheek
like hard candy, savoring
the juice as it slid
sweetly down my throat.
There was never a thought not to use it,
only contemplation of how and when.
Then, as if, a hangmen holding a noose,
I placed it around the neck of innocence,
and without hesitation
executed the sentence I was born to bear.

Ruby-Throated Red Barons

I’ve turned the back deck
into an aerial theater of war.
They swoop from the trees
protecting feeder and turf,
Ruby-Throated Red Barons,
diving, climbing, hovering and daring,
rapidly firing squeaky-chirp expletives
at anything and everything, including me.
Eyeball to eyeball,
two hundred pounds
to three point one grams,
I retreated defeated,
not the least ashamed.

Sugar Water Relief

I hung a second
Humming bird feeder,
and within minutes
doubled the number
we’ve been seeing.
Were they hiding in the trees?
Have they been sending subliminal messages,
and after a month I finally understood?
Guess, I’m the U.N. of sugar water relief,
amazing what something to eat will do.

In The Air

Winter in Georgia is
three calendar pages away.
The night air is starting to cool,
and my taste buds
are requesting hot cocoa and marshmallows.
Stacks of firewood,
like gapped-teeth school kids,
stand along the roadside waiting to be picked up.
Geese are flying in migratory formation;
they don’t leave anymore, but
they still feel something stirring their blood.

Growing Mess

God’s pipes are leaking again,
water is dripping everywhere,
and I don’t have any buckets.
The lawn is slushy wet,
the cul-de-sac is drooling,
like a one year old sprouting teeth.
Aren’t there any plumbers in Heaven?
No do-it-yourself, Home Depot angels?
I’d volunteer to lend a hand, but
it’s better if I hang around
to clean up the growing mess.

You Decide Which

The rain descended
upon the concrete road
like a horde of wild men wielding
a million flaying fists;
blow, after bursting blow,
slammed into white,
granite-freckled skin.
The Sun leaped
from behind the clouds,
like a fire-fat, super hero,
chasing the water miscreants
into a field of tractor-dug graves.
An incident of injustice, or
a matter of time and place?
You decide which...

Giving Way

Autumn is nudging the back of Summer,
Summer is refusing to budge,
not ready to come in from play;
there are new blooms on the Gardenia bush,
with tantrum temperatures close to ninety.
The inevitable is going to happen,
leaves will tint-up with color,
sweaters and light jackets will be bodyguards
fending off cooler air.
Lawnmowers, nearing hibernation,
are devouring every green blade they see;
Autumn is pushing the back of Summer,
and Summer’s grudgingly giving way.

Kublai Khan Of Foliage

Kudzu hooligans
stand in contorted green gangs
next to Southern metallic-drooling roads.
They never cause mischief during the day,
but at night, shadow-slice the bloodless arms
of leaf-leering headlights.
They conquer by inch, rule for miles;
the Kublai Khan of foliage
breasting anything without legs.
Truly, an import snafu,
weed-rich patches
of great, fertile minds.


For those who don't know about Kudzu here's a link:http://www.cptr.ua.edu/kudzu/

Summer’s Farewell

My Crepe Myrtle has bloomed,
she put on white gloves
for Summer’s farewell Ball.

The grass is swaggering
with bellies full of rain,
reaching for bristling whiskers
hanging from the Sun.

Holly's need a few inches off the top,
weeds are enjoying
a momentary sprout of luck.

Bradford Pears are holding hands
with plump old lady oak, like
a guardian of two skinny-trunk waifs
window shopping for Fall coats.

Revolving Sacrifice

The sun slid
orange-face smashed
down a blue-altar wall.
It didn’t fall in a hurry,
leave desperation scratches,
it fell g r a d u a l l y
so pine-needle-priests
could sprinkle handfuls of bleeding fire.
A ritualistic blessing,
a promise of rebirth.
Night prayed to the stars in moon-vestments
for a dawn of revolving sacrifice.

Labor Day Weekend

I can't begin to tell all of you how much I appreciate your visits and comments on my blog. When I began this the last day of January this year, I would've never guessed how many talented, and interesting people, from around the world, I would meet. I will be gone for the holiday weekend. Hope ya'll have a great weekend!! See ya Monday!!

How’s Tricks

I write poetry because I want to,
not because I have to.
I could let my internal organs
blow up in my peritoneum cavity,
spew out my belly button
like an overly excited fire hydrant.
Sometimes, they come like a shiny, wet baby,
with a gestation minute from yahoo to lookout!
Other times, the teasing tarts play hard to get,
show a little cleavage here, a slapped face there.
Whether fast or slow, they all arrive,
take in some air, run from PC to printer,
put on a white paper suit,
catch the red-eye-Postal-shuttle
looking for a good-time, publication date.

Initial Carving

I carved our initials
into the clear backs of falling raindrops;
they told the trees, and
before I knew it
we were the hot-topic whispers
spreading from wind to breeze.
I hope you don’t mind,
didn’t mean to be indiscreet.
Just thought they’d pile up
in shallow water graves,
and quietly go away.

Name Tags Required

Some days, my brain
rushes to forgetfulness,
like a fly to flypaper.
I jiggle and twist,
pull one thought loose,
and stick two others
in the nether regions of irretrievability.
You’d think a half century plus
of remembering in the nick of time,
the right name
would’ve been an easy find.

Dog Ear Dams

I dog ear pages,
always have,
probably always will.
I know it’s not copasetic,
book abuse of some sort, I’m sure.
I’ve been asked
if I wanted my ears permanently creased,
and folded after every conversation.
Of course I don’t,
they would eventually tear off,
making me look
like a half-eared Vulcan!
Bent corners aren’t man-made dams
diminishing the flow of bank-bursting words.
On the contrary,
they’re evidence of previous forays
into screeching, howling pages,
a comfort knowing the shadows
peering through the under growth of lines
have long been tamed.

Moon In The Lady’s Song

You bounced your songs
off the moon last night.
I listened hard
for the notes that were mine.

Shootin' eight ball
with stars in the sky,
left planet pocket,
fire-rum with lime.

whoa-oh-oh, whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh
whoa-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

The lake had footprints
scuffed on her skin,
chasing splash-laughs,
and Friday night sins.

I heard of secrets
strummed on moonbeam winds,
I listened and listened
with hope what I'd find.

whoa-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh-oh
whoa-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

They Look Like Me

I’ve read Oliver, Collins, Angelou,
taken a nip of old bard Bill,
Byron, Thomas, e.e., WCW, and even
Hemingway spilled gin on some verse.

Stood my words in front
of the reflection of theirs,
sucked their gut in, brushed wild hairs,
plucked a nose hair or twenty,

slid panty hose over bulbous stanzas,
covered metaphors with fat stubby fingers,
cracked the mirror with a flying keyboard,
they still looked like me.

The World Turned

We ranted,
we raged,
we spewed revolutions
like salty spit,
from tongues that knew
Lennon, Dylan, and how to Howl,
with hands soft as newborn snow.

We wrote songs,
and poetry, and essays
that enlightened heaven,
where angels pondered our words
like saviors and potty-trained prophets.
Dust laid siege to our feet,
the causes were neither lost, nor won,
now we know why.

A Thirsty Grave

His head can’t fit
through the neck of the bottle,
nor his hands…
nor his feet...
but drowns in swallows
from the upturned tide of liter seas.
Demons pluck light from his eyes,
strip by strip,
flicker by flicker,
like vultures on an asphalt feast.
Dark omens of bone-wall wells
overflow the drink of a thirsty grave.

Assembly Required

It’s quiet now,
after the tirade
of an afternoon
black cloud spitting fit.
I wonder if God was putting
lightning bolts together, using
an eight language instruction manual
with backordered parts?

Upside Down Day

Blood flows like water
shot from the bottom of a dam,
when perfectly laid out morning clouds
become foot-slippery pebbles
on an upside down day.
There’s never any warning,
some kind of bad luck roll of dice.
You run and run,
like a gerbil in a cage,
‘til solid ground grabs your feet,
and blue skies reflect in the puddles of sweat
wrung from the furrows in your brow.

Wild Hairs

Where do you go
when the last email is sent?
Do you snuggle-up warm
under the enter key, or
kayak hours of rollercoaster cyber-rapids?
Maybe, you wrap your arms and legs
around the night’s last note
of an old “beater” guitar.
Questions! Questions!
that don’t need answers,
just wild hairs sprouting
in the cracks of my thoughts.

Winding Down

Liquid sun crawls through her hair
like worms in a bait bucket,
yellow and dirty, grey tufts
of pillow-tangling strands.
No more hiding behind
plastic bottles of wash and wear youth,
she can’t remember why.
Hands on the clock slowly turn,
unwinding...

Open To Interpretation

I’m not responsible for interpretation,
just stretching these lines like new fence wire
wrapped around the punctuation to keep it taut.
If someone hangs wet hubris here, what is it to me?
Flapping cloth of thread bare ego?
Maybe they like to look second hand.
I’ll just pull and twist and tack and start again,
the lines aren’t meant to keep anyone in.

(This poem ws not written as a response to anyone, or any event. It was penned as a challenge to use the word Hubris in a poem. Maybe not a good one, but it's done!)

God Is

in the tea bag
permeating hot water,
rising as steam.

in the grimy pockets
of the “work for food” man,
waiting for change.

in the dust on blinds
seeing and not seeing,
silent and still.

in the dark shadows
of a circling hawk,
God is…
God is…
God is...

Georgia Coast Sampler

Scrub oaks belly-bowed,
scaly-skinned beach guardians,
too many blows to stand tall,
not ready to lay down.

Spanish Bayonets—
yucca gloriosa,
remembering wars lost
flying white-blossom flags.

Brown pelicans
endangered, but surviving,
fall from the sky—
dinner guests uninvited.

Barrier islands, like salt licks
to the Atlantic’s tidal tongue,
piney-stubbled, stepping-stones
for hair-down breezes, and
bareback riding, marsh-pony suns.

View From Shore

Canvas hands held tight
the reigns of wild winds spooked,
the lake churned up
green and fractured,
whitewater dust.

Long flowing letters
of calligraphy-blonde hair,
raced across
a blue-marquee sky, advertising
the sailor’s holy grail.

Angel Of Hardwood

I could mop the linoleum floors
that call this house home.
Scrub their hides free
of every step and scuff made,
on the thin-skin of flimsy rubber backs.
These old tiles need
to stay pine-scented fresh,
the angel of hardwood,
with scrapper and nail gun,
is circling nigh at hand.

Bath Time

When grey, mother-angry clouds
chase off sun-seething taunts,
leaves wiggle and cheer
expecting a cool afternoon bath.
No soap to get in their eyes, nor
cotton covered fingers
shoved in tiny dark holes,
hiding whispered secrets
only you and I know...

As Long As I Can

I wonder if you’ll love me
when time comes
to wipe away a trail of beef and barley soup
from a shirt someone else buttoned,
to a fissure of lips and forgotten teeth
that once set wild fires raging in your ears.
Will our memories dance in fragrant flower fields,
or become casualties of this war I’ll lose?
Your hand is tender against my cheek,
I’ll press against it, as long as I can.

River Cat

Pristine ripples chit-chit-chattering
with stone cold faces,
like white-haired ladies on a Sunday afternoon;
the river preens and licks and purrs.

Shadows dance between dimpled banks
playing like children with whispering winds;
the sun smoothes her skirt over grassy whiskers,
the river preens and licks and purrs.

Winding bends echo secrets of root-fingered giants
massaging the fur on watery skin;
she raises her back to the soothing touch,
the river preens and licks and purrs.

Ideology War

The cold called for a truce,
my fever evaporated like fog.
I still have the damned cough,
it refuses to lay down arms.
A rogue band of thugs,
hiding behind mucus-stained,
bombed-out lungs,
sniping at non-combatant sips of coffee,
terrorizing daily conversations
with the hack, hack, hack
of its germ spewing ideology.

Cyclic Reunion

It’s hot!
Hottest Summer on record,
some experts say.
Is the brown grass browner?
Dirt in dust drier?
Are rivers of salty sweat
running like class 5 rapids
over butterfly tattoos?
My knowledge of such things
is not so well refined.
Last night it rained.

Indelible Flames

I know so little
about this art of words,
like a child playing with matches,
I spark and smoke, and
set tiny pieces of paper on fire.
Read, read
write, write
flash of fire…
burnt stick smoldering.
I want to set a house ablaze,
watch meaty black-smoke fists
bruise the baby-blue-face of sky.
Sirens shrieking,
bells dinging,
neighbors in semi-circle,
wide-eyed clutches,
searing their nostrils
with indelible flames.

Appointed Time

Red, deep red
ripe tomato, sitting
on the windowsill.
Your fate has been determined,
the knife’s being sharpened.
What crime did you commit?
Which potentates offend?
A gruesome execution:
head severed from
the smooth skin
of a fat round whole,
body drawn and quartered.
Meat and entrails with sweet onions
washed in vinegar and oil,
lightly salted and peppered,
for this thy sentence served, amen!

A Boy In Buenos Aires

I’ve been mugged by a gang
of common cold viruses,
never saw them coming,
very professional in their stealthy approach.
They stripped my nose of smell,
and left it bleeding gray gunk,
decorum dissuades further description;
my throat, with viral graffiti scratched on its walls,
begs cherry flavored, mentho-lyptus mercy
for the indignity of such gravelly, grating art.
It is Summer!
they’re supposed to be marauding
in the Southern Hemisphere.
A boy in Buenos Aires is running and laughing
with clear nasal passages,
while I take a decongestant every 4 hours.

Laundry Note

I put my heart in your laundry,
please wash and gently dry.
Hang it in your closet,
like a favorite blouse
you can’t wear enough.

Old Glasses

My glasses are at the bottom of the lake,
looking at fish tails, and chicken bones,
and mud that used to be dirt.

I laid them on the back edge of the boat,
an invitation for any blind foot
to be mischievous with my sight.

Thankfully, an old pair was found,
I could see to drive home;
the nursing home on highway 20
seemed to sparkle in the afternoon Sun.

Language Of Love

We etched skin-doodles
on memory foam,
night-silk hieroglyphs
with pillow-cased, Rosetta stones.
The maid picked-up the key,
and tossed our sleazy swirls
in a rolling laundry tomb.
The erosion of agitated water-spins
won’t fade what we never shared.

Familiar Faces

The wind has a face
with freckles and tasseled hair.
It runs from tree,
to fence, and jumps
in a half-opened window.
It’s not a stranger, it belongs
wherever breezes brush against walls;
picture frames are left with prints of dust,
touching glass-faces of old friends known.

Writing Under The Influence

The poem I write
on this hairy night
with words that need bathing, and
rotted teeth trailing their soul
to the grave of this lonely page,
is a dirge for the poor reader
who endures this verse;
inspiration’s lying on the floor,
passed out drunk feeling sorry
for never getting laid
by any hot-babe lines.

Point Of View

The beer sat on the table,
surrounded by bobble-heads on bar stools.
They spit and slurred
about half-full,
half empty, or
stagnating in the middle.
All arguments seemed equally persuasive,
so I decided to interject
my particular point of view.
I picked it up
examining from top to bottom,
let the cold condensation of its nature
slide down my upturned arm,
as I drank it, then left.

Obituary Of A Summer Day

I looked out my window
at the stampeding hordes of ghost raindrops,
not a single leaf flinching
from the memory of their falling.
The Sun scraped dust-bleeding claws
down flakey bark-skin, and
bent-back blades of Bermuda—
begging a drink for dignity’s sake.
There was no mercy in her breathless denial,
nor Holy tears to bless the dying.
Day drowned in a pool of fire,
night mourned the darkness of its soul.

Golden Little Eggs

There are coffee beans,
from Indonesia,
processed through
the digestive tract of a tree dwelling mongoose,
harvested, washed and dried,
then sold for hundreds of dollars a pound;
a four-legged
hop and drop factory,
leaving processed goods
like cookie dough on a jungle floor.
No rent, light bills or union wages,
just piles and piles
of golden little eggs!

Patio Stones

His gaze never travels
the shortest distance between two points,
shoulders slink permanently
down ladder rung sides.
He answers to a name,
but usually “hey you”,
a day-labor check for beer and anonymity.
Dreams dulled with the shine
on the last good pair of shoes he owned,
memories are midnight hooligans
rolling his prostrate bones for sleep.
He’s multiplied in geometric progression
building every city’s future.
We walk on their backs
like gray, octagonal, patio-stones
kicking dirt in the cracks.

Peanuts In Pepsi

There’s a sixteen year old kid
in the bottom of this plastic bottle,
chewing peanut icebergs
floating in a salty-cola sea.
An old man sits beside him smoking Kools,
on a paint peeling stool, both
tunneling schemes
under barbed wire roles.
The bottle’s destined for the recycle bin,
the old man was pulled to freedom
on braided cigarette smoke
wrapped around his lungs, and
the kid still puts peanuts in Pepsi,
like pennies in a black hole dream.

Losing Battle

I like my coffee hot
but inevitably I drink some cold.
I pour new to freshen the tepid taste,
rejuvenate with a microwave blast.
It’s a losing battle,
temporary methods
to bolster an incidental routine.
My tongue and lips have accepted this,
but never in your kiss.

Consumer Report

Monday morning,
shower heads weep,
hair dryers howl,
deodorants stifle,
zippers clench teeth,
lip glosses smack,
perfumes choke,
ties hang,
front doors bang,
cars growl,
economic forecast, good.

Stone Cold

I think I want to go.
Go where?
I don’t know, just go!
Barter a deal with sunset,
stow away in a disappearing flash;
throw a rope around Orion’s belt,
swing off like Tarzan in the night.
Is this a mid-life crisis?
Tired of chewing crap like a cud?
Maybe, I’m just afraid
to watch the last ripple
from a stone that’s laying cold.

No String's

“Itsy-bitsy” turned 60 today,
bombs are littered like candy wrappers,
the weatherman promises
rain after six o’clock, and
super mosquitoes
prowl Greek tenements,
blood-junky gangs looting a fix.
Headlines are diet food
for those watching
their propaganda levels.
A new world champion
ate 53 3/4 hot dogs in twelve minutes,
sixth straight title,
bare buns, no strings.

4th Of July

Will be gone until next Tuesday night. Hope all my American friends have a safe and "fun" (whatever your definition of that may be) holiday. Canadian friends the same for Canada Day. And, the rest of you a wonderful weekend!!

What’s For Dinner

I swept the floor,
dabbing at the corners with extra care,
making sure every speck
of lint, leaf-piece, and
the memory of you
slammed into the dustpan
for one last free ride.

The sun backed over
linoleum cracks,
crawling over the African Violet
sitting on the kitchen window sill.
The door knob turned
letting dirt snuggle up to the lonely kiss
of forty five degree base boards,
asking what’s for dinner?

Drowning Me Awake

I cried sand tears
in a dream with shadow-tap-dancers,
their rhythm was my breath,
their darkness my soul.
Veils of shrieking angels
wiped at my scaly cheeks;
the cold flame of our last dinner
raged in rivers of midnight sweat,
drowning me awake
to the lost imprint
on your side of the bed.

Three Haiku/Senyru

Cardinals splash
in concrete birdbath--
water bill is due

Birdsong
in afternoon heat
cold beer calls

Cool breeze waggles
Bradford Pear leaves--
birds sit silent

(admittedly I'm a novice at this)

Brace Of Breasts

Her breasts stared at me
like menu items
from a favorite restaurant.
Not many places you can go,
and bury your face
in an entrée of choice.
The rain tickled
the smooth skin of glass,
we held our laughter inside.

She’s Going To Be A Butterfly Soon

She’s going to be a butterfly soon
the cocoon’s unraveling fast.
Her memories drift,
like gauzy ghosts
in perfect harmony,
back 79 years to now.
You can see her colorful wings
ready to fly on the breath of God.
Morning and night
blend into fogs of passing rites,
she’s going to be a butterfly soon.

Unto The Least Of These

Have you ever considered
the depth of a raindrop?
Not in millimeters,
diameter,
the incestuous child
of pi r squared,
and pi(ab).
How many does it take
to make a blade of grass grow?
A tree?
A forest?
Is their a finite supply
that falls and rises
like tides
on dwindling seas?
Are they tears
wept for flesh-bare angels,
that fall silent
without a crust of bread?
What happens
when the last one falls?

Grouchy Head

Grandkids are two-legged creatures
that leave potato-chip-footprints,
juice box cartons with vacuum-slurped sides,
and battlefields of fallen toys,
too forgotten to be put in the hallway memorial.
They have questions stapled to every breath,
“can we go...?”
“can we watch...?”
“can we have... pleeeease?”.
But more than things
that grump an old man’s bristle,
they leave their laughter
on chairs and tables, and
even nestled in the fur
of the cat’s grouchy head.

Merry-Go-Round

She stalks the shadows
that hang from them,
like wild, dead horses
going merry-go-round,
round and round.

The accident occurred
in the middle of the night,
a bedroom black and dark.
No one heard the train
that slammed through
plaster, glass and bone,
but the damage was life-time long.

She walks without limp,
speaks articulate vulgarity, and
sucks the sun
from her children’s eyes.
Merry-go-round,
round and round.

Paper Dolls

Ever thought of people as paper?
Some, a fine linen,
eloquent,
nice to touch;
others, shiny-slick,
like used car salesmen.
Most are just 20# copy
going through the motions,
12 pages per minute.
Me, I’m ripped
from a faded yellow pad
left in the Sun too long.
Been wadded and unfolded,
so many times,
the creases and tears
are more readable, than
the words once there.

Somewhere Between 33 1/3 & 78

I overheard a conversation
between faces liver spots had yet to squat.
They talked about vinyl records,
like stone age tools studied in pre-CD 101.
These weren’t babies
with jewelry sequined on their lips;
they wore suits with ties and pantyhose,
and cell phones holstered to their belts.
When I got home I looked in the mirror,
then scolded the glass for sneaking
a shaggy, bearded, old man inside.
I remembered my mother standing
at the ironing board lecturing me,
about bringing some long haired boys
from England into her house!

Ask Martha

There’s three mice
under my finch feeders
scurrying around,
chewing and chomping,
what the birds
have knocked off.
I hate the skin-tail rascals!
I shoot at them with my hand-pumped
Crosman 2100 Pro Classic.
Theory: One BB, one mouse.
Actuality: Ten BB’s, no mice.
There are plenty of Red Tail Hawks
to swoop down, and
obliterate the worrisome lot, but
they sit on their dead-limb perches
seemingly oblivious to free lunch.
Home Depot carries the WMD’s I need,
pellets in packets,
pellets you sprinkle loose.
I could get a gross of traps,
load them up with cheese, and
set out tiny tea cups
with a nice herbaceous red wine.
Should the table be set with linen napkins,
or yesterday’s shredded news?

What’s Mine Is Mine

Tangling tongues swelled
into burning skin-seas,
flopping down exhausted
on orgasmic, moon-sweat cloth.
Star tines tingled
as they inhaled second-hand lust,
you whispered "again" and "again"
in my fountain-of-youth ear.
The linen canopy
that covered what we stole
was washed and tumbled dry,
but, that distance in your eyes
will always be mine.

Keyboard Poem

My keyboard and I
stared at each other
with the same blank look,
we both were at a loss for words.
I suggested something about
my visit to the Doctor,
it backspaced
two clicks past the “D”.
Like a player piano
the keys typed out
“klopjeighnvbdkeildnfd”.
Two beers later,
I agreed.

Untitled

Do you ever wonder
if the poem you’re writing
is the last you’ll give a title to?
The last line,
last word,
final number in a long sequence
started with a red crayon in an eight pack set.
It’s not like a breakfast of blueberry pancakes
liberally doused in Aunt Jemima’s buttery best,
certainly missed, but
quickly forgotten over corn beef and beer.
Will it come from an ecclesiastical famine
turning pages of fresh words
into white fields of choking dust?
Or, the silent trumpet
of an angel in a checkered apron,
calling you in at long last
to wash up for eternity?
Could this be the reason
some poets write poems untitled?

Hero du Jour

My back screamed
with a fiery tongue
when I used its muscle
to make me look strong.
I should’ve consulted it
before I went into action, but
a pretty lady was in need,
the perfect opportunity
to be hero du jour.
A “purple heart” wasn’t issued,
no camera flashes for cable news.
I just hobbled off the field of chivalry,
a prideful old fool,
nursing my wound.

Attitude Adjustment

The muse is not dead,
just tired from working
under a hot South Carolina Sun.
She complained,
a poem a day was sweat-shop labor
(I reminded her
she did get most weekends off).
Not good enough, so
I took her to a real job,
where sweat felt good in a rogue breeze,
thirst wasn’t metaphorical, and
red dust hung in your nostrils,
like bats in a cave.
Going back today
to clean up some odds and ends,
next week her keyboard and screen
will look like a lover she thought was lost.

Weather Balloon

The air was still and quiet,
but hung heavy, like
an over-filled water balloon
cocked in the arm
of a six year old general.
Humidity doesn’t care
if you’re a poet, jogger,
worm-grubbing-beast or gardener,
it has one shot everyday,
and today’s was
a shirt-soaking bulls eye!

No Dying On Thursdays!

You don’t die on Thursdays!
Didn’t you get the memo?
No dying on days of the week,
any other time is fine.
Work has to be stopped,
services arranged,
tears washed out of
shirts and blouses,
bungled up words
have to be stumbled over,
it’s just a mess,
can’t you see
it’s just a mess…
but you went and did it anyway.
I know all the other
Monday through Sunday passers
were glad to see you, but
they have eternity
we just have today.

(Dedicated to Terry, the best first cousin a younger cousin could have)

No Freezer Burn Words

No, I don’t pull my words
from the freezer,
place them in the microwave to thaw.
I chase a rabbit
running across the lawn,
take one from behind
its frightened ear.
Another comes from
my Venetian blinds,
after I dust it off
it’s good to use.
A robin plays stork
and drops one on the stoop;
the neighbor’s keys
slip from her hand, and
two or three fall out
from a denim mini-skirt.
The hot coffee
I just spilled on my hand
provides the last to end this poem,
*&^%$#@!!

Patrons Of My Art

Could I spend each day of my life
typing letters into words, line and verse?
Chronicling the Sun’s walk
from Charleston to Malibu, without,
stopping at a gas station for a map?
Reporting a chameleon’s ascent
of my backyard deck, clawing and jumping
to the faded red pinnacle of Barbeque Park?
Watching gold finches take off and land
from butterfly bush to seed terminals,
writing about their amazing careers
without a single flight delay?
Of course the answer is yes, but
Citicorp and Georgia Power
aren’t patrons of my art.

Send Out A Memo

There’s a word
I would love to see
obliterated from language,
some think
the world can’t turn without it.
Minutes would only be 60 seconds,
there wouldn't be a market
for rattletrap metaphors,
yellow note pads
could grow up to be trees,
and pompous asses
would have to join a theater group
to prance around on center stage.
Send out a memo,
we need to have a meeting to discuss this.

Goodbye Bailey

“Be there at 4 p.m.,
don’t be late,
Friday afternoons are busy”.
They would squeeze her in
between the poodle with bad teeth,
and the Rottweiler with bad manners.
I know she quit eating two days ago.
I know the fur on the back of her legs
can’t hold anymore blood from her bowels.
I know…
I know…
but I’m the one that threw the ball,
fed her scrapes of steak and bacon,
watched her eyes multiply 7 x 13.
Now I’m the one
that has to make sure,
she’s on time
for her last appointment.
I wish we could be late.

(for the best dog ever)

Meaningful Relationship

We threw words
like tossed shots
of bad vodka;
they didn’t need to mingle
with sensible tastes,
gullet and belly
were the places for fire.
Tomato juice and celery,
Worcestershire and salt,
weren't required mixers,
we supplied the blood.

Great Art Blog

Found this in my travels yesterday and fell in love with Joyce Ripley's art. Check it out: http://hermitthrushstudio.blogspot.com//

My Ringtone Is...

I want to live
on an old dirt road,
with a serpentine grass-spine
that chiropractors can’t fix, where
ringtones download from wind song,
and critters leave prints,
not carcasses.

I want the sun
to teach me how to wear a straw hat,
daylight and dusk
the only hands on my clock,
and shoe leather
that reports the weather
every time a stone’s kicked in the ruts.

Recycled

I walk every morning
on pimple-granite asphalt
with surnames
Street, Court, and Trail;
past concrete drives
with rubber scars,
and three-wheel futures
laying on their sides.

Yard trees sway
like domestic zombies
with genetic memories
of forest galas, and
God walking in their shade
on split-hoof paths.

Bones and voices
scratch at the bottoms
of my high-tech treads,
waiting for the return
of light-step laughter, and
night to whisk it away.

Midnight Geometry Test

I can’t draw a straight line
with a ruler,
dead sober,
150 watts bursting glass seams,
on any given day,
if my life depended on it!
But, you want me to walk one,
pitch dark,
dead drunk,
headlights whizzing by.
Sir, would it be acceptable
if I crawled
from point A to B?

Suvetar

She dances with wheat,
sun-painted,
fire-licking
the lips of sky;
a goddess with
dirt-rouge cheeks,
joining stares
with bark-skin eyes.

She dances…
I dance…
tree-warriors skip
like water-harp gods.

The sun is planted
in the soil of night,
watered with
the sweat-lust of Spring.

Medium Rare

Poets are perceptive
little boogers,
who the hell knows why?
Somedays it’s a gift,
other’s a curse.
We see the world spinning
on a high top tennis shoe,
laces untied and slouching,
hanging like bangs
in the face of a star, or
skewered on an axis,
slow roasting ‘round the sun.
You say that’s not reality,
there’s scientific evidence
to refute this fantastical claim,
but then,
you’re not a poet, so
I’ll take my clouds medium rare.

Rock-A-Bye Baby

Pain hangs over
her eye lashes, like
fraying laundry
forgotten on
rust-skin poles.
I wonder
who’s rape-seed memories
she cradles
on sleepless nights?
What lullabies she sings?

Scratching My Beard

I think I offended you,
but never meant to.
My fingers punch keys
that aren’t always
connected to my brain.
I would cut the rascals
down to nubs, and
end their quick-click-vulgarity,
but then,
I wouldn’t have them
to scratch my beard,
and wonder
what it was I said.

Save The Potato Chips!

Have you ever considered
the plight of potato chips?
Me neither, but
think about the grinding and crushing
after each crunching bite.
A future of digestive pulp,
passing down the esophageal tunnel
(with no bright light, and
grandma to greet you),
an acid wash in stomach holding, then
a colon coaster ride.
They are sold for this end,
brightly packaged and advertised,
“you can’t eat just one”!
There should be a note
printed between cholesterol,
and saturated fat content,
“you’re actively committing genocide
on this community
of thinly sliced,
deep-fried, salted spuds”.

Swimming Lessons

Most pairs of eyes,
out of half as many heads,
only focus on the day to day.
Jobs and bills,
carpet stains,
a neighbor
tucked tightly in blue jeans,
are things
that can’t be ignored,
subsistence must be maintained.
But, since
you’re treading water,
anyway,
why not
learn how to swim?

Walking The Dog

Walked outside,
birds chirped
pretty bird,
pretty bird…
dog sniffed
for the perfect
patch of grass.
Shot-up
my senses
with their fix
of black coffee,
reflected on
how many
gazillion days
dawn worked
without a day off.
Breathed in deep
morning air,
she found
what she was looking for.

Question Crumbs

I wonder if you’re sleeping
in a foreign dream
I know nothing about?
Is the air you’re breathing
paid for ‘til check out time?
Did you leave a wake-up call
for the sound of my voice?
Questions are all you left me,
so I’ll drop these,
like a fairy tale,
hoping you’ll
find your way home.

Inevitable

Leaves clamor,
like Sunday morning preachers
castigating sins
of a North
by too late wind.

A cold front settled
on addresses changed,

she left him...
he left her...
does it matter?

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

Family Affair

I woke up at 2:00 a.m.
with The Graduate on T.V.,
I watched it for the umpteenth time.
Anne Bancroft stirred memories
of every young man’s dreams,
Benjamin rescued Katharine Ross
from a life of becoming her mother, and
Simon and Garfunkel blended
spices in a minor key.
Riding off on the back seat of a bus,
all smiles and laughing,
life was young,
and fresh,
and free,
but mom would always be the first.

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)

The Great Compromise

My cat sits on the table
beside me at night,
waiting for ice cream
she knows is on the way.
The older she gets
the earlier her vigil starts.
I prefer chocolate,
her favorite is vanilla,
we compromise, and
get chocolate,
she only licks
the bowl half clean.

(all rights reserved Pat Paulk 2006)