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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A Stranger’s Gift

She called me over, actually,
interrupted my walk, and asked,
“do you see it? do you see it?”
I squeezed my vision
through spaces in tangled vines,
and around a few die-hard flags of Fall;
there on a limb not ten feet away—
the closest I’ve ever been, a Red Tail Hawk.
The lady didn’t know me, nor I her,
but what a gift to give a stranger.

Single Words

She told me I always
have to have the last word.
To that I replied,
“somebody does…”

She says I never listen
to a single word she says.
I said I try, but the multitude
of words she surrounds it with
make it impossible to hear.

(The first verse I'm guilty of. The second even I'm not that stupid)

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Class Acts

He jumped from behind a bush,
not in Australia,
one he was holding on a sidewalk
in front of the Wharf in San Francisco.
He used it as a carpenter does
a hammer, a saw, a square:
scared the passers by, and once
they wiggled free of embarassment,
put money in his bucket.
I went, and bought a basket of crabs,
sat on the finger of a pier, and watched.
After an hour he leaned his tool against a pole,
and headed back toward the vendors.
As he passed in front of me, he looked down—
I think he noticed I’d been watching,
we both smiled, then laughed.
He disappeared around a corner,
I cleaned up my mess of shells and paper towels,
and moved on to a pair of gold and silver mimes.

Water Or Stone?

Do water and stones speak
with different, discernable tongues?
The one must be tremulously whiny,
because its skin is see-through thin;
the other, a deep, bass vibrato,
it has no lips to articulate speech.
I walked to the edge of the lake
picked up a smooth flat stone,
gave it a flick of the wrist,
splash splash splash splash splash…
Was it water, or stone
that had the last word?

Leaf-Fish (Saturday's poem early)

Are falling leaves an airborne species of fish?
An absurd question, I agree. But, one
hitherto never explored, and
henceforth not to be ignored.

Do they have gills? Certainly not!
Scales covering flakey flesh on bone?
Of course, we all know the answer to that.

But, they do swim in currents of air,
like fish in currents of water. They both
provide nutrients to higher forms of life.
Is the question becoming less weird?

Leaves don’t have fins and tails,
nor eyeballs on each side of their form,
but both have veins, and skin,
and a skeletal structure of sorts.

Color is paramount on both lists of best traits,
sizes and shapes equally diverse, and
each gather in numbers impossible to count.
I ask, is the answer more confusing than clear?

This question won’t be debated
by modern minds of good reason
(similar minds once thought the world was flat).
So, it falls to the poet to espouse some absurdity,
in the reality of everything we see.

Tis The Season

Thanksgiving Friday
parking blues
Wal*Mart Xmas

Stocking Up

Military cargo planes,
designated C-something,
flew tail to nose, tail to nose,
like prop-plodding mules
over a blue-desert sky;
engine wash, like agitated dust,
covered everything with noise.
The horizon pulled the belly packed beasts
closer to their point of deposit;
wood songs resumed in rustling leaves,
squirrels stocking up on Winter stores.

Change Of Address

I tossed my thoughts
in a copse of bare trees
to let them network
with filigree shadows,
and chip-chirp-chatter;
they needed the graphics
of sky and earth,
a change of address
from Windows and screens.


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New World Table

Had lunch with an old friend today.
The tiny café table didn’t have enough room
to spread out thirty years, but
art, poetry and The Isle of Skye
fit nicely between her plate
of falafel and my gyro sandwich.
She’s going to buy a house,
and live in a town named
for an Indian chief, or his wife,
pronounced “seh-noy” not “seh-noy-yuh”
as outsider-eyes would fool one into thinking.
I’m going to buy a boat,
and sail from “bis-troh” to “peet-suh-ree-uh”
in search of a table
large enough for a long visit.

Bypass

Bypass construction,
six lanes to two,
artery clogs

What We Hear

I asked my cat
if I’d fed the fish.
She replied, no
I hadn’t fed her a fish.

Something Old, Something New

I had my hand on the inside of her thigh,
nothing special or unusual about that,
except it was my hand on her thigh;
the girl every guy in high school fantasized about
while embarrassing his mother’s sheets.
We were friends back then, but our words
always met on the outside of our mouths.
Now, many years later, and
more than milk money in my pocket,
we whirled dreams around our tongues,
mine was old, hers new.



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“Into Each Life…”

God washed his birds yesterday,
mail boxes and dead leaves too;

rivers in gutters fell over the edges
of a waterfall system of drains.

Streets bathed, but not behind the curbs,
led home, and away, and back again;

God washed his birds yesterday,
a Sparrow fell from its perch.

Creepy Crawlies

She didn’t leave
with the guitar player
who winked at her,
picked love songs like roses,
and laid them at her feet;
it was the construction guy,
who didn’t buy her a drink, and
whose eyes crawled
in and out of her blouse like spiders.
He did leave a tip.

Two Point Two Belly Flop

We’ve all known a man, or a woman,
that the only thing that springs
from the diving board of their tongue,

is a whine, a complaint, a curse,
a double somersault negative
with a back stabbing twist.

Immediately, you want to grab the words,
like splashed globules of
mangled, water-puzzle-pieces,

and put them back behind their lips.
But, the ears have already been soaked
with a two point two end of dive belly flop.


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Physics At Four A.M.

My eyes opened to physics at four a.m.,
the big bang and falling apples,
relativity, black holes eating the apples
disappearing into a theory of everything;
particles vibrating off strings, one to five;
a membrane transcending dimensions,
three to eleven, and then back again
to what caused the bang…oh! and
chalk calculations that easily erase.



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Off The Wall

A shadow on the wall
talked to a curious dog on the sidewalk,
what they said was without sound,
what was understood not known.
The dog eventually moved on, the wall
waited for the next shadow.

Weather Report

Fog hangs like viscera
from a disemboweled morning sky,
a tragic event of water saturated air.

A male dog hikes-up in sympathy
on the feet of commiserating trees,
mallards paddle in a mourning line,

squirrels chatter eulogies limb to limb,
the lake holds a moment of silence,
all respects paid, the afternoon looks good.

Dinner Plans

An old frog
croaks for his supper
in the crater
of a mud-puddle moon;  
a black snake slithers
from the hollow of a log,
a red tail hawk circles overhead.  

Not So Secret An Admirer

A friend of mine introduced me
to the words of Mary Oliver,
another Mary with words of her own.

They’re some of the greenest I’ve ever read,
like new born twigs with soft velvet leaves,
suckling on raindrops, nuzzling breasts of sun.

A pond is not just an ole fishin’ hole,
nor dogwood blooms a fancy Easter dress; they're
quaint little notes, left, by not so secret an admirer.

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From A Distance

When I was an adolescent
I wanted a pair of penny loafers—
Bass Weejuns,
the expensive, popular ones;
the kind Burlington Gold Toe socks
were matching partners
with the in-step of the shoe.
I did eventually get a pair,
not Weejuns, but
from a distance they looked cool.
The humpback cracks in the sidewalk,
linoleum tiles buffed by a janitor
that always looked down, and never smiled,
didn’t know my feet were scuffing a scam;
I knew the ones I wanted to impress knew,
but from a distance I did look cool.


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Mud Everywhere

Oh! Mr. Cardinal
you have your feet in the mud,
you’ll track it everywhere
from bird feeder perches
to rain scoured clean limbs.

I know you were taught better
than to trail mess behind mess;
I reckon appetite takes precedence
over all good rearing. I thought,
only, politicians acted like that.


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On The Menu

I looked into the black face
of my first cup of coffee,
studied the steam
rising over nervous bubbles, and
up the turret sides of ceramic walls.
It was time for this rumination
to be taken to a post of sorts,
and executed as an offender of habit.
With each taste it died without whimper,
sip and slurp by whip of lips and tongue.
The ham and swiss for lunch
will be tooth decay for lions.


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Gasping Breaths

Gasping breaths,
falling life,
eerie wind,

red truck rusting,
rubber flat feet,
cold leaves huddle,

Fall moon silent,
dark thoughts rustle,
lone dog howls.

Between The Lines Passé

I read a poem, sometime back,
about words behind words,
like a pack of wild teenagers
playing hide and seek,
these were very well hidden.
I can’t remember the author, but
it was published in “...Review”
(bag lady of notoriety sporting
an old hat with new paper flowers).
For instance, “it’s a cold, but beautiful morning”,
would have dry-eyed witch laughing
curled up inside the last “u”—
who would think to look there?
Certainly makes me wonder
what’s hiding in “see Dick run”?


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Cleaning Help

The wind isn’t
very good yard help,
she sweeps the leaves there,
and then here, and then there.
Most days she works hard
but never cleans a damn thing;
I’d hire the moon, but
he only does windows.

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Continuity

I dog-eared the page,
broke the continuity of forests
cut, logged and pressed.

Everything read before
bled through the cracks,
flowing onto what I’ll read next.


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Wherever, Wherever Is

A private jet just flew over
whooshing away to wherever.
I don’t wish I was going there,
wherever, wherever is.
Like a bullet they pierced
the belly of a cloud,
I heard it scream,
watched it roll, and turn inside out;
silence caressed it
like a body bag zipped,
then drifted off
to a graveyard of dreams.

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Laughing Ghosts

(I thought in honor of Halloween I'd post the poem the blog is named after. I have placed a link at the bottom of me reading the poem.


Weathered-gray,
semi-petrified slats,
framed the dark holes
that once beamed
with light and life.

The porch,
shattered with broken teeth
and languid tongue,
was void of speech,
but not of sound.

Ghost’s laughter
echoed in the trees,
shading the wrinkled hat
cocked to one side,
that once sat square,
and kept the rain outside.

I clicked my heels
down the hollow of its throat,
looking for evidence
of the home it’d made.
With everything torn and scattered,
and holes set to trap,
I decided to leave, and
let the ghosts have it back.


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Early Morning Rocky Road Relief

I woke up with fear
standing beside me, insisting
I sit up for a talk—
having been kicked out of a bad dream,
I agreed we had things to discuss.

First, I thought it was rude
to wrap it’s gripping hands
around my running feet,
interfering with a panic flight
from what and to where I don’t know.

Second, my dreams are reserved
for action/adventure, XXX, fantasy,
but absolutely never horror!
I felt like I presented my case
historically accurate, and beyond dispute.

It expanded like a gas-filled balloon ready to burst,
bellowed out, “blame it on the Rocky Road”;
leaving a lingering foul stench, it left.

What We eat

She watches the glass
like I do a favorite TV show.
There’s no channels to change, but
when I feed the fish she licks her paws,
and meows with a pleading whine.
The ultimate optimist, I guess,
but, a fantasy that’ll never happen;
paradise, a quarter inch of glass away,
a formulated, nutritional diet on the floor.

Like A Buzzard Circling

Like a buzzard circling
the dying breaths of a wounded world,
Winter salivates for the coming feast.
His 9 to 5 is feeding on all things dying,
dying and rotting, painting the nostrils
of skittering masses with overcoats,
scarves, and dirty long underwear—
worn over and over, you can’t see those,
and the smell mingles with the fallen,
angels and trees, contorted in
an Armageddon pose too ghastly
to be remnants of what once was alive.

Painting Fruit

We look for meaning
in everything we read;
it has to be there,
why would it be written without?

The sadness and loneliness,
a bicycle ride,
wearing dead leaves as lingerie
are all ascribed to the writer,
why describe what’s not?

Is poetry catharsis?
Personal preening for the readers eyes?

Of course it’s not, or
at least not always,
sometimes,
it’s just a bowl of fruit,
and wax at that.

October Leaves

The wind rolls their corpses
under tires in driveways,
it’s not suicide, nor murder,
they’re already dead.

No pity for them...
what’s the point?

Broken blades,
petioles too dry to take a drink.

October’s the month for leaves,
a year ago today
you backed out of my life.

Out Of Stock

I know men and women that discard lovers
like canned peas with expiration dates,
love is just dust, tending circles on a shelf.

Of course, they’re not politically correct.
Haters of the opposite sex…
I’m not qualified to say.

Rotating inventory,
from a retail point of view,
is a good thing to do, but

running out of stock in Winter, really sucks.

Dying Words

I’ve been talking with the trees in my yard,
daily chit chat about bird things, and
rain that promises to visit, but never appears.
They remember yellow and orange stories
fragmented into distractions of time,
crisp, bitter feelings that fall to the dying.
Today they are very talkative, but
soon they will stand cold and silent.

Act II, Same Star

There’s no band
that plays at twilight
to paper dolls dressed for theater in the sky,
frozen in dreamy-eyed poses, and
still tongues murmuring things that could be said.

Angels walking on invisible stilts
roll the Sun on stage
to scissor-cut applause,
changed into a costume of moon robes,
and flashy beads of stars,

the impersonation begins...

Unquenchable

I pondered the depth
of a raindrop once, and
found the water too deep:
the lives it took,
and the ones it gave,
the fruit that slid
its memory down my chin,
the rust it painted
on old tin roofs, and
the umbrellas
bounced on
like a trampoline.
I pondered the depth
of a raindrop once, and
found a thirst it couldn’t quench.

Remodeling, But Open

Friday the 13th, late night October,
Summer checked out, and
cold poured into my pores, all of them,
goose bumps poked out, like occupied flags.

Remodeled the exterior of my body
with a sweat shirt and long pants,
cleaned up the inside with hot coffee,
and a thorough mopping of Bailey’s Irish Cream.

New season, new residents
deserve upgraded digs,
thinking about a hat for the penthouse,
the roof is getting awfully thin.

What We Are

The moon is such a fickle lover
it draws hot blood to yellow thighs,
drains us free of light-lust dreams, then
vanishes without touch, or tear.
No notes left by the coffee pot,
fragrance to linger on sheets, or thought.
Gone again, ‘til it needs our skin,
we’ll be waiting, we are what we are.

All Scratched Up

Sometimes, I’ll have a problem
lay against the back wall of my skull,
and scratch at it like a dog with fleas,

thumpthumpthump
thumpthumpthump...

most irritating to say the least, and
normally in the middle of the night.

I stroke it, massage it,
drag my nail-bitten fingers
over and over its obnoxious hide,

but it sits right where it is,
thumpthumpthump
thumpthumpthump…

The loss of sleep is inconsequential,
putting the Sun over scratched-up skin
wears like hell!

A Hoot Owl Hoots

I remember him sitting
with his head in his hand,
glued to a Formica countertop,
smoking Kool Menthols, slicing through
the blue-grey boredom to make change.
He hated that hardware store,
being a fixture in a block box;
the key turned at seven in the morning,
not again ‘til six at night.
It provided the electric fryer
with drumsticks and breasts, but
his preference was fresh caught fish.
The south Georgia swamps,
rivers, and Cypress knees
hold the memories of his steps.
A hoot owl hoots
in the silence of his sleep.

Wasting Time

The vanity glass,
that has my bathroom
tattooed on its face,
revealed a ghost haunting
the brown pigment
holding life in my eyes.
I’ve never seen this before.
It must’ve been hiding
behind the front of the deodorant can,
or slipped out from
the hanging silk plant,
that occasionally moves
without a stint of wind.
I bathed my vision
in a blur of Visine drops,
when the peeling paint
on the back wall cleared,
the only thing gone
was a waste of time.

Keeping The Beat

I read a book of poems
by a Pocket Poet.
Maybe, it was the first,
actually, I think it was.
Neither he, nor it
would fit in any I have,
they’ve all gotten smaller,
seems there’s less need
for carrying things.
The poetry flowed,
like the offspring of melting ice,
running down the hot hand
of a shadow darting under city lights,
keeping the beat,
keeping the beat...

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!!