Thursday, April 24, 2014

all thumbs

photo by valerie everett

was it her own thumbs she used,
refusing to see what's become---of being the one
                                              to carry the scales
that weight so much,
                         out of balance,
better to be blind
than---
            the game of thrones,

it's been two weeks since campaign
finance reform sold the crown,

who can blame them,
limit the money in your master's wallet
& you pick your own pocket

the blindfold at least hides the sockets
or shame
(f)or shame,
                 we should all wear one

& then we'd have reason
to still play dumb---perhaps mine
can have the logo or flashy slogan
of the next great national
corporation---
                       where are my thumbs?
                                   where are my thumbs?

Over @ dVerse, Bjorn has us playing off the newpaper---political verse, over there they call it dagsvers---a daily verse on the news, usually with irony or comedy...doors open @ 3 pm.

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

up 29

photo by fauxto_digit

The sign at Bill's roadside,
Orange Crush logo sun-bleached nearly white,
rust in the pocks--runs in thin line leaks---

gaps in the board whistle a history, of back seat babies
marveling at cardboard boxes inscribed
"Rattler inside"---just a quarter to peek

"can i daddy?"
                          of course,

there's nothing to fear here, in this
little more than a shack about to slide down the bank,
behind it, pulled back to the dust that bore it,
timber cocked & canted as an old man
leaning into his last days

gas pumps long gone, gravel pops
under the clover--how many stories the three person porch
holds in its posts
                         hiss of cars whizzing past,
tires in a passionate kiss with the asphalt, too fast
to care, or notice, hear the old men
                                                     comparing haircuts,
ghost voice on the radio, giving play by play of a Cubs loss
dropping names etched long in marble,
wrenched off bottle caps pounded in the walls

i could sit in this place,
playing penny checkers just to hear the storytellers
open draft letters---discussing war in europe after Rose's birth,
just last week, & the price of milk, the pshaaft of a Pabst
tear top
            wait for a car to pass, cause that's news
on wheels, cause the next gas is another thirty miles

no more---no one stops
novelty worn off, in the light of the twenty four pump,
all night cafe/gift shop/GasNgo---get the hell back
on the road---
                     they ain't got honey suckle this sweet though,
i like the yellow
still warm
                 from the noon sun.

Over @ dVerse Poets, Shanyn has us writing about the 'rhythm of the road'...doors open at 3 pm.

Sunday, April 20, 2014

and the crowd goes wild...

photo by Faramarz Hashemi

Easter morning opens with the chink of chain nets
on a hard court, cracked by ages of pounding feet
too small to be prospects, yet, weed grass works
green arms through to reach sun light

& i position myself to box out//rebound any ball
flung in hope @ the hoop, rejected my direction
as my son dribbles his new ball with every intention
of scoring, around free throw lane lines
rubbed smooth & spotted with peek-thrus
of the asphalt under them

he's running play by play over lips in arcane
language known only to children, a leak of dreams
cross over/shimmy shake/sloughing off a defender,
fade away jumper/game winning shot
as the buzzer rings
                            crowd goes wild

clang

i catch the miss off the bounce, fire a pass
back & he winds up again beyond three point land,
in a close your eyes time turn instant replay rewind,
no huff,
             no excuse
"six second left..."

flying & falling both begin with a leap
that gets steeper and steeper the older we get
cameras only catch when you crash///
or you're rolling in the cash---not,

all the times you run the same play
again and again til you get it right
                               (or don't)

& we sing spirituals in the caress of chain nets,
in the stillness as morning sun stretches over the school
building behind us, a snap pass to the baseline,
jump. ball extended.
                               risen.
                                      release.
                                          

Saturday, April 19, 2014

the day before Easter

photo by Stuart Seeger

you can't see them from the knoll
behind third base,
                             grass tickling the back of your legs

POP
                             all the kids chasing the ball to one point on the field
                             while coaches yell
                                                      "get back in position!"
                             no one listening
                             the mind can only hold one thing
                             sacred @ a time

& when nature calls,
100 bumble bees circle
the latrines
                as if they were a flower,
                petals parted, still damp
                from morning
                kisses,
                          the high heeled mom
                          made up thick for a Saturday morning
                          talking over pouty lips with all the dads,
                                                             on the loudspeaker
                                                             the instrumental version
                                                             of International Love,
                                                             by Chris Brown &
                                                             Pitbull, blares
                                                             the beat//the beat
                                                             hotter than Miami...
                                                             feel the heat...mm hmm

as another
young man steps into the box
for his first chance at bat

& when houses fall, it starts with the neglect,
layer after layer, gutters full of leaf litter,
we never bothered to clean,

the devil in the desert gets the rap
our being out of position, circling latrines
lost in the music & attention

"Strike three---"

"don't forget to visit the concession stands
on the way out folks---
that's your ball game."

                            

Friday, April 18, 2014

yes, i hear you sighing in line behind me as i write this on the receipt - i'll move on soon

photo by m.a.r.c.

Self serve check out @ the grocery store
the red eye adds up the toll, with each pass
of a can,
           a box,
                bottle,
                   cello-wrapped meat pack,
                       weighs the cantaloupe
i want to scan myself
                             lay my head on the little glass
                             window
                             to see
what it comes up with
as worth---
                 it's the fear i don't have enough
                 to buy myself
               
that keeps me
from letting the laser do more
than caress the the bar code whirls
                                           of my fingers
as the voice reminds me
"place your purchases in the bagging area."

Thursday, April 17, 2014

Self Portrait in others' words


i wear love letters // a second skin,
take them
               as i find them,
                                    lost,
                                     as children
                                   among racks
                                 at department
                             stores, discarded
                           when feeling  left
                         with Elvis, paste
                       them gently over
                     those worn  thin,
                   smooth any bubbles 
               & ensure the corners are
           tucked in like a scrapbook of
      all the moments we shared, hidden
  in the attic-until found by one that needs them,
 faded with time to sepia still bearing the memory
  of trees that gave their life so love might be written
     on them - i am dry cheek beds remembering rain,
       the wiry brush br'er rabbits hides in to spin wit, fire
           fingers dance over in back alley steel drums, bottle
               passed lip, o'er lip, native land taken but culture 
                   never erased, the white buffalo grazes at my
                         cerebral temple, but don't confuse that
                           with wisdom-peal these words from
                                me if love's what  you need, no
                                    box to check  passing thru
                                      customs, i expect sharp
                                        objects, turbulence
                                           & wear scars
                                            of a history
                                             learned
                                              lip
                                       read
                                 silently
                             sitting at
                        the feet of the
                   cast out, studying the
                 curve of curse-ive words,
                periods that end life sentences
                 & forever's punctuation, whatOnce
                    was, is, shall be & i'll keep scouring
                       dumpsters for unwanted love letters
                         a second skin i wear, heiroglyphs
                        read in understanding foundations
                     civilization's left behind enrapt w/
                  modernity's plasti - coated  kiss,
              a  busker's  song  strummed
        loading  dock box  cutter
  hum, single mom waitress
working twelve hour
shifts, stories wait-
ing to be told
for anyone
willing to
listen,
i am


Over @ dVerse Poets today, I will be hosting MeetingTheBar and we will be writing poetic self-portraits. They can be metaphoric, symbolic or literal self portraits. Doors open @ 3 pm.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

ragamuffin afternoon

photo by Robobobobo

all the houses
nestled in the arms
of the mountain
                        & my backyard polka-dot
                            in brown fur on green

they work jaws
                                look
work jaws
                                look

hop a bit
looking for something
that tastes better
                            a nerve bundle
                            ready to bolt
i suck
a strand of grass
not going anywhere

we each get what we need
~bees playing the soundtrack.

written for poetry jam