Sunday, October 19, 2014

the raccoons are playing in the trash again

photo by dzpixel

the world
is
beautiful

when our lies
don't cloud our eyes

for
our own
benefit.

it only lasts
so long
though,

& my son, from the backseat,
says, "the sky looks like
a rainbow

red
& green,
then just a little blue
before the grey" 

his pale pointing finger
rests on my shoulder
& for a moment

creates a warm spot
between us,

as everything
darkens a bit more
toward night.

Thursday, October 16, 2014

coyote



coyote blew the bag
causing the Milky Way---
'cept the trickster didn't
cease & bomb sniffing dogs
circle the school buildings,
cars & we waste a day,
cool as the tick, tick, tick...

written for dVerse Poets - where Vandana has us writing pleiades.

we had a bomb threat at the school yesterday---and spent the day sitting in the bleachers at the football field while the school was searched...about 5 hours...and nothing was found.

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

the psychology of burial


photo by marco

my first time was as a teen, six feet
down the empty grave that's been in the family
cemetery as long as

                               i can remember
staring up // out the earth frame, dark as the abyss
into the vast cosmos, a million stars away
& drifting in a void, that much lighter
than where i was

                         & again in college,
as a right of passage, entering a coffin,
the last look beyond the closing lid, parting of wood as
nails were driven in, the soft rock of the bearers bearing,
hearing the ropes wear, lower
lower, still,
         the thump
         of landing

the echo in the first handful of dirt,
the next
           & the next getting softer

fingers growing tighter in the soft spot
held by your ribs in the cage of your chest

the long silence

broken only with each labored breath
& the settling of soil
                           of soul
                                of flesh

& just when you become comfortable
with the quiet//with what's next//with the smile that returns
your stares --- the scratch//sCRatCH//SCRaTcHing,
whining sigh of boards unwilling to let go & sweetness
of resurrection's first inhalation

"WELCOME back!"
they hoisting me up by the arm pits & Frye's thousand winds
to settle bare feet on the tickly prickly grass

i know now in a way
i never had.

for PoetryJam

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

the prayer in old photographs

photo by liam moloney

So you can keep me
Inside the pocket of your ripped jeans
Holding me closer 'til our eyes meet
You won't ever be 

                             alone

Having finished grad school
for the moment

i have nothing left to learn

ha, funny huh?

we are like that
at times, thinking
we have everything

we need & not

can stop
on the interstate, cars whipping by
and be
            content//unmoving

& our hair won't blow out of place
& we won't run out of food

hunger is so far away
& the gazelles prance, laughing at the lion
too fat to hunt

abiding in old photographs,
denying the fading corners, the writer
at least can blame the muse//the artist lack
of inspiration & lovers ---

god, geld me
if i ever ---

claim to know anything,
ask for an easy kind of love,
& stop measuring the distance between
the constellations

in the freckles
on your cheeks, on your bare back,
the feel of your lip on my thumb

being in your pocket
                 is not good enough

do you ever dream
of Venice?
                    of Africa?
a cabin in Montana?

wait for me 
             to come 
home

Over @ dVerse, Anthony has us being inspired by music. Lyrics in italics are from Photograph by Ed Sheeran -- a current favorite.

Sunday, October 12, 2014

a pale shadow, of a previous life

photo by smabs sputzer

balloons rise in an unending line, a knotted string
connecting earth to beyond, until the last one leaves

& with each a name

"most of them were overdose or suicide,"
Gavin says, spine fuse after the accident
on the loading dock

he has Polaroids of me on the couch,
hugging a jar of moonshine

& in the stands above us, old friends
--no, a couple hundred acquaintances,
a long time gone, a girl i once
knew
           & for twenty-three years
               had no desire

to see again,
& now there are 50 balloons in the air,

"brian miller,"
i wait for another to rise,
"it's good to see you."

i smile,
search her eyes&not for the first time
wonder why i stopped

"are you coming to the after party?"

"no, i (insert convenient excuse)"

"you should,"
Gavin says

but i left years ago

"find me on Facebook,"

yeah,
i escaped that too,

slip beyond the fence,
drop into my car

& catch the last balloon
as it fights for a moment to free
its string from a tree,
then rises on.

for PU
i did not plan to, but went to a high school reunion, for the first time ever, yesterday---they really hold nothing for me, a pale shadow of a previous life.

Thursday, October 9, 2014

just a little saliva&2 quarters

photo by Ron Bailey

a corner stamp on an envelope,
a winter white field covered in crows feet
enough change in the pocket lint to keep
a cheap coffee complete
                       w/ a skyFull'a bic pen bi-plane ink
& a grab bag a' acorns
                           do
                            i
                           dare?
the buffalo winks

Over @ dVerse --- a little cubist poetry...

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

if i were a cantaloupe


if i were a cantaloupe,

North American w/
                                netted skin,

started warm
indoors, slowly toughened, than transplanted
in soil,
          kept moist til my stem
popped free free
                (ever so gently)
                                   & held in the farmers
                                   calloused hands---

i would love,
as no other,
                         the bump of the truck
over asphalt, wood crated, placement
by stock boys,
                        the spritz of timed rainstorms
                            only known in grocery stores
& waiting

for your thumb to thump me,
to be brought close enough to feel your lips
& the inhale of breath
as you measure the ripeness my
                                        scent

oh to be the cantaloupe & its paring,
even under your delicate knife
to know the way words feel on your tongue,
only in reverse
                     as you take me
                                        in.

for PoetryJam