Tuesday, May 31, 2011

One Shot: Casual-ties that bind

M-E-O-W, be written in big
paint spray letters ona powa
box by da streetlite et Ryland
n Broad, all lowa case ta
make it soun sinshal, tikle ya
eayahs, dis be where da cats
come call, long legs n all, on
friday nites

cross da street ona corner block,
Tennessee be openin his malt shop,
puttin o'da 40 ounce stock, bottles
clink sweet golden music ta thirsty
throat hethens, a lil brown bag deliva-
runss, say da Milwaukee revrunds
castin dice fo leftova's o'da state check

Tennessee d'o he gots a laff'l shake
thunder, wit punch lines strike
lightnin, he be tellin us one bout a
preacha n'a waterhose, all da boys stan
roun close n'a ress out rollin bones'r
whistlin fo some of that catscratch n'
Jimmy, he walk right inta a bullet
out a drive'n by car come jumpin
nevah saw comin'

Damn, his life b'come a few sentences
ona five-0 papah but nah ev'n
b'low da fold ina ev'nin news,
ana dark spot tween'a cracks uva sidewalk,
we step ova'n whispah'n prayahs ta
eva friday nite, when'a cats prowl
n malts clink sweet music hymns
ina toast ta da boy who nevah
had a chance, jis as inocent a
mouse asa ressuv us

MEOW, man,
welcome ta Richmond.

It is One Shot Wednesday, for those that write poetry and others that know no better. Go write something poetic, come join us. I promise to lock the cat up for the night. It all starts at 5 pm EST, tonight.


I wrote this on our recent trip to Richmond for my son's audition for a part in Steven Spielberg's new movie Lincoln. For those that were following his journey, he made it through to final cuts or final six and they filmed him doing a scene. We got a letter and he did not get selected but they were very impressed and encouraged him to try for several upcoming roles in the future.

Sunday, May 29, 2011

memories in Arlington

who looks at their kid,
fresh pink flesh of my flesh.
and thinks they will die
far from home, in some
hollow hole or hanging
erect on barb wire, in
blood on a beach, back up
floating in salt water
out of our reach---

these thoughts only haunt
parents' worst nightmares
as they dote and dash to
protect and fix every little
scratch life inflicts, with
hugs, band-aids & a kiss---

who looks at their love
and sees themselves in a
field of grass, broken only
by white, each to represent a
fresh, pink flesh of my flesh
and regardless of why they
were sent, they went &
never came back, leaving
you with a folded flag
& a three shot salute that
echoes in your ears---

these thoughts only haunt
family, spouse's & friend's
worst nightmares but through
the tears we are proudly salute
in our own inadequate ways of
saying 'thank you' & remembering

Memorial Day 2011

Saturday, May 28, 2011

160/1SS - cityscape



see the jewel
shining from afar

an ant hill undisturbed
built on the backs
of her inhabitants

men in high places
use a magnifying glass

to burn
their heads off

The picture is by Scott Wyden who is featured today at One Stop Poetry. And I wrote it in 160 characters, so I got to tell Monkey.

Friday, May 27, 2011

up Close & personal


i am the sum total of life's equation &
unknown variables, whose solution
when broken down in section (parenthesis
first then multiplication)
seem more like hotdogs & doughnuts,
ground up flesh or fried to a crisp,

& don't give me none of that cliche
lemons to lemonade, there is no i in that
bullsh-t, cause pulled hard bootstraps snap &
some days seems like god takes a nap,
you ain't me, see & you never will be, so stuff
the sympathy up your...rear view mirror view,
life's not fair, divinity's no genie bound to your
will to rewrite reality, so don't expect it,

you either make the most of it, or wallow
in the moment, missing the miracles that
don't come to those that sit around on their
own clasped hands, praying, but unwilling
to tape a brush to their wrist & reimage
their old ways into something new, yet
still beautiful

This was inspired by Chuck Close, an artist who had to overcome multiple adversities, yet still finds a way to bring beauty to life.  I found his story to be quite inspirational & shared a bit of it at Friday Poetically today, asking people to write about it.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

55 - among gramma's things

there were no blank pages
was the first thing we noticed
about gramma's notebook

each page turned, worn
soft as cotton from reading
names, numbers, dates, places
each carrying meaning

& somewhere in the middle,
my name, in red, circled,
among the things
she wanted to remember

blurred by the frequent touch
of her finger


Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see G-man.
submitted to Poetry Jam.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

why wheelbarrows have two handles

i piled all my dreams in a wheelbarrow,
the big flat bottomed kind you use to mix mortar,
higher and higher til they scraped the sky,

& i tried to lift them, but they were
far too heavy to carry
on my own, tottering and teetering,
threatening to fall down around me

so i went off to find you
cause wheelbarrows have two handles
for a reason.

So maybe that is a bit of fuzzy logic, but today is our fifteen year wedding anniversary. And I let her put a few things in the wheelbarrow too. Smiles. Love you Baba.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

one shot: letter bomb from the asylum

inverse the envelope, licked to stick closed,
my mind opens, exposed, with each tongue touch
spins cyclone vortex synapse parades, gentle rain
nourishing dandelions on the membrane,
blow and watch the seeds  breed
spread finger weeds

speak your mind, before you go insane
speak your mind, give birth, love/pain
speak your mind, before they take it

what was lost, has been found in a bin collecting
dust from lack of original thought process, mind
never mined, depths plumbed shallow, skull hollow
but full of use-less programmed knowledge, nod
your head when the light goes red, pavlov's human
rewarded for regurgitating mass media's mantras

repeated in water cooler conversations to impress
but you been undressed and found lacking, shrinkage
beyond store bought microwavable meal idea-ls,
pre-chewed for ease of swallowing,
flavored to taste, all waste-less filling

speak your mind, before you go insane
speak your mind, give birth, love/pain
speak your mind, before they take it

stop the press! madness these thoughts
take cerebral root, words absurd demured
mired in the cage of my teeth, indentured til
freedoms paid price, life or fatal relief, who gives
a...until someone opens their mouth & the
grenade falls out, run...3,2,1...BOOM!

speak your mind, before you go insane
speak your mind, give birth, love/pain
speak your mind, before they take it
AWAY

gotta say what you need to say, before
they taKE you AwAY


It is One Shot Wednesday, a collective of poets raising voices in loud whispers in love, peace, protest, beauty and little hairless dogs. Really it can be about whatever you want. Write something nearly poetic and come join us at 5 pm EST and throughout the day on Wednesday.

Monday, May 23, 2011

facing the morning

squeal~hiss, brakes release as the cross town bus drags its feet on the way to getting us somewhere, picking up more people headed the same place we are, somewhere, no where, now here. the windows bear marks of faces pressed to the glass watching those passed and past places that once meant something, now buildings abandoned or refurbished to house someone, hide the bodies of the systems latest victim.

left, right, left, the maze we weave through the streets, faces join us, faces leave. we are all characters in this morning story. a man, tan skin creased, soul patch beneath his lips carries a case-less guitar and periodically picks a string with his ring finger, without even noticing, but the woman two seats over cant stop focusing on it, by facial expression, but says nothing.

its a buffet, where you choose whose life to taste by the seat you pick, but the one next to me is empty. we roll on stop, by stop. faces come and faces go. in po-town, projects, we pick up a few ladies just finishing work as the sun rises, their legs pearlescent lies'n books laid open til spines broken, well read & dog eared, barely disguised in short skirts that leave little unexposed to the elements of imaginations.

he boards behind them, silent as he cases his options prowling taut down the well trod rubber ribbed aisle. what skin visible, an inked canvas of muscle to the knuckle & below his eye, indigo tear eternally. sliding in beside, huff'n blow, he's ready to go, phone rings & shows a little brown haired girls picture & he thumbs the slide, passing the caller over.

yours? i ask, curious

mi hija

dos hijos, i touch my chest

and for next five minutes, regardless of where we been, culture, circumstance or language barrier, we are two dads on a bus, flashing pictures in cell phone pixels, heading somewhere, no where, now here, where faces come and faces go and a man strums a guitar, without even noticing.


linking with the Poetry Jam.

Saturday, May 21, 2011

160/1SS - A day without you...


after a couple hours
i find a pair of your socks
abandoned by the bed

laying atop the covers,
i inhale their scent &
dream us entwined

flower fields,
me & you

What can you say in 160 character? Say it, then go tell Monkey.

The picture is by Walter Parada, featured today as part of One Shoot Sunday, at One Stop Poetry.


and...

Below you will find a postcard, featuring original art (of an incredible handsome guy) by Betsy. Betsy is my twin un-sister...long story.

We swapped postcards better known as Twitter for Gentlefolk. Finding this in my mailbox put a huge smile on my face. I think she captured my hawk well...wonder if I can get my pens to stick like that...



Friday, May 20, 2011

10DOM: Breach of Trust

The room is sterile, white, corner to corner, floor and ceiling, except black drapes covering one window. The only furniture are two chairs by the window, turned at forty-five degree angles toward each other. In contrast to the stark room, they are plush and inviting. No life stirs the room and no sound escapes.

A crack pierces the previously seamless wall opposite the window, folding inward allowing a man to enter the room. His hair is cropped short, perhaps for ease of maintenance, particularly when viewed against his well manicured beard that draws to a slight point at his chin. He is wearing a grey sport coat over a black t-shirt, complementing the small threads of black that run through his gray pants.

The man sits in the chair on the right and removes a small recording device from the inner pocket of the jacket, placing it on the arm of the chair. He does not look at a watch, but at the blank wall where he entered, where there was a door, but now again an unbroken sea of white. Bringing a finger to his lips he strokes the hairs below the lower, as if in contemplation.

The wall breaks again, the first man leaping to his feet in fluid movement, crossing the room quickly to greet a man whose skin tone and facial structure identify him of Asian heredity. The new man is slight of stature, a foot shorter than the first man. The bearded man bows crisply until his head is lower than the other, then follows as the Asian makes his way to the chair, where he sits with little flourish.

Crossing the room beyond the chairs, the bearded man begins a mime routine as if he is taking things out of a cupboard or cabinet, setting a few things on an invisible counter. He makes motions as if pouring, while the Asian's lips move without sound. Head nodding the bearded man replies silently, then turns carrying what one can only assume are cups, though empty air fills his clasped hands, offering one to the seated man. Taking what is offered, the Asian brings it to his lips, then offers a faint smile, before placing it in the empty air between the chairs.

The bearded man stands a few feet in front of the seated Asian unmoving as their eyes lock. Neither of them move for thirty two seconds, when the bearded man's head explodes, wet crimson spatter covers spreads outward finding ceiling, walls and floor, while the body remains standing briefly, then sinks rapidly to the floor, a marionette whose strings have been cut.

Removing a handkerchief from his pocket the Asian dabs at his face, calmly and meticulously removing any trace of the bearded man from his flesh, though his suit is beyond repair. He stands, looking down at the body as he removes his coat, fingers working the buttons of his shirt. He drops these in the chair behind him. Slipping his feet from the shoes, he next drops his pants and they join the pile. Standing in nothing but his underwear and socks he carefully steps around the body on the floor, but is unable to navigate the pooling blood, leaving footprints in measured stops until he stands before the opposing wall.

The wall peels back once more and the Asian leaves the room and it closes behind him. The only movement the ever expanding pool of crimson, flowing from the crumpled body.

The screen flickers black, signaling the end of the video clip, then bursts into vivid color and sound. A woman in a suit, well manicured and make-upped sits behind a desk, in the background screens fill with the words Breaking News, then the face of the bearded man.

"The body of Senator Hal MacRae of Ohio was found among the rubble where earlier this week Muslim extremists, believed to be part of an infiltration cell from Afghanistan, blew up the Washington Monument. Senator MacRae had been there speaking with a group of middle school children, when the deadly blast occurred. Senator MacRae is most well known for his stance against our growing debt to China. The President will be giving a national address shortly, updating the country on our military response."

Once more the screen goes black, bodies shift uncomfortably in chairs.

"What do you plan on doing with this?" the voice is cool, even tempered.

"We are not here to threaten you. This went live on the internet this morning at 3:14 AM, eastern standard time. At 3:17, our scrubbers crashed the site and a team was dispatched to handle the insurrectionist that created the site."

The Asian man sits in his tall backed chair behind an imposing desk. His eyes bore into the suited men before him. He may have been twenty years younger in the video, but everyone would recognize him, everyone that saw the video.

"We can address this Mr. President, if you can help us understand," one of the suited men starts, but is dismissed with a raised hand of the first Asian President of the United States.

The President stands slowly, turning to face a suit of armor that stands in the corner. Crossing to it, he admires the craftsmanship achieved by such a primitive people. It was once worn by an ancestor of his wife that fought as a Samurai. A gruesome mask tops the helmet, sneering. Two swords hang from a gold trimmed red ribbon at the side, he fingers their handles and contemplates his next moves.

Seppuku. Seppuku. Seppuku, whispers the wind on the window, in time with the thudding of his heart.

Eyes open, slowly adjusting to the shadow of night, the ceiling's texture is waves on a stucco ocean. Sweat bursts from the pores of Sam Nyugen's

Rising, Sam moves quietly through the room, entering the adjoining bathroom, closing the door behind him. Flipping the wall switch, the room explodes into light and Sam pinches his eyes tight, gently opening them to allow time to adjust. Locking eyes with himself in the mirror, he runs his hands over his face massaging his hollow cheeks.

This is the third night this week he has been awakened in the middle of the night. It must be stress, he consoles himself.

Surely Li, his wife, must know of his affair with Barbara from work. So many times she had nearly caught him in the web of stories he had created to protect his illicit love. Even his dreams were turning on him. This one was move vivid. The layers upon layers of meaning. The betrayal, stripping of honor from his family, the exposure.

His hand trembles, he feels the divot on his finger that longs to hold a cigarette. His wife would never allow that in the home. Li never allowed much, robbing him of his masculine place. Barbara on the other hand, a smile turns at the corner of his lips, she knew just how to make him feel like a man.

A nervous chuckle escapes his lips at the thought of him as President of the United States. Stuck in mid-level management for Fukizawa Technologies, he has hunger for more power, but the President, he is not so sure. If he was, he would not have to worry about his lies unraveling.

Filling a small glass with water, he leans against the bathroom counter allowing the thoughts of Barbara to steal away the fears generated by the dream. He will make plans tomorrow for an afternoon rendezvous to work off the remaining tension in an altogether more pleasurable way.

Returning the bathroom to darkness, Sam exits, crossing the room to his side of the bed. Pausing before climbing in, he surveys his wife's back, covered by her night clothes. Perhaps she does not know, he muses, what could she do any way? He smiles as he lifts the covers.

Feeling the weight of Sam's body settle once more in the bed, Li slowly withdraws a hand from beneath her pillow. She turns the Wugu doll in her fingers feeling its appendages until finding the stubby head. Bringing it to her mouth begins again to chew on it, her husband once more tossing and turning at the abyss of sleep.

This was written for 10DOM.

It has been a while since I posted a story this long at the waystation, I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. I won't post anything new until Sunday, so have a good weekend and I will see you out on the trail. ~Brian

Thursday, May 19, 2011

55 - all that remains

she was the bubble bath
i soaked in, suds tickling
nose, body caressing full
immersion ---
d
r
a
i
n
i
n
g
tension til that same sooth-
ing warmth grew cold
in careless complacence
gurgling slowly
through the small steel grate
sucking for that last bit
of life giving oxygen---

leaving only
a ring, around the tub,
and ten wrinkled toes.

Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see G-man.

This is a slightly modified version of a poem I posted elsewhere a  week or so ago for The Tenth Daughter of Memory, a bi-monthly writing/arts competition based on a theme. If you are looking for a little competition against quality writers/artists, I suggest you check it out.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Word Up!

Word being truth, and Up, the general
direction of our small mind view of
Heaven, which fails to fathom
the collision in the here & now,

now hear, the kingdom of Heaven
is up-on you (us), not caught up
in some future destination of personal
evacuation, so long suckers, never
see you again

love, love is...a blind (wo)man feeling
faces to find hearts beating the rhythm
his fingers tender tracing til he gets
the picture & don't be afraid but i think
you will find

it surprising who rides the escalator
when the day comes, and who is left
undone...undone...bell man, but i had
a reservation, but sorry no, love, 
love is a blind (wo)man

written for Imperfect Prose

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

One Shot: the mad man & his pocket watch


we serve consecutive life sentences,
stated by our own pen, without punctuation
running away down pages in annals of
personal pronoun preoccupation
words bent and blending together
on babbling lips and pictures in
wallet windows of kids we only
see when schedules intersect

have your people get with my people,
send an email, i'll check your tweets
to get status updates on your
maturation son, read a wiki
if you want to know how to
catch a ball, but i'll be there
on saturday, at your game,
with my blackberry

at what point of evolution do we now find
ourselves, in touch with our self, but no
one else, check the clock face,
not some digital monstrosity
built to fool us that the
sweeping fingers bear no
ramifications on our reality

it's a circle whose circumference is measured
by hand and pi, that can only be sliced
so thin before it loses taste and is spit out
in a napkin by those who once
loved us, mis-spent leaving only
crumbs in the tin pan and
hunger growling stomachs

HUNGER. GROWLING. STOMACHS.

period. the end.

Woohoo! It's One Shot Wednesday...where poems are served on platters to be devoured and for dessert we bring you...more poems. Ok, so write it poetically and serve it up, come join us at One Stop Poetry. The meal begins at 5 PM EST.

The picture is from Magpie Tales.

Monday, May 16, 2011

A Night Time Visitor

Exiting the front door of my house, my feet clomped on the wood stoop as I headed to the corner where Mr. Wilson's house once stood to catch the school bus. I drew up short when I found Johnny in the front yard standing at the base of the large oak tree, staring up into its boughs. His jaw hung open as if he had been struck dumb. Johnny was not necessarily the sharpest tool in the shed, but he usually had some sort of excuse for his unusual behavior.

"Johnny, what are you doing?" I asked, snickering through my words.

Without saying a word, Johnny pointed. My eyes followed his finger toward the sky and my jaw fell as loose as his. There in the utmost branches of the tree, nearly twenty feet over our heads, hung my bike. We stood looking at it, quietly considering how it had made it there from the sidewalk where I left it the night before, until the bright yellow flash of the school bus passed at the corner of our vision and we ran all the way to the corner to catch it.

Arriving at the cafeteria table for lunch, Johnny had already informed the rest of the neighborhood boys about finding my bike. Eric suggested that maybe aliens had taken it with their tractor beam to inspect it and misjudged returning it. Several of the boys laughed, but a few shared concerned glances.

Another suggested asking One Eyed Lily, as she was always taking pictures and had probably already reported it to the government. Several thought this was a good idea, but no one was willing to go to her house and ask. We decided we would just have to figure this out on our own.

After school, with the help of my dad's ladder, the one he used each year to clean the gutters and to adjust the antenna after a storm to clear the static from the picture on the television, we retrieved my bike from the tree. Johnny and Eric asked their parents and made plans to stay over that night to watch and see who or what had placed my bike in the tree.

We took turns watching from the window of my room, while those not on duty read back issues of X-men comic books and munched on snacks we smuggled up to the room from the kitchen. One by one, we silently drifted off to sleep with promises of waking each other up when it was our turn to watch.

Squeaking noises from outside the window woke me with a start, my heart threatening to jump from my chest. Looking around the shadows of the room, I found Johnny and Eric curled on the floor asleep. Slinking quietly to the window, I cautiously peered over the window ledge, afraid of what I might find.

A shadowy figure was hunched over my bike, wheeling it toward the tree. It was tall, with long arms and accompanied by an animal of some sort. As quick as I could, without waking my parents, I slipped down the stairs and went to the front door, figuring if I cut the porch lights on it might scare the being and give me a better look at it through the windows by the door.

Thumbing the switch, the lawn was instantly bathed in light and the creature turned his head slowly to look right at me through the window, sending my body into an instant sweat. The animal that was with it began barking, loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood. Opening the door, I stepped outside.

My great uncle Mack stood holding my bike, while his dog, also named Mack ran up to lick my fingers. They lived at the far corner of the neighborhood and Mack often walked Mack early in the morning, "before all the commotion" he would often say. During the day, he tinkered with a large radio he used to speak to people around the world.

"Uncle Mack, what are you doing? Are you the one that put my bike in the tree?" I asked.

Laying the bike down and uncurling his large frame until he towered over me, he looked over his bulbous nose, and spoke, "You should not leave your bike out. A car might hit it."

He called Mack, the dog, to his side taking his leash and walked off into the darkness. I watched him disappear, then wheeled my bike to the side of the house and crept back into the quiet house. Johnny and Eric had never moved and as I lay back in my bed, I wondered how an eighty year old man had lugged my bike so high into the tree.

It has been about six months since I have written one of my Suburban Adventures. Thought it might be a good time to take a trip back. For more of the quirky adventures in my childhood neighborhood, see previous chapters here, here, here, here and here.

Saturday, May 14, 2011

160/1SS - border patrol


do you live beyond the border
or contained
in the frame of  only what is
seen in the mirror

surface, your face
a million stories.

let me read them
to remind you.

What can you say in 160 characters? Say it, then tell Monkey.


The picture is by Fee Easton as part of One Shoot Sunday over at One Stop Poetry.

Friday, May 13, 2011

55 - magic, lost & found



from my parkbench
i watch
pigeons pecking an unseen meal
among the grass and try to pick
the one that
goes with the white rabbit
nibbling by the base
of the wood

somewhere out there
is a sad magician
who thinks he's lost his magic

if you see him
thank him from me
for sharing.

Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see g-man.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

peace in the parking lot

"Peace", the voice calls out,
as if they have any clue
what it means, but pulls
me up short between
the white lines on the asphalt.

at my foot, it's skin, once pink
now mottled, smeared grey, bits
of dirt impressed, tread on by
some shoe, taking/tearing away pieces,
unnoticed and discarded careless, by the
pruduct of someones mouth

"dang bro, it's only gum"

"it's only..." rings heavy, dismissing
and yes, it's gum, and yes they once
had a name before they too became
"it's only" as if that justified the
actions/inactions/reactions

"who?" you ask, just look, wherever
the noose still swings under the
spasmodic dying weight
of the oppressed

"Peace," there is the voice again
and I turn to three tawny haired kids
in the back of the jeep waiting on their
mom who said she would only be a minute
in Starbucks and throw them the two fingered
gang sign of those that believe there is
a better way, and echo
their sentiments

they giggle and i smile a prayer that
maybe they will one day
show us the way
toward it.

written for Imperfect Prose and for Magpie who a week or so ago challenged me to write a poem about a chewed up and stepped on piece of gum, ha The kids, I did meet yesterday.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

One Shot: Coming to an Understanding

when was the last time you had sex
no i don't mean that
placating poke you give monthly
just to keep the coals warm
and check the vital signs
of the body laying next to you

i could get more life
from a blow up doll

this guy, sitting across the table,
butt numbing as he settles in the booth,
causing him to fidget something fierce
or maybe its my question

you don't understand, my wife she just
doesn't, she hasn't, i tried, it's
just that, he keeps adding layers
to his story as he explains his woes,
like someone let the air out of his
manhood and he's miles from
a gas station with one of those
quarter inflation machines
without change

really? he nods, it just doesn't seem fair
now does it? he nods more vigorous,
considering all that you do to
make her feel special, and a queer
look starts around the tick of his eye,
when was the last time you did the dishes?

gave her a back rub without intention, much
less her feet, brought her flowers
at work, not on a holiday or special occasion
but because it was raining, kissed her
like you were dying, sang her favorite song
off key, left a love note laying, not lying
or chased her around the house just to embrace
or whisper

dishes, really? oh yeah, hands dish panned
for her pleasure, guaranteed and he looks
at me all serious, screws his eyes into
intensity, fingers drumming on the thick
varnished wood and says,
but you don't understand

so i say, how about them Lakers,
which perks him right up, lips flying
about the ejections and...but i am
hear nothing, cause i do...

i do understand, and start
sketching on a napkin something,
tonight, i will leave on your pillow.

When all else fails, drop it poetically, it's what all the cool kids do...or at least they do at One Shot Wednesday...so what is stopping you...go, write, visit...and do it poetically. Doors open at 5 pm EST Tuesday.

Monday, May 9, 2011

magpie tales: punk monk


mohawk erect, i sit
on the split log bench
by the grape arbor
seeking solace on bent
elbows, fingers tracing
wood grain, searching
for answers in the whirls
of tree ages

marks of storms and creepy
crawly invaders among the sun
god's benevolence baked in
and through it all stood tall,
arms raised, despite, until laid
low to create this space

green buds & leaf adorn the vine
dry limbs, trimmed one at a
time by hand, last week
lay for the burning, but again
new life has come, trumpeted by
the song of wing

soon enough new fruit will
feed, for those unwilling
to be content only to touch,
without strength to bring
to lip & ingest, this is a
sluggard's gambit.

in habit, breathing, i toe
the regimented red brick row
back to the house no longer
alone among the sown garden
of my thoughts.

This is a Magpie Tale.

And Today, Gay Cannon does a great job explaining the intricacy of rhyme at One Stop Poetry.

Saturday, May 7, 2011

mother


broken water bridge under
comfort-er comfort her
as she once me, and wants me
when no one else, all is well
all is well, in the arms of
the hug of
a mother.

To all the moms that wipe noses, butts, knees and such, for all the love and understanding you give to us. Happy Mothers Day!

Said in 160 characters, so shared with Monkey and for many more Mothers Day poems, please visit One Stop Poetry as we celebrate Mothers Day!

Friday, May 6, 2011

friday poetically: neil armstrong dreams

the moon was big & full
but i will never tell

we sat in the bushes
by the road, silence
a crickets serenade,
passing cars occasion-
ally leaving spots
in our eyes, though
they never noticed us
star-gazing, dreaming
neil armstrong landings

the moon was big & full
(through your window)
but i'll never tell
(because i would surely
get in trouble)

Just a silly verse based on the prompt over at Friday Poetically. I chose the crickets to play off of and of course i would...well...ok so any way, middle school...you know...boys, i tell you...

Thursday, May 5, 2011

55 - music fades (lyics in progress)

wrote a few songs in my day,
& one thing learned along the way
's never fall in love
with the words you sing

cause the line you hang your heart on
will be the one no one remembers
when the lights go down
and the music fades

sang a few songs &
music fades

Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see the G, man that is. 


I wrote songs well before I wrote poems. Been kickin this one around for a little bit. Feeling a Jamey Johnson sound to it.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

hell, i don't know

must there be a hell
for salvation to matter?

a man on the roadside
plaquard affixed to his chest
beckons at passers by
'repent or fry'

in his fifties
dressed distinguished
i fight swerving
afraid i won't miss
ignorance more piss
than bliss

did jesus ever feel the need
to threaten people into
his kingdom &
how is that any different?

must we have something
to save people from,
flame's tangible tongues
to feed our selfish sense
of justice,

maybe we should all
just dance in the street

or is there something
greater to be saved to,
that lasts longer than
fears theatrics?

sometimes we seem
lost in all the wrong statements
battling arguments that make
no difference
and wonder does
God just laugh
til sHe gets a
stitched side
or are the twinkling stars
tears in HEr eyes?

written for Imperfect Prose

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

one shot: in the shadow of wolf biermann

white was the first color i ever
learned, its various shades,
from bronze on the beach,
to peach and pure sheets
worn on sundays after church
cross taken from the altar
for sacrificial front yard burning---

and after, pickin n grinnin, it
came clear in mason jars and a
few bars of amazing grace &
the good lawd wash yew
white as snow---

oh it's heritage not hate long as
you sit on the right, side of the
tracks n have a gun rack in yaw
pick up truck n course yur
mahogany ain't black, but look
at me type cast---

you ever seen a man hung by
the neck? it's nasty business, but
no one wants to remember that.
brown was a color, faded to absence
of, that started with N, second class
citizen, field hollers fed corn bread
mush in cups & collards picked
bred on striped backs, back when,
cause we come a long way since

in making less visible that which
we discriminate against, but every
once in a while i go back for pintos
in wood bowls across dining room
tables adorned with doilies
southern charm sweet delicacies
& after the meal, take my coffee, no
cream, black, cause i like it like that,
and smile cause ignorance don't
ev'a  recognize itself.

One Shot Wednesday - write something poetic and come join us!  Hosted tonight by the wonderful Claudia. It opens tonight at 5pm EST.

Monday, May 2, 2011

fill me with stories

Some of the greatest joys in this journey are the people that you get to share it with. One such person on my blog journey has been a very talented artist Tera of Olive Hue Designs. Last year, was privileged to write a poem about one of her pieces of artwork that was included in her submission for the Sketchbook Project.

Over the weekend, I received a treat by having her do a picture based on one of my poems, which you can view here. She also asked for another poem for this years Sketchbook Project, which is themed, "Fill me with stories." Below you will find the poem that I sent her last night. Thank you for the opportunity, Tera.

tearing pages from the book of me
i swirl sentences like spaghetti
on fork tips, taking mouthfuls of
words, i chew ingesting character
& memory, spice of my history,

those that came before me, dreams
tied round once propelled feet, eyelashes
wished upon mouths breezes, balloons
released to fates favor, the teddy bear
i never thought i would without sleep , these

paint me in color, number by number,
across blank canvas, chant cadence
in verse on souls barren journal pages
fill me with stories...
fill me with stories,

so i,
once upon a time,
can be.

Sunday, May 1, 2011

160/1SS - Who do you say I am?



you are the wind that cleaves
the hungry mouth that carves
mountains, hulls valleys &
waves this dry ocean's
face to roar frothily
reenacting creation within me.

The picture is by Rosa Frei as featured today at One Shoot Sunday. And it was said in 160 characters for the Monkey.