Thursday, June 30, 2011

55 - still, life in pictures

The river rolls, roiling
round rocks, leaving glistening
wet kisses on their ruddy
surfaces, glitter in the sun

Does she know the life she brings?

Sweet scented flowers sprout
unfolding precious petals, dampening
the air with their arid perfume, captured
in pictures by passers by, faint traces
of their beauty distilled to
digital memories

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

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

when the Beatles met Harry & Sally at the mall and Rhett looked on

Crazy is as crazy does, love, what does it say, that we no longer
hold hands?

There was a time we could not keep our hands off each other,
when 'get a room' made us smile & our hands entwined
making love as we walked, sun glinting in the glistening sheen
of their ardor.

I sit, iron frame park bench with wood slats numbing my nether
regions, hopefully not causing permanent damage. A man, handsome,
stylish, his wife beside, but no b-side, if you know what i mean, but
no need to touch. An older couple slowly makes their way in para-
llel lines, age matters little, except the teens who reinact the fall
of Rome on each other at the end of my bench. I take my stubby
pencil out to keep track of how many people touch as they pass.

More often than not they separate each going their own way, want-
on desires and no intention of watch-ing her try on 54 shades of blue in
the same dress to find the one that reduces the size of her (things you
should not mention unless you have a great affiny for the couch
& Rosey, no not O'Donnell, get serious) ass-ets.

This is tragic! Satelites traverse one an-other butt orbits degrade, chick-
en little screams within me, trying to force his way up my throat, "The
sky is falling! Can't you see! Where is the intimacy? Act like you can
at least tolerate her pre-sence much less that you actually have feeling
still simmering on the stove top."

Stuffing the bare-ly marked journal page in my back pocket, hand
trying to curl up in a protective ball, projecting its feelings inward,
whimpers about needing you and people dying in the desert from
lack of water. Me, wanting to say 'hand, be a man', don't, in touch
with my feelings and all, so we cuddle and i talk to it about good
old days, when PDA meant something,

until you finally emerge from within the bathroom and with complete
disregard for how well washed yours may be, desperation gripping,
grasp it palm on palm, raising it exultantly above my head and make
that diner scene in When Harry Met Sally seem tame, YES,
YES, oh YES!

People stare, but frankly, your face a bit Scarlet, I don't give a damn,
and i can tell you don't either, because even after the comments to
perfect strangers on my need for psychotropic medication,
you don't pull away.

written for imperfect prose

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

One Shot: four tokes, inhaled

4:23 in the belly of the beast, claws
sparking rails as it drags on east, taking us
deep into the city streets & through the
double pain window i watch, as she,
head sides shaved, the rest pulled into swirl,
bobs & weaves to the beat, buds in her ears,
a private little dance for the world  as she clings
to the pole, car rocking to & fro---

disgorged, we ride escalators out the bowels
of the drag-ons den, heat rising the higher
we move from the station to the streets &
at the corner crosswalk we wait, sweat
the moments til the red man turns white
for us to walk, when whizzing by flies a wide
smile singing at the top of his lungs, erect &
helmeted on a blue weaving moped---

block upon block they stack up beneath
the treads on our feet, asphalt's fault lines,
we count cracks to the harbor, where ships
masts rise, pointing fingers to the one, sun, and
behind thick black glasses, bushy brows
twitch & the artist spins charcoal butter-
flies on his canvas, unseen by the naked
eye, but in mind, beautiful---

an old sax man, set between two ships
moors, drops notes in the warm air, firm fingers
working the knots, temples, shoulders, neck,
har-bringer of night, streetlights awaken, eyes
as we prowl, prey, slow & pad soft as not to disturb
but gently run our tongue along its pulse points,
bass & treble of the ci-tay, as it trembles
in intimate joy---

52 weeks ago, 4 people thought they would throw a party to celebrate poetry...A year later, I invite you to join us as we celebrate once more. It is One Shot Wednesday, so write something poetic already and get out on the poetic dance floor. The doors open at 5 PM EST. See you there.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Poetry Jam: You too?

She said "Time is irrelevant, it's not linear"
Then she put her tongue in my ear

Which let's face, is pretty gross, unless
done with finesse, the lobe, rim or down
the tender lines of the neck, perhaps just
with the tip, mmmm..., but a full on
plumb dive inside without determining
the last time a Q-tip nipped the crust and
then try to go in for a kiss---

Why is this all of a sudden feeling like
a political rally? You know they kiss
more than babies these days, nor are
they above tonguing your ear with
what ever you want to hear to get
you to pull their lever, even send you
pictures of chest hair, perhaps just to
prove they have some, what with all
the time they have on their hands---

Is that really what is on their hands?

(Strategic pause for everyone to go
to the bathroom and wash you hands,
brush your teeth pushing,
keep the line orderly.

A brief announcement while we wait,
waffle breakfasts will be held on the
white house lawn frequently, now that
it is campaign season)

The future needs a big kiss,
winds blow with a twist
, just make
sure you do more than read lips,
know where they have been last, votes
cast, and please, keep you tongue out of
my ear canals, be-a-cause, time is knot
linear but round and round, dilapidated
merry go (or not so) round, as long
as we treat it irrelevant---

How long, how long must we sing
this song

Written for Poetry Jam, where I am hosting this week, giving everyone the challenge to write a poem using the line from a favorite song or to write about a favorite song. After seeing U2 last week, I was inspired to use a montage of their lyrics. 

No line on the Horizon (2009)
Get on your Boots (2009)
Sunday, Bloody Sunday (1983)

Saturday, June 25, 2011

1SS/160 - crown thy hood with brothergood...

a mare can dream
fruited planes & fields of
way found but lost be,
hind tit fed bros starving 2 death,
jimi playz en-flames
& purple haze d-sends
a mare can dream

Ok, I got a little thick in the word play in my 160 characters that Monkey allows us. A little a-mare-can social commentary on the improving economic conditions.

The picture is by Adam Romanowicz, who is featured today as part of One Shoot Sunday over at One Stop Poetry.

Friday, June 24, 2011


Dirt and glitter
Cover the floor
We're pretty and sick
We're young and we're bored (Ha)

It's time to lose your mind
And let the crazy out

Speakers mounted on the corners of the clubhouse spit Ke$ha across the mass of wet bodies cavorting in the blue tinged water of the pool. Pops and crackles periodically sing melody as the speakers strain to keep up with the volume being pushed through them. It is atmosphere, loud but barely noticed, among the squeals of children, splashes of water and voices. All the voices, talking to one another or no one in particular.

"I can not have a big ass. If I gain weight, I can not fly," she howls, from the wood bench where she sits, her body quivering, barely restrained in a purple and white bikini.

Chemical blonde with hints of auburn at the roots, she is maybe fifteen and at the end of her life. Red tinged eyes peek through her fingers, palms filling with anguish that leaks down her cheeks. Dark starscapes, her painted nails, burrow into her cheeks, on the verge of destroying the glow of her youthful beauty. Her eyes follow a boy, tan and brash in the center of the pool.

With each smile he gives away to those that gather around him, she shudders, wracked by the tremors of her world splitting, turning on herself. It is her fault. She is ugly, unworthy. She hates herself, it sits like a specter on her bare shoulders to be read by anyone willing, yet finding an illiterate or ambivalent audience, lost in their own merriment. She howls, a black hole sucking air and life into the darkness that is becoming her soul, in defiance to the sun painting everyone pink.

What hawker sold her the poisoned apple that passed her lips on its way to her heart, that now gnaws the truth of who she is? That blames her for the immature frolicking of the boy who once promised love for a pound of her flesh? Was it her dad? Was it the movies, the television, the music? Who can be blamed and strung up, drawn an quartered in the city center? It makes it go down easier when we have someone to blame, to solidly point the finger of responsibility. Was is God?

Fifty feet of grass and concrete sidewalk separate us, but I feel each flick of the knife as she cuts herself into small chunks, mentally cellophaning her pain for the shelf, re-marking the package sticker, discounting the price put on her life. She fakes a smile, which I return, as I walk by. Towel in hand, I head for the showers, where I will stand until the water runs clean through the teeth of the drain. 

Thursday, June 23, 2011

55 - knowing, heaven

they play hide & seek
making me search

(wish i had an abacus
to count with)

i order them
in my head

(giving them constellation names,
cementing their positions to memory)

but if forgotten
we'll start again

(as if there really is
an end)

with each sun kiss
adding more freckles

(to be known)


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

The picture is by Alison Jardine, who was spotlighted at One Stop Poetry earlier this week and will also be part of Friday Poetically tomorrow.

Thanks for all the well wishes for my trip. The concert was amazing, truly an experience. Will be around to see you soon.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

One Shot: In-offens-of poetry

i do not write poems

because i can not stand poets,
too many of them arrogant, act like
they know something & are
the only one aware of it, as if
poetry were some exclusive club
only for the well educated---

let me put you on notice, my
favorite pieces were written in
ignorance as pure art, raw &
intense, lacking polish, but a fist
punch to the solar plexus reflex-tion
of awe-areness---

you don't like the form,
i could care-less---

"well, calling him a poet would
be a stretch," what?! shut your
mouth before flies fly in &
barn storm your bullshit---

you been published? golf clap
for the foolish, blind, in the light
of your pride-fullness, want respect
come down off your pedestal & earn it, \
stop strutting the yard, comb erect,
like the head cock---

yo DJ, play that back-words

see, poetry is the breath breathed,
drop bled, or spoken by the broken,
pen in hand, laid open heart for the
masses, so Mr or Mrs 'Divine Gift'
to poetry, like Mr. T, "I pity the fool"
Pharisee can't clean her own cup, but
those that dare set themselves on fire,
unnoticed & don't care---

I salute you,
as we stand at the Coliseum gates
let us wet the sand boldly
before the lions mouth
of the established institution

it's your voice,
now use it.

It is that time once again, where poets from around the world converge in a banquet of verse and eat until nothing else will fit in their mouths, One Shot Wednesday. Any one can write poetry, and anyone can join us. It opens at 5 pm EST today.

I am posting way early as this will be my last post for a couple days. Wednesday morning I will be traveling to Baltimore to hang out with the guys from U2 at Ravens Stadium. Figure this will be a great time to catch my breath and refocus. See you on the flip side.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

Poetry Jam: Natural Order

gnats, bad this year, buzz my ears and eyes, competing with the mosquitoes for a drink, to beat the oppressive heat of a summer sun. they are living confetti, thick enough to leave shadows on the well worn dirt path, cracked and pitted with half moon impression, incomplete footprints of previous passers.

a slight breeze plays in the chest high grass off each side, shushing background static as it rubs, one to another. grasshoppers & butterflies flitter in aerial acrobatic dance routines, choreographed long before they were ever dreamed & the hurricanes stoked in the beating of their wing.

majestic in color, blue, black, grey & white, a jay sits in the boughs of an old gnarled tree, singing, accompanied by a choir of voices. other birds answer in layers, harmony, melody. they pay no mind to who listens, just lose themselves in the music, creating movements.

the river does what a river does, rolls through, round rocks, taking bits with it to carry where ever it fits, licking the shore line in a continuous kiss. each touch it sighs burbles, as water gliders skim its surface, watched from below by fish with hungry eyes, swimming in lazy circles.

ancient, the great tree pushes roots up to create benches to sit or places passers through can rest their head and make bed of the grass or sand grit of the bank. half a rope hangs, weathered, end broke and frayed where once a swing hung, when not in use, throwing bodies out into the center.

an old tattoo adorns the tree shoulder, bare, bark removed and replaced by initials. they are not as distinct as they once were, but still they mark the place where you took me once, and i let you. stars bore witness as the sun hid its face, blushing black the sky, nothing between us but the moment of shared breath.

running my fingers over the carving, i long to feel the water's cool wetness on my skin, quenching the forge of these memories. summer is here once more. nature is calling.

Poetry Jam this week is about how you like to 'chill' in the summer, and what better way to enjoy the chill than to crank up the heat just a bit more. It makes the cool down all the more satisfying. Smiles.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

160 - my bedside table drawer memories

ties, socks or nic nacs
stuffed in a box
half wrapped & over taped, but

endeared, as fingers
forever trace
along the crayola
card scribbles,

i luz u dab

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

Friday, June 17, 2011

Friday Poetically: past (Shelf) life

Nomad by James Posenquist

nomad ballet, olives in the spaghet-ay,
en-light-ening ideas, turned upside down
in living color, lost & found, picnic table
power pole or borne cross bill fold,
whatevers new must be best

your mem-brain
pop't arts for breakfast

meatballs, microphone, speak you mind
before its gone, flat balloons, won't hold
air, grand jete', corner comb, runs thru
your hair, en pointe with no idea
blank page has an expiration date

you mem-brain
pop't arts for breakfast

here, here
comes the sun

Haha. Grunge meets Pop Art, just for fun. Today, over at Friday Poetically we are writing based on the art of James Rosenquist and I just happened to be reading the journals of Kurt Cobain last night so I popped in a Nirvana CD and stared at the painting until this came out. Stylistically very different for me, but it hearkens back to garage band days.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

55 - the short life of swans

at eight,
she already measures
the distance,

life & death,

the board where she stands, to
splash when she lands

all knees &
elbows, waving hands
at pressures in line

& those that coax
below, she
steps out, off

feet first & flies
eyes wide

& when re-surfaces,
smiles, sun

on our faces.

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

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

kitten & other pet names

the cat purrs
as i lap
milk from her
bowl & scratches
my back as if
a post,
all because i fingered
her whisk-
ers. she walks
drunk & i laugh
cause i know
better, i will be
in bed for a week
at least.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

One Shot: the world is (not) flat

the gas pedal is the one on the right,
i think i will start all my poems like that,
seems some have forgot, creep &
i'm caught at the stoplight, in the bored

game, Life, wondering at the result
of the next spin, sending me round
the bend & if i have enough money
or tiles to win, as if there was

an end at which we could rest, sit &
count them, we just wash, rinse and
repeat again, until we cant even re-
member the original color of our hair,

a cover up of the road dust that collects
in the salt and pepper temple corners,
schizophrenic we seek speed in certain
circles, as if we could only get there

it would be ok, then slam on the brakes
before it slips away, but ground it out in
roundabouts, Look kids Big Ben, Parliament,
Look kids...close enough to see but never

experience, i don't want this, this suck-
ing exhaust in gridlock, perpetual tripping
around the Jones' block, while the clock
ticks & calendar flips, day after day after

so if you make as far as the parked car,
clogging the lane, have exhausted your brain
of dirty words to replace my name &
popped enough single finger bird shot

to block out the sun, you'll find my keys
on the seat, still plenty of gas, & a note
on the dash, "the game board of this world
is no longer flat."

One Shot Wednesday ~ A place where poems go to cocoon into butterflies, dancing like ballerinas in the warm summer air. Sounds lovely doesn't it. So go write something poetic, which does not mean it has to rhyme. Come Join us, today at 5 PM EST.

Monday, June 13, 2011

hey man

hey man

his voice crawls over my shoulder, it could be for anyone of the souls in shoes standing in line, McDonalds is busy at lunch, but i know it is for me. how, don't ask, it's just a feeling and the man in front of me doesn't even flinch, he just stares at the brightly colored menu, his choices weighing on his leather belt.

my boys have wandered over to a table. they picked a booth and are looking out the window, unhindered by the bright sun streaming through. they are who i look for first, to make sure they are safe, because i recognize the voice. they are oblivious though, drunk on the thought of their happy meals, with plastic panda toys.

mom is working and we are out, just the men, or boys, all in how you want to look at it. we are just killing time until the nature center opens at noon, so we can visit the snakes. they have a hedgehog too, cute in all its prickly quills, just watch your fingers because if they get scared and sneeze you might get hurt.

his hand meets my shoulder and i can no longer look away but face that which i know i will see when i turn around. hey man. hey man. how long has it been, six months, but then he could not have touched me with those hands behind his back encased in steel cuffs. the night he beat his mother. i knew he was out, saw him hitch hiking, days ago, flipping me off as i whizzed on by on my way somewhere, anywhere and chances are he had no clue who it was.

my boys are walking across the brown tile floor toward us, curious who is trying to get dad's attention and i wish they would just go back to the table. they can not read my mind, but i can their faces and i know they know something is up and there is no stopping this moment.

he's all smiles, sunk in hollow cheeks, skin stretched over bone frame, gaunt compared to before, maybe twenty, thirty pounds lighter. the pleasantries are quick, we know each other and he asks about the boys now at my hands. yes, they are mine. nice, he says, smiling, all teeth.

yeah, i lost weight, its all muscle now, he says, but underneath it's probably meth, or something up his nose, shot between his toes. he knows, i know. its the twitch that be-lies the truth. what cha doin today man, and my boys let slip the happy meals and he says he'd love one too if he had the money and gives me a look. i don't bite.

it's quick, we are next and order, then eat, but i watch his back two booths over, head bobbing to the music pumping through the buds in his ears leading to his phone. homeless, i wonder what he sold to get it. he sits by the door with a friend, watching the comings and goings, looking for familiar faces. we finish and i nod as we walk out.

hey dad who is that? was he one of your boys? i feel his eyes and look back catching them through the window following us across the asphalt. yeah, something like that. what happened?

soda chortles in the straw as they suck for the last sip from their golden arches paper cups and i think of the ones i can not save, not that i can save any of them, but...

Saturday, June 11, 2011

1SS - Operator, I...

one ringy-dingy, two
operator, can you,
no, the phone sits silent
in cradle, unable to overcome
the weight, wait-
ing, why should i

be the one to
apologize or
act like this relationship means

i mean what will you  think of me,

that you can get away with this again,
that it was ok, whatever
it was

it's not my fault, they---we-

you-i---i can't,

dust collects in crevices, cracks in the
ever-widening abyss, becoming bunnies
that taunt my waking dreams, with big ears,
what has come between us---

(sister, brother, mother, father, lover,
friend, neighbor, whatever we once were)

you don't care,
you would have called,
it's over,
that's all, i should just---

do you know how many times
my finger lingered over that last number,
i've worn them off with each caress,
but i still remember the pattern

& if you get a hang up, please,
it's me


waiting on you
waiting on me

to get over myself
or death, whichever comes first
before it's too late for
one ringy-dingy, two

The picture above is by Rob Hanson, who is featured again this week at One Stop Poetry.
Sorry Monkey, I could not even do it in 160 words, much less characters this week.

Friday, June 10, 2011

Poetry Jam: Protect your cherries (when you swim with sharks)

in the shallow end
of the community pool,
among the gleeful
splashing bodies bronzing
in the sun, a man
teaches his young son
to swim.

"what are you doing?"
she screams, swiveling heads

"didn't you read the
article on kids drowning
in six inches of water!"

pulling her son from
the pool into a big hug,
she glares at the man.

he looks at me.

i look at him.

he hangs his head,
climbing out to
find his own towel

& for the first time in
my life, castrating bulls
with rubber bands sounds
somewhat humane.

ok, so i stretched the picture prompt a bit, but i bet you never look at cherries the same again. this is a sad but true tale as well we witnessed at the pool the other day. written for Poetry Jam.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

55 - Crazy Day (Logan, 8)

One day,
I had chicken, fish and jelly
for breakfast.

It was good.

People were on the road
when I was on a walk.

I walked to Texas,
where I was eaten
by a gorilla.

I cut off his tush
and got out.

I ran all the
way home

and milked the cow.

The End.

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

This was written by my son Logan, who is eight, and hopes to be an actor, some day. When asked why he responded, "Because they meet lots of girls." Yes, I will have my hands full, soon enough.

Tomorrow, at Friday Poetically, we will be celebrating the writing of children & youth.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

rings on the bottom

wrapped in bright colors she smiles splashing crystal water, sending jewels to catch the sun around her wet amber locks and he looks.

"what do you see?"

"what?" he pinks around the cheeks, caught.

"what do you see?"

sheepishly, "sugar & love, cause that is what girls are made of, right?"

"yes," i think of other things as we float, knowing he is trying hard to put something tangible to the feeling. i understand how hard that can be to describe what happens inside a man in the presence of beauty. & what of its dangers?

what do you do with this feeling? what of the word cherish? does he understand it? will he serve her? what is he willing to give up? what will he get? will he always be happy? will he understand when he is not or will he run? does he know what it means to protect? serve? honor? & not leaving his underwear laying in the middle of the floor?

"sugar & love," i whisper to myself, watching him drift away to play.

they take turns diving deep, searching for rings that sit on the bottom. one waiting and watching until the other bursts from beneath the surface, quarry raised high above their heads. they share smiles and splash, sending jewels into the air to catch the sun.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

One Shot: my Life, in pieces

my coffee is growing cold,

but i can't help but stare, at
a-void in the corner, where well trod
varnished wood floor just stops
in emptiness.

a man walks through the glass door,
bell tolling his entrance, in red running shorts
and white/black top, sweating &
smiling he stands in line, though his cheek
is missing and there is a gaping hole in his back.

the woman two tables over talks with her fingers,
no one sits with her, a phone in her ear &
while she waves them, only her pinky
and index are there. another void sits
just off center her chest.

behind the counter, a glass faced cooler displaying
pastries and sweet rolls, a college kid takes orders,
his left eye, a hole as is the hollow of his hip.

a mom soothes a baby, who is missing half a foot,
and she a lip. their chair has a gap in one leg,
but sits solid, or at least seems &

somewhere, on the second shelf of a bedroom
closet there is a box containing all these missing pieces,
unfit even for sale, held by people who
don't know what it is they hold.

they find them like easter eggs, in odd places.
tall grass, gutter drain pipes, under a desk.
there is a small pile by the water cooler.

placed in their pockets they carry
them all day then empty them into bowls
with change, receipts and other things.
pieces that don't fit their own emptiness,
they leave to sit.

i see them, and know you do, the holes,
they are there if you look out the corner
of your vision, but pretend we dont. as it
wouldn't be polite, might get messy,
or become our responsibility, so

we sip our coffee, talk on the phone, sooth
the baby with promises that one day, maybe,
they will find theirs in a cereal box or cracker jacks

and at night, trace the edges of our own, alone,
mapping their geography, because there are certain things
you don't do in the light of day,

checking my watch, the hands have moved,
it's time to go.

It is One Shot Wednesday, one big poetic party, where we drink metaphor and word play until we can not go go write something poetic and come join us, it's BYOP and show up at 5 pm EST.

Monday, June 6, 2011

upstream without water wings

get upstream
get upstream
get. up. stream.

mighty salmon fight, flash pink in
sunlight swimming, leaping, driven by
instinct to the brink, up, round &
through rapid rocks, where some ex-
hausted mate waits & all they think
(i could go for $25 a plate in a
fancy restaurant---um, no, really)

i gotta make babies
i gotta make babies
i. gotta. make. babies.

and die.

this sacrifice, blood spilt
on the altar of instinct, ritually
repeated, in psychotic dryer spin cycles,
or un-made beds, curtain spread wide,
revealing divinity, so written by the judas
priest, so he can offer sceptre blessings on
young-minded girls that know identity can be
bought on bare back one night communion,
wafers placed gingerly between lips &
washed down with the sweetest blood-ing

get upstream
get upstream
get. up. stream.

this is my body, broken (split open)
for you, as you take it, think of me
not the girl you were with last night,
or the one before, for salvation comes,
stained sheets & thorough bred, rode hard
bed raced, left wet & she wants her
quarter back, but not the change on
what she's spent, it's the same story
bought, sold & told before its time

get upstream
make babies

& it will be alright, but someone,
someones got to die, even if it is
your pride & all that makes you feel
alive, if you believe that lie, but why,
why did it have to be you?

written for Poetry Jam
and over at One Stop today Gay and Hedgewitch are discussing fre verse.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

1SS/160 - Summers with Gipetto

tinkerer tinks turning things,
this n' that into what's
with what fits, dreams
only he sees

summer days, gas &
sawdust his old shop
now empty save
me & mories

The picture above is by Rob Hanson, who is featured at One Stop Poetry.
Written in exactly 160 characters, for Monkey.

Long time readers may remember me writing about summer days spent, during my teens as care taker or my great uncle in the waning days of his life. We spent plenty of time in an old wood shop, or hitting golf balls out into the field and always eating tomato sandwiches for lunch. His name was Lawrence, not Gipetto, but figure I became a real boy some where along the way.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

55 - under the gaze of the sun

a flower sits,
soiled & potted,
on the wood sil
of the deck rail,
its head raised
to the golden sun

i can nearly
hear it sigh
amid the adoration,'
spread petal scent
heady & thick

a plastic army
man turns on itself,
in wet runnels, arms
melting, surrendering

one breath,
then two

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

Today over at Friday Poetically, we are writing poems about the sun or heat or maybe a way I can keep cool in this heat wave. It has been nearly 100 for four straight days. Ack!

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

applying for non-missionary positions

she hung by a nail in the wood
wall of the garage, teeth so white
they'd make a dentist blush in her brush-
ing, legs tucked, bust bare as her soul
to sell motor oil - viscosity & thermal
break down are very real problems
you know, but the calendar was old
so it made no sense why it still hung a-
round but---

it was years later we were caught in
"that aisle" at the book store, with cosmos
big book of sexual positions, studying the
diagrams, number 72 looked like it might
hurt or require a Twister board, but 46
well, i am just glad i had my notebook and
plenty of empty pages to fill, when they round
-ed the corner and gave us that look---

which took me right back to the smell of gas
& grit and knowing i was going to be in sheep
dit if, and when they found out, and felt


so i sheepishly walked the aisle, looked up
at the prude and confessed, "it's date night"
and winked as we left, hand in hand
with my wife trying to wait
til the parking lot to laugh

then hurried home, thankful the boys
were staying at gramma's house
all night.