Sunday, July 31, 2011

Under a corrugated sky


It is Monday. Even the sun struggles to rise from its slumber, choosing to stay tucked tight in a blanket of haze. The snooze button only buys minutes though and the Earth's natural rotation yanks the covers from its face. In the city, it rises a rusted metal disc, its rays hard blade rays pushing heat onto our heads in still winds.

Suits march the sidewalks in lockstep, organized chaos as synchronized swimmers join the flow, then peal off into various buildings. Steel. Glass. Brick. There is a beauty in the various forms taken. Each occupational soldier, or prisoner, has some form of communication; a cell to their ear, a bud bedded, a pad fingered. Deals struck well before they enter the door, saving time for more. Each rehearses ascension to godhood, dreams planted by those that hold their strings.

Yellow taxi cabs weave between cars in quick accelerated leaps, the mass of metal moves in ripples, blood in arteries feeding muscles. Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba---dump. The heart beats in retarded expediency. The city is awake and groaning.

A metal bench gnaws at the back of my legs and glutes, the next meal served on its plate. A screw head tooth digs for marrow, keeping me awake. Bodies pressed into the small space of feigned comfort as they wait for the bus, suck sweat from my pores. Our combined smell, perfume on a wet and angry dog.

Across the chaos, a girl, maybe ten, smooth canvas over an awkward frame, bones dancing in skin, steps through a tenement door on a side street. She wears a pink tank and short denim shorts, pigtails braided, bob aside her head. She does not venture far from the door, periodically staring up at the window on the second floor.

She is different and holds my eyes, rapt. From her pocket she retrieves an object then bends at the waist, spins intentional across the sidewalk. Chalk, I see between scissoring legs and swinging briefcases. Her tongue slips the corner of her lip as she works. Oblivious to the world, silent comparative to the silhouettes that chase each other loudly through the shift covered window, she often returns her gaze to.

Hop. hop. hop. She disappears then turns. Hopscotch. I laugh to myself, cover my mouth with a hand and wonder who else might notice, yet keep it to myself rather than disturb the tentative bliss of mouths intent on selling their worth in text and airwaves. Rehearsing what has been achieved by one so insignificant, in the grand scheme of their things.

Time comes for us all and the rusted metal sun clanks on across her light blue sky.

written for The Tenth Daughter of Memory and Magpie Tales.

Saturday, July 30, 2011

Poetics: One


one billion reasons
yet the faucet drips

d
r
i
p

drips

one life at a time leaks
dry thru drain teeth

what keeps you
awake

one billion reasons
looking for a drink

Today for Poetics at d'Verse Poets Pub, Sheila Moore gives us the poetry prompt 'Water.' One billion people, that is one in eight people in the world do not have access to clean drinking water. Water is life. How do we fix this faucet of lives fading?

Friday, July 29, 2011

Burn

Swings hang silent and alone as we pass, even the breeze they offer not enough to entice. Remnants, once grass, sigh as we grind their brittle bodies into the ground, happy to finally have excuse to lay flat. Our sweat does little for the remainders, who thirstily catch each droplet. Salt burns their throats, yet they drink. The sun continues to smile, oblivious to what it does to us.

Step. Step. Step. Hope for relief keeps our feet moving as we cross the field from the parking lot to an oasis of concrete. Pipes rise from its face, tall stiff metal trees that gush waterfalls and spray showers. Kids of all colors, clad in vibrant suits and bare feet, run beneath. Between their cheeks, they are all teeth. Their gleeful cries worship the wet.

Adults rest on blankets beneath a lone tree. Limbs and leaves stretch to provide as much shadow as possible. Some talk, some just lay flat, their kids a mirage in the melting addled minds. Black birds watch, waiting for those that don't get back up.

A trail begins. Clothes, towels, shoes, everything unnecessary, down to our suits, in effort to reach and as our toes kiss the skim of cool water on its way to the drain our strength is renewed. The kids care less that we are feet taller and the only ones, they scamper from one sprayer to the next and wait for water to dump from overhead buckets.

When you hesitate, I take you in my arms and push us beneath the waterfall, which thunders against already pink skin, pasting hair flat to our heads, it massages our shoulders with firm fingers.  We laugh in delight as if we were eight. When our wet lips meet, I no longer feel the sun's heat, though I know it still burns.

Rome may be ash by the end, but I refuse to let go of this moment.

Thursday, July 28, 2011

55/PJ - a smile for the mortician

i would like to die

in my sleep, preferably

after night long love

making.


the sun comes

up, as i go down,

smile on my face,

saving the mortician

some work.


a man can dream.


your hip, breaks

wrinkled sheets

like a dolphin in flight

and if meant to be

perhaps you'll be

smiling too.


Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see g-man. And Bug asked us, for Poetry Jam , to look at life when we turn 67. I like to imagine I will still be tempting fate in those days.

Over at d'Verse Poets Pub, Gay Cannon is teaching some FormFor Allwith the oldest poetry form.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

in permanent marker

their sins inhabit shells;
where muscle once grew,
hard black letters share
the breadth of their death---

i want sex all the time
forgive me

self loathing,
in all CAPS

i hate my family
for their judgement

we find them under and round
rocks beneath the surface
of the rolling face of the James
where we wade to relieve
the oppressive heat

a homeless woman sleeps
in the shade of a tree, never
noticing us

who knows how far they traveled
on the undertow to again
see the light

of day, in our fingers, and though we
release them to the currents
once more, we carry them
home, hearts

faceless, among us writing
impermanence in permanent
ink on shells

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

OpenLinkNight: On the line


shoes on the power line, mean
come inside, we make you feel fine

nursery rhymes, taught children
for when mama needs a fix
to bear her living, cruxiform worn
torn at the toe, too many
occupational nights subsist-dizing
the EBT, or when they ready
to ride the hot vein away from pain

eh, or maybe just kids at play,
keep away or some other game
and threw too high

truth's story depends on which reality
you choose to believe, and which you
choose to deny

either way, there they hang
swaying slightly in the breeze
as you row down the street, windows
up, door lock thunk providing bass
beats to the song on the radio

cause you know, deny all you want
but reality will find you, before three times
the cock crows.

the cock crows.


Note: Drug dealers will sometimes hang shoes on the line to signify that drugs are available in the marked home. EBT is electronic benefits transfer, the new generation food stamps.

OpenLinkNight @ d'Verse Poets Pub - write something poetic and come grab a seat, be entertained, take the stage. We breathe poetry. 3 pm EST Tuesday through midnite Wednesday. This weeks host is the talented Natasha Hood. You won't want to miss it.

Monday, July 25, 2011

The (un)Common Good

The rising sun paints, orange, the interior of the shop, as it sneaks through the window. One by one it plants kisses on the cheeks of the bakery patrons, eyes pinching at the intensity of its ardour. Coffee mugs move in an intricate dance from varnished wood top tables to lips for sips at breaks in conversations. Voices are hushed this early in the morning, passing between bodies leaning into each others words.

The days news lays a shadow through the center of the room, cast by a man at the window table. Power tie pierced by a gold tie pin, gleams the silver lining. Each page turn of his paper, echoes its crispness. His face gives way the thoughts rummaging around behind his eyes. At a neighboring table, a college girl sways to the music in her ears as her fingers tap the keys of her laptop.

Jangling bells, tied loose to the door handle, announce another entrance. A boy and his sister, a nappy haired teddy bear tucked under her arm. Fresh from the hive, they are bees, buzzing the ears of those settled comfortably already. Table by table, they talk to everyone, and no one, all at once. Another jangle, their mother, cell to her ear informs everyone that Uncle Joe is suspect of marital impropriety, her hands punctuating the words for the listener.

The baker, behind the glass counter displaying his delicate wares, smiles as he does to each person that graces his shop. Retrieving two cookies from a plate, he settles the storm that has blown in, then focuses on the mother. His asking gaze begs her off the phone, with a promise to finish telling the other party the story once she is "finished her business."

Her shoulders settle into the comfort of his voice and he bags her requests to take with her. Other patrons return to their conversations, easy rhythm restored to the atmosphere. People come and go, leaving ripples that stretch to the edges of this pond. The baker, finished with the customer, surveys landscape then turns the counter over to an apron clad lady and slips through a door out of sight.

Finishing my coffee, I slip my pen and notebook into my bag, place my cup on the bar and enter the world through the exit door. Heat reflects from the sidewalk and brick exterior of the building, sweat beading in seconds on my forehead as I make my way through the alley to find my car in the parking lot.

Sitting behind the wheel, allowing the cool air to wash my face, I watch as more bodies shuffle feet across the asphalt. They do not follow the path set between the buildings but congregate by the back door. Not nearly as neat as the patrons indoors, dirt coats pores of many, mismatched clothing hangs their frames. Some smoke, most sit on curbs or in small shadows cast by the dumpster or air condition unit.

The metal door yawns and the baker pushes a cart through, laden with brightly colored cakes and sweet creations he birthed just this morning, each wrapped in plastic. He wheels the cart through them to the dumpster, sharing "good morning" here and there, then unloads the burden onto a small table the garbage truck never seems to take.

He retreats to the door with the empty cart, standing as they each take one or two things from the pile until it is gone. His smile is even brighter than it was before and they respect him, so stay orderly ensuring each gets a treat. When the last one wanders off, he disappears into the shop to greet customers, make cakes or whatever the day has in store.

Releasing the parking break, I slip the car into gear and drive out of the parking lot beyond the election signs that grow along the roadside, taking a bit of his subversive smile with me for the journey.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

missing you


imagine 1000
butterflies

stain glass sky dancers
spinning round a-lighting
on your body

then spinning away
finding new places

our bed

is still fields
awaiting you

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

Also submitted to Poetry Jam,

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Poetics: On your feet

Shine (sculture) by Willie Cole

This is a poem for the forgotten,
down trodden, over worked & abused,
relegated to closets, locked
in car trunks or just tossed
aside when not being used

shoes

we, the unthoughtful pull
the tongue back, forcefully violate
your mouth with our feet (when
not busy putting them in our own-ouch)
walk all over and drag you through
shit, gum & dirt, stuck on

when she arrives home from work
i free her feet, the same i have drilled
to relieve, en pointe, pressure, still
calloused from years of abuse
all for the sake of dance, now
just different

the weight of her soul rests
in my palm, nimble fingers run along
arch, heel & toes, firm to slip knots,
yet gentle until stress puddles
in oily mess on the living room carpet

shoes, i see you watch, jealous
of inattention, please accept my
gratification

for as every boy scout knows
when you go exploring, good shoes
will save you and if you want to
light a fire, you must start from the bottom.

Today, I am hosting Poetics at d'Verse Poets Pub at 3 pm EST, where we are seeking inspiration from U2, Willie Cole and what's on our feet.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

55 - he's thirteen and...

today, boy became man

by his own definition, (n.),
street cred built, larger
than his stature

"yeah, i did it, so?"

no re-morse, code
for, "look at me, i
am a badass."

til that hand lands
top his head, helping
him ina back seat

an'a lone tear ran

yeah boy, now you a man

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

Over at d'Verse today we are looking at critique, so drop in.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Vigil

flowers in a vase. she sits, lost in their purple~yellow petals.

her eyes sparkle, fireworks of wonder dancing in irises.

her mouth opens and closes around the spoon, some food spilling down her chin to the bib around her neck. the spatter reaches further assuring she will need a bath or a change of shirt.

most likely a bath, as the body makes room for more, relieving pent up pressure. the room fills with sweet fecal odor, harsh to the senses.

her eyes only have vacancy for the flowers. is it beauty that attracts? is it life?

i talk to her as the spoon moves mechanically from plate to lip in my fingers, relating to her family stories, as if she might understand and one day remember. she makes a noise, hard, gutteral.

i pretend she is asking questions, more for myself than her.

plate empty, i watch her as she watches the flowers. not for the first time, a prayer escapes on sucessive breathes.

take her. take her. take her.

it is selfish, i know, this  hope for a better end.

my eyes are dry creek beds and i no longer pray for rain in these short days.

my hand finds hers. tracing the parchment skin on the back with my thumb. she once held me, now her loose fingers lay across my palm, unwilling or unable to close.

the shrill squeak of the medication cart wheels marks its progress down the hall behind us.

flowers in a vase. we sit, losing ourselves in their purple~yellow petals.


written for The Tenth Daughter or Memory.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

OpenLinkNight: i am a gunslinger, rock flinger...

i wrap loose leaf poems round rocks
tucked tight with bailing twine bow
knots trimmed just right so they barely
whistle breaking wind in flight when
they blow between here and there
through doors & dormers, into homes
of neighbors, strangers & stenciled store
front paners---

i menace society with verse
i verse with menace, society
with society, i verse, menace

i don't sleep, walk side streets
bulging bag hugging my hip, hear them
scrape with each step, cock, then
release, chkrishh, glass ceilings sing
dirge hymns in my passing, heads pop
windows, rainbow bubble surface
just-to-see, what's up----

i menace society with verse
i verse with menace, society
with society, i verse, menace

my message is simple if you unwind
the twine, take a look inside, don't settle
to reside in the square you been painted,
how they view you, nor run their spinning
wheel til you've nearly fainted, listen,
my menace is for the pen-chance of a voice
heard, spun verse, bent word, planting trees
like Johnny Appleseed, this fruit bleeds
from nails in a chris't cross tree---

i menace society with verse
i verse with menace, society
with society, i verse, menace
this message written by fingers
in dirt, you are loved, see---
so go & be free.

OpenLinkNight @ d'Verse Poets Pub - doors open at 3 PM EST...bring your verse, let your voice be heard. The world is waiting and needs to hear it.


Much love to my good friend Leslie Moon who closes out One Stop Poetry today with the last One Shot Wednesday.

Monday, July 18, 2011

they come at night

head on the pillow, i pick weeds
fingers encircling their necks,
at the base, by the soil's kiss,
for extrusion, but thin & fibrous
roots the color of life-
less flesh fight for their place

where does one cast these cares?

unbidden, unwanted, they bear
children, sprouting in endless
waves, laughing, teasing laug-
ter they dance round flowers,
like beltane fyres, sleep's pyre

where does one cast these cares?

they say i should count sheep,
letting them graize my mem-
brane...one, two..ten thousand
they bleet the names of things
needing done, weeds, weeds

undulating the sun comes, leav-
ing me undone, unable to garner
strength for life's guard-en,
watchtowers hollow eyes miss
the march of enemies, too late
the final cry, "The gates have fallen!"

written for Poetry Jam, for the theme Insomnia.

Up really late working on paperwork last night, I feel this one today. If you find me in a corner somewhere, wake me please. Smiles.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

1SS/160 - Stolen Things






dreams and reality
meet occasionally

at stoplights,

say 'hi' as they wait
for the signal, then
go their separate ways.

you determine which
one you follow,

home.


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


The picture is by Rosie Hardy, who is featured in the final One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry.


Thank you to everyone that stopped by d'Verse Poets Pub last night for the 'soft opening', making it a huge success.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

d'Verse: answering avaritia

Kohl's department store
produces 1/3 less carbon dioxide,
that is how they keep prices down,
at least that is what the voice
on the in store speaker says

perhaps they make the fibers
in the clothes, linens and things
hold their breath, like some
enemy combatant strapped
to a water-board in an attempt
to extract vital intelligence

i know nothing of this,
i am here to buy curtains

once THEY remove the security
device, WE flee & i tear the cellophane
from the face, let them inhale, fresh
air, stretch flat once folded bodies,
rest them on clotheslines so they
can fly on the breeze

their corner label gives the thread
count like a meter, says they are
metaphorically infused & refuse
to ever bend once more to
consumer oppression

i sit by their window, listen,
then tell them about pub fries i met
once, served with a side of thick,
brown, beef gravy, though they were
already covered in chili, cheese,
sour cream & jalapenos.

they read poems they wrote
while hanging around & me

i am just happy they
match the decor.

I know we don't open the doors officially until Tuesday, but so many people are working hard to make this thing happen, Claudia and I thought, what better way to give an extra little boost of energy to get the pub completed than by providing a little break and maybe some entertainment. So, today at 3 pm EST, if you want to stop by d'Verse Poets Pub, maybe you can join in the fun. Just don't mind the dust, we are still working. 

 It is invitation only, so here is yours.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

55- butterflies with broken wings

"smell good in here,
like a hospital"

bleach, to sterilize
but her eyes wide wait
eager for a plate, meager
donated, out-dated
leftover

beef stew
fruit
salad

we sit, i listen around
bites, re-fill her thrice,
she, me, with her story
before a smack lip sigh

"well gotta go, almost time
for the bed line"

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

Spent the morning at the soup kitchen down town, making friends.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

i, A.M. with you

The rising sun blooms, a flower. Petals shimmer in radiant color along the horizon leaving the air thick with its pungent aroma which clings to our tongues with each breath we huff. Our feet, one in front of the other, file along the harsh sidewalk toward the bus stop. Each footfall a first step laid against the desire to turn back to a cocoon of warm blankets, where dreams live.

Eyes bleary, a cabbie leans against his golden stead, talking through a bushy moustache to several men, gathering the day's news from each others mouths. They are loud, but a comfort to those that silently shuffle beyond them into the day.

Pink, a girl, head to toe and even her lunch box, fords the asphalt to join a few friends. They will spend the day in the old school building, passing time on the playground and in classrooms until their parents are released to come free them.

A dance club rave card flutters, flipping this way and that, moves against the human flow, having peeled itself from the corner of the small shelter where people gather to wait for the bus. Bright in color, it flees the dawn light, more comfortable in the long dark night.

Cordial smiles, we shuffle foot to foot marking moments until the appointed arrival. A young suit, eyes closed, swoons to croons of the iPod in his ears. Shorts and t-shirt checks his texts. Stretch pants follows the numbers on her watch while she jogs in place, a monitor strapped to her arm counts the meter of her heart.

Inches from my canvas Converse, pressed against the plexi-glass encased advert where a tooth filled face invites us to watch the evening news, lays a body, legs stretched, arms pulled to the chest. Stiff and unmoving, devoid of life, unnoticed except in disgust, a fly crawls across its stomach.

A mouse, a pest, a menace for digging in trash to find food, or invading for shelter. None will mourn its passing, but many will complain of its stench. A black cat eyes us all from beneath the skeleton of a scrub brush that burst through a square gap in the concrete. the cat too waits for us to move on to other things, so it can claim its prize and pick the brittle bones of life once lived on the edge.

Hiss, exhaust wafts around us, as we file on and head off, flower blooming still through the rear window, painting the backs of our heads.

written for Imperfect Prose

6 days to dVerse

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Encore (with Jay-Z)

Can I get an encore/Do you want more
One last time through the One Shot door

Yeah, I know Jay-Z, rhythm & flow
like a wave made EZ, but I won't crip,
crook or take his me-Lyrical verse, glory,
got a pen, time we write our own story,
can't depend always on someone to bend
our ear & a-Muse externally

A bird on wing is worth a flock-in bush
freedom's song too beautiful to gag/hush,  
so don't rush to attach, build a nest or
lemming a crowd to where they think best
blind, 2 blind as they head for the cliff
its not the fall but sudden stop that hurts

Can I get an encore/Do you want more

One last time through the One Shot door

Don't be mis-lead, you know me its
all about co-mmunity & 2 live high
you gots to roll with a cru, who push
the honing knife through the fat, tru
but dont lose you in the process & find
yourself on the shelf well after x-piration

So poet, it's time to go, no doubt,
pain will follow, fingered fist peeled back,
you are released, cause what is special
should be held loose-ly, Jael entering
Sisera's temple, a tribute paid humbly
when new horizons by you come into vu

Can I get an encore/Do you want more
for one last time let's make some noise
so what the hell are you waiting for
one last ime let's make some noise

Last week was supposed to be it, but here I am hosting One Shot, so this is the Encore. Next week, a few friends, some familiar faces and I will be launching d'Verse Poets Pub, a new online community for poets. The site is just a shell right now, but stay tuned to Twitter, there are all kinds of rumors flowing already. Ha.

The italicized lyrics are from Encore by Jay-Z

Monday, July 11, 2011

Poetry Jam: Summer Games

these were all-American games
we played when the last bell rang
and summer began, officially
that first breath of freedom,
honeysuckle warmed by the sun
we split time between---

---baseball, in the field with my brother
cousins, maybe a neighbor, as long
as we had enough, for three on three,
a pitcher, a catcher and someone to
chase the hits until sick with a stitch-
ed side & we'd switch positions, earning
old crushed coffee cans co-memorating
30 home runs, in one afternoon---

---and war, waged in the forest, forts
built to defend against each other or
COBRA, being real American heroes,
we'd lay traps, one of which sent a
sharpened stick through my calf, it
wasn't real until someone got hurt, but
we had medics who removed it and
patched me up before our parents
got wind ---

and when the sun set, we slept off
any angst, back to friends on the
morrow, but we were ready, in case
the Reds came, having watched Red
Dawn on the sly, during a sleep over
after everyone older went to sleep
so we kept eyes out for paratroopers

those were the imagi-Nation days, but
i wonder if kids in other countries play
similar, do they make elaborate plans to
repel the incursion & who it is they say
leads the invasion?

written for Poetry Jam & Magpie Tales

Saturday, July 9, 2011

160/1SS - the last grand adventure


some see ruins,

culture popped gift shop
'i was here' t-shirts

me, i want to rediscover
treasure long forgotten

lay my tongue on the texture
of your her-story

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


The picture is by Neil Alexander, who is featured as part of One Shoot Sunday by Adam Dustus and Chris Galford. Two great guys that have helped drive the success of One Stop Poetry this year, who are sadly now leaving. Yesterday, Pete Marshall, another great friend and founder of OSP announced his leaving. Just wanted to take the time to say thank you to each of them. 

As you will see by her post today, Claudia is leaving as well. She is a dear friend and I could ramble on a while, but will leave it at thank you. It has been great to see you poetically blossom.

Stay tuned, in the next couple days, I will be announcing my next poetic venture.

Friday, July 8, 2011

Friday Poetically: When the Bow man comes A-round


bow man, draw those strings
sing my heart of those that fade
images at the edge of the page
shades of where i been---

bow man draw those strings
set memories to dance
perchance before the chimes
strike the end of time----

bow man, bow man
don't let them slip away---

across the face of the sun
hands move marking minutes
til time sets on the horizon
her eyes on only him, dapper
the day they said always
king & queen proud on the
check-ered floor, chess board,
unaware the game only ends
when the king is no more---

bow man, draw those strings
untangle this knotted skein...

The Bow man, under bowler, cat-gutting the strings, draws memories on the back of mental match books, as he pumps from corner coffee house speakers. Another time, another space. I watch her, woman in the window, still sparkling upturned crease of her lips as she sips tea, eyes out/side the panes. The parchment in which she is now draped, is etched with the story of life, loves, loss--carried on. She is alone, her long fingers caress a delicate cup, string and tab dangling o'er the side, whileIi lyrically poeti-sighs.

Until, spell broken, eyes, hers, rise finding mine, an awkward moment filling the generations between us, as she lay rulers end to end to find the length of mine own soul, before crossing the divide.

"Can I see?"

"Yes," my paper already in her tapers, I watch as she fiddles these words, between fingerprints left, incomplete whorls and thoughts.

"I thought I was the only one that could still see him," wind circles my face, across shoulders then descends as a retreating army down my back, slow, cold, exhausted, discarding the unessential in road side ditches.

Mercy, mercy, they call to their pursuers, then gone, as is she, no longer standing by my table, door swinging closed, room a bit empty in her passing. The last few lines spill from my pen and before the next song begins and I slip back into the shadows of days end. My verse, two round coins jangling in my pocket, for when it is my turn to meet the bow man.

Perhaps to convince him to play me one more song.

Over at Friday Poetically, I challenged everyone to be inspired by the magical art of Bonnie from Original Art Studio. The image above is just one of several she allowed us to use. Check them out and write your own.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

55 - behind closed eyes

my time machine broke
before you

unable to go back
further than that moment

(shards of my hourglass
clenched in your fist)

& move forward
only so much

as a breath sucked
through teeth between
impacts

WHY.

DO.

YOU.

MAKE.

ME.

DO.

THIS.

& the faces
of those that turned
away

i still see them.

Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see G-man.
While this is not my story, it is to remind of those whom it is. Abuse should never happen.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

one, with summer

beneath the canopy,
up-raised arms & leaves,
where the rope swing sways
in an afternoon breeze, bees
buzz lazy lullabies, birds
hold their breath
as we melt back
into the dirt
from whence we
came once, tap root deep
seeking secret rivers
to damp parched lips---
grass tickles bare skin,
too late to cause the giggles.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

One (Last) Shot: Strange, no one remembers your name

The echo of the last happy child's laugh
sits in the amusement park parking lot,
its only companion, a dented, empty soda can
in whose metallic stripe, admires its reflection.

Can tired, huffs breath, life support
on the way to rust & they talk deep into
the night about stuff that don't mean much,
filling moments, til the Moon lies, in the ditch.

Through the fence a blue jay alights on the
fortune teller's booth, springing it to mechanized life,
lights chasing each other round the square window
as a moving hand promises fortunes for four quarters.

Whir, Whirrr, Whirrrrr, the brushes of the
street sweeper call the robot gypsy's bluff,
signalling the end of a season, it sucks them up,
re-cycling the year that was, into tomorrow.

One Shot Wednesday was created a little over a year ago by four people that wanted to see poetry elevated and poets encouraged. I had the honor or firing the first One Shot and this will be my last. Officially, I will leave OSP on the 19th. Thank you to the poets that made it what it is, and the dear friends that came from it. I will continue my journey, in life & blog, and hope to still sow seeds of encouragement in the lives of those I have the opportunity to meet along way.

Monday, July 4, 2011

It begins with a Declaration

We hold these truths to be self-evident,
that all men are created equal,
that they are endowed by their Creator
with certain unalienable Rights,
that among these are Life, Liberty and
the pursuit of Happiness.


Lee Greenwood follows the National anthem,
reminds us, we are proud to be Americans,
where at least we know we are free and our
hands never leave our chests until we cheer,
air filled with cordite smoke & brilliant
flowers of light pierce the dark stripes
of space between heaven's stars---

are these the same truths we still believe?

all men, now being all people, does this
extend beyond our borders or are we the
chosen elect of 'our' Creator, others should
strive to be? or is it 'our' responsibility to
spread, like butter on mama's corn bread, filling
in the crannies with 'our' brand of goodness?

by whose standards are life, liberty & the
pursuit of happiness measured?

dare i ask---who snuck in an 'unless' over the
edit caret, when we legislate who one can
marry, deny healthcare, or---far too many things
to list but perhaps these are best held for
non-celebratory days

as with the last several years, i sit on a
blanket covering a small patch of green sixteen
at the country club, across the ravine from
those that can afford such things. There are
more on this side than years before & we are
thankful, grace given to slip the fence to
enjoy their festivities.

pop pop kshisss fssss pop kshiss

a fiery glow lights my sons' faces, frozen
in delight & i need not pursue happiness much
further than these crumbs from the table, of
kings and country, at least for tonight.

The opening of the Declaration of Independence is probably the most well known nice in our nation's history. As I was reading it again last night it just got me thinking in light of our present political/economic climate and the days to come for our proud country. Thank you to all those that serve to preserve freedom every where.

Saturday, July 2, 2011

Have a great weekend

I will be offline the remainder fo the weekend. We are in Indiana for my sister's wedding and then driving back tomorrow. Without having time to visit you, I won't post anything. Have a great weekend. Be safe. See you on Monday.

~Brian