Thursday, September 29, 2011

55 - a writer's heart

in my early memories
we walk through trees
to open fields of dirt,
great mounds, deep & dark
soil colors our skin
as we slide

down

our mother digs
wild greens from their base
to steam for dinner

budweiser
ships beer from ware-
houses there

now

meeting consumer needs,
pleasing the masses
desecrates
a writer's heart.

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

Over at dVerse Poets Pub, emmett wheatfall is guest hosting Meeting the Bar, discussing the craft of writing. And as always, we are writing poems.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Songs of the rain

Automatic doors shush as bodies come and go, some on legs, others on wheels, some bent, some straight. Rain pelts each in their coming and going, indiscriminate. Shoes squeak on the linoleum that covers the foyer of the hospital. A man sits beneath his green and yellow John Deere hat watching, still wrapped in a light weight tan coat, over a plaid shirt.

My wife is here for an employment fair, unaware that I am waiting to whisk her off to the beach for her birthday. A surprise, a pleasant break just the two of us, for her birthday.

The rain is what starts our conversation, its song against the window lulls us to the edge of sleep, before a laugh spills into a questions of purpose in being here. Over two hours from home, I meet a man who lived on my street, fifteen years ago, since moved. He waits for his parents to be released.

"I met my best friend one night in the parking lot of the apartment complex at the end of our road. He came out of the shadows and landed right in my chest. Dirty and covered in ticks, I cleaned him up. Found the owners a couple weeks later and they wanted me to chain him up out back, so I asked if I could have him. They were more than happy to see him go."

"He was a golden retriever. Hadn't been trained, not house broke.I tell you though, its true, give them one good year and they will give you ten. I trained him up and he was loyal til the day he died."

"When he died I sunk over two thousand dollars trying to find out what was wrong with him. Never could figure it out, but every time I went to see him, he would raise his head at my voice and perk up. He passed a couple years back.We used to do everything together."

"Haven't had the heart to replace him."

His story fills the gaps between us, eyes misting as he remembers his dear friend. He periodically shifts to keep circulation moving in the hard chairs of the waiting room.

"Lynchburg was a great place to live, but a hard place to make a living."

I tell him I understand and we lapse into silence, each watching for those we await. People continue in and out, the door shushes, the rain knocks the window asking to come in.

"Well, there are my parents. It was great talking with you."

You as well, I take his hand, our eyes sharing space for a moment. He adjusts the hat on his head, then joins them. They disappear beyond the blanket of falling rain, leaving me to sit. The black hands continue their jerky movement around the white clock face, each minute a soft click.

There is no great revelation in our meeting, just two humans, strangers no longer, even if ever so briefly. A small note in the grand symphony of life.

written for Imperfect Prose

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

OpenLinkNight: Honeybees have five eyes, but can they see?

Babies orphaned on steps wait anxious
for the light that slips through open doors

& parcel men leave treasures on door steps
from places like Amazon

but my neighbor('s dog) left a pile of shit
to steam in the cool morning sun, as if
to say---

Good morning, I hope you have a GREAT day
and remember me with each step you take,
each time you sit in a meeting and catch an odd whiff,
sure everyone around you knows by their random sniffs,
but don't want to say anything, being polite
and all, at least until you are in the hall, or at lunch
when every bite you take taste kinda odd,
even though you washed, wiped and thoroughly
checked the treads a hundred times already

I stare at my violated shoes and understand
broken men who sit in bell towers and wait
as sweat drips periodically rechecking
cross hairs and trajectories, call my wife
to add beans to the menu for my midnight
retaliatory strike, oh and corn for color
and texture, drool slips my lip as i cackle
into my afternoon cup of coffee

This is the way wars start and soon enough
it will erupt in leaf blower ambushes and grass
clipping paintings on fences, and eternal removal
from the Christmas card list, our children
will be drafted to carry innocuous yet contaminated
food stuffs in knock knock drive by's, generations
will be born and die and all that matters is
they started it,
they started it

Arriving home I exit my car triumphant eyes only
on the perfect spot just beneath their lowest step
already testing the quick release of my belt when
I pick up the paper long forgotten, scan the political
headlines and choose---

no to follow our leaders

as through an open door, light slips, my neighbor
throws a hand in air, and because there are things
more important than petty shit,

I wave back, here in the land of the free
but not dumb.

OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets Pub - serving up poetic delicacies beginning at 3pm EST and hosted by the even fabulous Claudia. So go cook some verse and bring it. See you there.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Awake, aWAKE






Rain, raven and woman stand on a cliff,
and if this was a joke they would meet a priest
in a bar somewhere but this is serious

Sleeping Beauty waits on the edge of dreams
inside herself where the lights all burned out
and their broken bulbs path her bare feet.

How do you tell her that prince charming
is coming? How do you explain faith to a pocket
watch wound so tight it's finally sprung?

One step, One step is all she asks wondering
if perhaps she can fall once more, if true love's kiss
exists amidst the debris. The damned shadow mocks

Nevermore, Nevermore

Rain, Rain, Go Away, Come again another day
she hears them round her body, far far away and once
upon a time, and howls the wind as pages turn

Singing and screaming come from the same place,
the maelstrom of passion's seat and fairy tales
are madness to one alone, counting days in hash marks


made by torn fingers in the rocks at the cliffs edge
that border happily ever after----


Leap, leAp, LeAP or wAit, it'S aLL the saMe
but sTop kiLLing iNNocent dAndeLions just To
proVe You aRe lOved theN deNy thE eMphaTic

yEs of ThEir (kiss)...


written for MagPie Tales and Poetry Jam.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

Poetics: Twinkles at eyes edges


i carry my dreams
as notes folded, put in back pockets,
pressed as roses between pages of books
dog eared and creased from fingering,
late night sweats lingering perfume
as i rest them on my lips

i repeat them
i repeat them
in their remembering

worn thin they are feathers, first
to tickle rib cages seductively, then
my body smeared with sap, attached, they
become eagle's wings, gifts of the six
grandfathers that must be danced
on the earth to be seen, in-vision-
ing

i repeat them
i repeat them
in their remembering

for those that can no longer and not let Icarus
lead me into the sun, i am but a man
in jeans, my sandals bearing
the dust of my grounding, carrying
dreams as notes folded, in pockets, pressed
dancing to be seen.

The second true stanza borrows on the prophesies of the Lakota Sioux regarding the visions of the six grandfathers and gifts given for their nation, and how to become true they had to be acted upon.

I am currently at the beach. I stole my wife for a few days of R&R....really it was a big surprise for her birthday. So, if I don't immediately respond, I will catch up with you.

Today @ dVerse Poets, Joy Jones AKA Hedgewitch has a fresh poetry prompt for us, a fresh poetry prompt for us. Hehe. Doors open at 3 pm, see you there.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

55 - flesh wounds


our new kitten
six weeks fresh
black & white bit of fluff
sleeps on my chest

waking
it stretches
mews soft breath
in my face

then digs
claws in my flesh
to push off
as it leaves

i call my parents
say i love you

just because

we have no bandaids
but
all will heal.

Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go tell G-man, at 8 pm EST.

Over at dVerse Poets Pub, Gay is back for round 2 of Sestina poetic form teaching, so if you are up to the poetic challenge, drop on by.

The picture is for my sister Betsy who turned...well had a birthday yesterday. Ok, and she is not really my sister but we are distant twins...and she has been asking for a picture...of the cat. Happy Birthday Betsy!

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

The sound of silence

I find him folded into himself, knees tucked in the tabs of his arms,
an origami buddha working the controller buttons, eyes only for
the glow of the screen. He carries as many words as loose change
in his piggy bank, spent vacant, so I watch in silence.

Screams. Bang. Bang. Bang. Brains erupt, black splash blood
coats the view then fades, but the fingers that walk my spine
between the blades come from the toothy smile that crests this
four year old face, that turns and says, "You get more points
for head shots."

Out the window, dogs growl. Flesh and teeth, then yelps.

In the other room, his parents sit, staring at the next big whatever,
singer, dancer, chef, x-factor. The volume turned up loud,
for the silence.

written for Imperfect Prose

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

OpenLinkNight: Ahoy Matey!

Did you know yesterday was
international speak like a pirate day?
Maybe you missed all the "AAaarghs!"
and "Shiver me timbers" floating round
the office, I think Hallmark missed out
by not adding this to their list of 365
holidays in which we can come up with
a cheesy line on pretty cardboard

I did not know until my wife texted
and told me to "Walk the plank", which
would have a whole other meaning if
I had sent it to her, but

Really I am not like that and knew
better than to walk in the house and
bellow "Yo ho ho wench, let's plunder
some boo-tay?!?"

So I drew her a map.

With the promise of gold and jewels,
rings, bracelets and necklaces - she
just had to follow the dashes to the
big X where I took my shirt off
and said here is your treasure chest

She laughed,

And held up the permanent marker
that still lay on the bed, pondering
audibly how long that would take
to wear off

and I, well I doth protest much, "Avast ye! Aye
go on account in'a shadow of a hempen halter,
me heart-ies has no davies of Davy's grip
an me anchor's dropped but I can under
stand in this impermenant age how Webster's
linguistic lexicon of permenance might change,
as they add and drop words annually but if need
I will re-trace these daily wi' a wannion
until Fiddler's Green an beyon' nay ev'n thru keelhaulin'.
No piece o' eight will pay nor leave this Roger jolly
'cept you."

and if you want to know the rest of the story
shame on you scurvy dog, but
might I suggest you act like the fool
that once fell in love with your spouse,
lover or significant other
and just see fer yerself
land lubber.

It is that time once again where we ring the bell of poetry, throw open the doors and allow the masses to lay claim to the stage. Go write something poetic and bring it with you to the revolution. OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets Pub opens at 3 pm EST. See you there.

In case you don't speak pirate:

hempen halter - noose
have no davies - unafraid
Davy's grip - death
wi' a wannion - with a curse, think exclamation point
Fiddlers Green - pirate heaven
keelhaul - tied up and dragged across the hull's barnacles
piece o eight - a coin cut into pieces to pay small bills
scurvy dog & land lubber - both insults, but that is how pirates express their love, so really i do still love you. smiles.

Monday, September 19, 2011

Today, Tomorrow and Yesterday

A happy face with sad eyes, she sat on a regal cushion, purple and gold, well worn but not abused. We could not walk further, even though our parents chided us and eventually they wandered off to look at the next booth or purchase an elephant ear to entice us, but we took root.

She never spoke, but told us our life stories through the notes of her flute, reading them like tea leaves in the dregs of our inmost parts. She was sex, before we really understood it, beyond the magazines hidden on the shelf beneath the next to last white towel in my uncle's bathroom.

Long fingered, she danced them up and down the wooden length and before her snakes grew in size and obeyed each unspoken command as if their lives depended on it. When she stopped, they coiled limp in the bottom of a wicker basket awaiting her following breath.

On break, she sat silent, selling nothing, but taking everything, without ever having to fondle a purse strap. Money collected in a little cup, as she unsheathed a tapered blade and stripped a pear, its skin dangling in one long spiral.

Cubing the flesh, she gave a piece to each in the huddled mass and with her free hand bid us eat, so we would never forget. It melted on our tongues sticky as honey and sweeter than anything I have since eaten. My parents found me then, taking my arm and leading me away, home.

Stealing back to the fair the following day, the grass lay pressed to the earth, but only bits of trash, tucked here and there by the wind, riddled the place she had sat. Hints of her song, clinged to the cool breeze.

That Sunday, Pastor pulled out the fire and brimstone, teaching from Nehemiah on guarding the gates. As we left, he stood by the door shaking hands with a smile on his face, but his sad eyes told me, he, too, knew, and wished it had been grace.

Written for Magpie Tales.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

160 - First things First


6:30 AM & already

a line
forms @ the door

things

ready 2 fill our day
competing 4 precious
moments

the world
can wait

another fifteen
my love

is self-
ish 4 you

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

Saturday, September 17, 2011

Poetics: Sex, Politics and Automatic Weapons (obviously a poem about Trains)

This is my rifle, this is my gun
This one's for fighting, this one's for fun

That's the cadence, but men why is it
we equate sex with violence, death,
conquest and dominance?

Submit, submit sub-
oops, sorry so fast, the unequal equivalent
of an uzi....brata-tat-tat (click)
oh, sorry honey, my clip's spent
here's a wet nap, speaking of a nap
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Excuse me, excuse me
put your guns away please, and no
we're not impressed by your M-16,
size ain't the thing,
with a quick sprung spring

Now, let's slow...it...down....
and redefine the parameters of the mission, it's

Like passing a bill in Congress? Naw, you need
more than just hot air lip service, and a parkway
drive on Sunday, might be nice occassionally
but in excess leave you limp, metaphorically

Better yet, take seat on the train
through the greenery and trees, in-joy
the scenery with no need to hurry, cars rock'n
roll easy motion as you head round the mountains,
building temp in the boiler, for up over half hour, then
smooth clack the rails as you thrum through the valley,
cause then at least when you come, shuddering,
into the station, both expent of all steam
you can look her in the eyes, real-eyes-ing
you never even brandished a weapon
in this coup to be king. 


Today at dVerse Poets Pub, Claudia will be hosting Poetics where you won't need a ticket to come aboard this poetry prompt. It leaves the station at 3 pm EST.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

55 - The middle of somewhere (Post #1000)



At the creek bend,
a fallen tree supports
our cross to the cliffs

where a geo-cache hides
among loose rocks, a box
with pen & paper to
sign in.

I sit, reading their names,
each one proclaiming
'I was here.'

And isn't that our common
desire?

Someone to notice,
and remind us, we too
are here.


Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see G-man.
Over at dVerse, Claudia and I are talking critique and OPP...yeah you know me.

So, this is post # 1000...I never would have imagined nearly three years ago when I started that I would get to here, and that I would find you here as well. I have met so many wonderful people along the way. Thank you for joining me on this journey.

I don't have much to give in the way of a fancy giveaway to mark the occasion, except of course my words. So, while I realise this will take months to complete, I invite you in your comment to add something you would like for me to write on, a topic or theme and I will do it, just for you.

Thanks again. Much love.

b

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Here comes the sun



They line the streets, with large posters
of butchered children, bloody half formed
fetuses, and chant

Their voices tongue my ear

"Hell is lined with baby killers"

"What if God aborted you!"

They seek no understanding, just punch
and punch until you disgorge

Every street corner steams with my vomit,
a mile long river roils at their feet

Free to speak, free to assemble
I flip them off through the open car window

Their god of Hate is impotent,
in my humble opinion

And in this realise how much
we both still have to learn of love.

Here comes the sun.

Written for Imperfect Prose and Poetry Jam.
Photograph courtesy of Ainsley Allmark.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

OpenLinkNight: Fairy Tails on the 20:12 train

Tunnel view out a grimy window,
passenger car rocks forth and back,
flick'ring florescents highlight'n Cinderella
fresh from the ball, a little bedraggled,
missing a shoe and a fella, forlorn at her
situ-ation but what's the big deal

Just another someone pretending to live
above her station, good thing there
is not a Republic(m)an conducting, an
inquisition might uncover a family tree
including an illegal alien, and bring the wrath
of 3000 snipers we (seem to) need protecting
our borders from humans of other colors
whoops better watch or to Guantanamo
i will go labeled an Illegal or Iraqi lover, as they
may be conspirators in the plot to overthrow
our government, we all came from somewhere
else but seem to forget, the melting pot

Sparks arc in orange as the brakes strain
but the train keeps going faster and faster
did you hear the politico the other day
say poor should not vote since they
don't contribute, don't own land, squat,
did WE really elect him? hey,
want to be free, take the hand,
kiss the kings ring. like his underlings,
oh hell no, how bout i bend over, he can kiss
other things of mine, behind the times
thinking, that's why we sailed the ocean

In the first place, to form a new nation,
on the backs of slaves, we be-came with
dreams of a more perfect union, no intent
-shun of ever going back, home
of the brave, land of the free, on a
runaway train, Ebeneezer don't you hear
Marley, these chains ain't ghosts, slipped
on when you drop the soap in the shower,
whoa, that's not a glass slipper, keep your
pants on politician, check ur watch,
time to fight the power, before the Mad Hatter
throws a full blown tea party, cause
liberty can no longer be a player piece
on the monopoly board, and onboard

Cinderella's make up slips her cheek,
prince charming done with her, Oh mama, now
that he got what he wants, her punched chad
and pulled lever, and not even a kiss
on the mouth to thank her for happy endings,
before he's off to other special interests,
whoa, blow the whistle conductor,
this old iron horse is about to derail, is this
an election, or home blown terrorism?

To see who gets to sit in the seat that once
funded the Taliban, damn, when you sing
Have you forgotten, does it mean any of that,
the lack of the I in the CIA was the
good old USA meddling then trying re-
stuff pandora's box, oh f---

the rails scream
the rails scREAM
the rails SCRRRRREAM

and who will come see & place flowers
at the smoking crater where
this train jumps tracks.

but don't worry bout dat
when we can't afford even empty stems.


OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets Pub - time to crack your inner poet out of it's jail cell and let your pen take over. poet Joe Hesch will be tending the bar, keeping the verses flowing starting at 3 pm EST today. It is the place to be.

This is the verse I had originally written last Saturday when I changed my mind and went a little softer. But as I promised, here it is. Raw and in color. Really I do love my country, but I do have little patience for flapping gums that say one thing then do another.

Monday, September 12, 2011

Magpie Tales: Much ado about nothing, now where is the hamburger?

The local college theatre is performing Shakespeare this season, Romeo and Juliet.

Neon rainbow Warhol-like posters cling to light poles, like children begging for the next new piece of plastic peddled for too much hard earned money, and every billboard in four counties their staple gun can blow holes in. Two for one, a drive by shooting and graffiti, all in one.

And I envision broke college kids pleading, We are putting this on, please come.

As much as I love art, it is the fact that I can not stand to see people beg, that motivates my asking of my boys if they might like to see a play sometime.

My six year old son, the daredevil willing to throw his body off perfectly good walls on anything with four wheels, or two, and has to take his shoes off to tally the number of stitches in his body, at present, answers first, his finger out stretched to the entwined, tight jeaned and ringed bodies that represent the true tension within the Montague~Capulet conflict, whose stars are not the only thing crossed, but i digress, and says, "Yeah we already know someone dies."

"Well, yes but the point is," is already on my lips when he adds, "Another gnome gets run over and shatters into a million pieces while racing lawnmowers."

Not to be out done, my more cultured, newly promoted gifted program, crayola wielding, sometimes stage dancing, ever dramatic and willing to break into song in the most awkward of circumstances, eight year old son proudly proclaims, "And Taylor Swift does all the music."

And begins singing, "Romeo save me, I dont even know, I'll be waiting and I've got a race to run, you be the prince and I'll be the princess, It's a love story, baby just say yes."

Which are not even the right words, but I know better than to try correcting him in fear of another verse, which will surely get us excommunicated from the church, especially if he starts shaking his hips. Yes, it gets a little conservative around these parts where the Bible belts buckle pierces wings like push pins pinning butterflies to the corkboard, but I digress again,

Because all I can think about in this moment is all the people in London and fear they are feeling the tremors of old Willie, as I like to affectionately refer to him, is sending out from Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwickshire as he rolls over in his grave and if the curse invoked on his resting place would fall upon us, if he got up and walked among us.

A revenant cloaked in a white linen, hair a bit mussed, I imagine he would fit right in, among the other lost souls scribbling word on page, just waiting for the day they die to become pop-cultures next big thing. Perhaps happy that hundreds of years later that he can still swirl world views at lines penneed by his finger, yet maybe feeling a bit like Lucrece every time a certain song comes on the radio, but I hear two men in Verona readily approve.

I shake it off quick, grab a cart and push on into Walmart, humming a Lou Reed song, I can not seem to remember the name of, and like everyone else search for my pound of hamburger for dinner...and perhaps fava beans.

This is a Magpie Tale. All characters are real and conversations repeated to the best of the narrators abilities. Smiles.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

160 - Redacted Document


black the words that
convict & convince

leave responsibility's memory
to stain your fingers

as you roll them over

secrets only power
is (lies) in its

silence.

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

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Poetics: we bought the lie (9/11)

we bought the lie

at a young age, when thoughts were innocent
and heroes wore spandex, good always finds
a way, to win, heroes never die

and then they killed Superman

it was my freshman year of college, on the front
page of USA Today, cape flapping in the wind
where the body lay of an icon, of truth, justice
and the american way

we bought the lie

because it was not long before they brought
him back like some sunday morning resurrection
and it became cliche' to die, and heroes died
as a way to the next big thing, then came back
just to sell comic books, some sick marketing
tool, and we believed heroes can never die

we bought the lie

and then it happened, men and women providing
for a family, some trying to earn an honest days wage, 
just living ordinary every day lives or police, firemen
or military trying to save them, were taken away, in
a concrete steel mass grave

and that is when we knew the lie

a daughter leapt from on high holding a friends hands,
preschoolers were led through debris by a mother,
a brother raced up, the opposite way doing his duty
a father fought for control of a plane, a middle eastern
man sat in a taxi knowing you will never look at him the same

we bought the lie

and became angry americans, searching for weapons
of mass destruction, happy to hit them back like some
school yard brawl, singing anthems to our pain as we
raised the torn & battered flag

we bought the lie

heroes die, and don't come home or back to life,
they only live on in how we live our lives

there has to be a better way,
there has to be a better way.

I have pages of poems I have written the last couple days thinking about 9/11. Earlier this week, I told my story of where I was that day. Yesterday, I wrote a scathing political poem, but have shelved it for now, perhaps I will post it later this week. Today, I am just burdened for the hate that caused such an event and hope that we can one day move beyond violence and war being our answer to the questions that haunt us.

Thank you to all who serve to keep us safe.

If you have written a 9/11 post, we are capturing them at dVerse Poets Pub today.

Friday, September 9, 2011

55 - Now where did those clouds go?



Check the window, yes,
the weather is fair, friend

Good to see you again,
where you been?

Oh no, mucha nothing
just sitting here waiting

On you.

Like you

might just
believe that, cause it

Is you

we always talk about,
an'a weather, of course.

Skies always blue
when you
a'round

Come back soon---
friend.

Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see the host with the most, g-man. I have been hanging in his hood on Fridays for over 2 years, so no way I would miss one, intentionally.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

FormForAll: We all bleed, read


Don't kill the mockingbirds,
thanks to Harper Lee's how to.
A drawn caricature, rather absurd
there's more than paper torn in two

thanks to Harper Lee's How to.
We follow Atticus into prejudice
there's more than paper torn in two
Boo Radley, come save us.

We follow Atticus into prejudice
where heart color means less than skin
Boo Radley come save us
from demons without and within.

Where heart color means less than skin;
a drawn caricature, rather absurd,
from demons without and within.
Don't kill the mockingbirds.

Over at dVerse Poets Pub, Gay Cannon is teaching us pantoum. Honestly, I don't do form poetry. I struggle. But the gauntlet was thrown down, so I did one and sent it to Gay and after getting the ok, scrapped it and wrote another. Ha.


Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Calling nine eleven

The phone is ringing...ringing...ringing...

I have questions and it just keeps ringing...ringing...ringing...

Under the edge of the bed, hidden behind the ruffle, is a shoe box, its original contents long used, well beyond comfort to holes in the toes. It is now where love letters live, of days gone. They come again, when I need them, though many I have memorized, down to the creases in the paper. they are veins along which the words padump padump padump into my fingertips. Thin as vellum.

At the market, Saturday in the sun, box trucks backed to the curb. Tables of vegetables formed a rainbow down each side of the river of people. People: old, young, sharp, wrinkled, pressed, bright, not. They eddy here and there and talk, barter, banter. Just be. At the end, steps rise to a seating area by a fountain and a girl, maybe sixteen, or twenty, dances in the mouth of a hula hoop. Round and round, she dances within and it spins and her smile is a sun and many take notice, while some just get what they need and leave. She is writing her own love letter.

I was in the air on nine eleven, on the way to work in Florida, put down in Atlanta. Tens of thousands of us packed in the terminal waiting for word on if the world was coming to an end. They cut the TVs after the fall and cell phones were nearly useless. We stacked luggage in large monuments of lost things and sat in huddled circles, complete strangers writing love letters on each other.

Some days I need to remember so I slip the box from beneath the bed and spread the letters across the comforter and lay in them. The smell of their messages rise as arms around me in felt meaning. Here is reality.

The phone is still ringing...ringing...ringing...

I hang up. These questions have no easy answers, and will remain, but I got what I need...

and letters to write before the day is done.

written for Imperfect Prose.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

OpenLinkNight: Regardless

razor blade the souls of your feet
and walk the salt flats, take a bat
to the knee or let a lineman lay on it,
just ask Joe Theismann

the night his leg snapped,
every muscle tight, hands clenched,
punching the cushion
pleading for them to stop
showing it in slow motion

forward-back, forward-back
snAP, SNap, SNAP

this
is a love poem, not for faint hearts
and if you find these images disturbing
i suggest you never fall in love
it is a slow dying

to self, Lazarus lain in the tomb, libérer and
boldly out the door, knob your posterior,
butterflies ain't born without
rending the caterpillar, yet
resurrection comes

as a cherry red fire engine,
the kind with a big brass bell,
toting 352 feet of hose
all around town, but only
one destination

clang, clang, clang

and no intention
of ever
putting the fire out
nor quench this arson-us
passion

a dalmatian, head out the passenger
seat window, flaps its tongue
in the breeze just happy
to feel alive.

and if you ask Joe and i imagine he would
rather play than live in has been memories,
regardless

OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets Pub - Every Tuesday poets from around the world gather under one roof to raise the roof with verse. Tonight, will the Hedgewitch is stirring the pot, and it will surely be magical. Write something poetic, or just stop in to see what all the fuss is about. We open the doors at 3 pm EST.

Monday, September 5, 2011

Magpie Tales: Fruits of our Labor


"...when the truck died, I knew I had arrived. Even the tires have found a home," the man finishes his tale.

His rutted cheeks crack wide as he works his teeth with a piece of straw that found its way from one of his denim pockets to his hand, though I never noticed. We lapse into silence, as men often do when talking, letting our eyes follow the wind across the great expanse of nothing that roams as far as the mountain.

Having done its job, he sets the straw free to tumble in the air then vanish into the rocks and dirt, just another shade of tan. Removing a red kerchief, he pads his forehead, removing the ring of sweat that had gathered beneath his silver hair.

"How did you know though?"doubt edges my question.

"Son, how do you ever know?"

The crunches beneath the hard soles of his boots retreat behind me, then clunk on the wood planks of the porch. A solid thunk of the door closing, leaves me alone, leaning on the cock-eyed bed of the old truck. Absently, my fingernails work beneath a few remnants of black paint still clinging to its rusted metal husk, freeing the flecks to fall silent.

Clouds bunch into caricatures on the blue canvas above, but promise no rain today. A small bird hops here and there, the only brown moving amid the rest. I watch him for a bit, until hinges creak, planks thunk, and ground crunches, louder until drawing up beside me.

His hands, creased from years of work, hold a small frame with the tenderness one would have holding a newborn. Extending it, I take it carefully, surveying the faces in the picture contained within its embrace. He is the only one I recognize, tall at the back of the group, looking somewhat off to the side at one of the others. They all stand in front of the meager house behind us, not far from where we stand now.

"When I came here, I had nothing but what fit in the back of that truck. I don't take much mind to what ifs cause they ain't nothing but smoke in your fingers, but what you hold right there is how I know."

Silence joins us again, as a friend missed in those brief moments. Even the breeze holds its breath as four generations of his family gather weight in my fingers. A lone black bird spins lazy circles between us and the sky.

This is a Magpie Tale.

On a side note, I had two poems published in Punk Soul Poet, a literary and arts magazine this month. You can see my poems, as well as those of the other poets selected for the September issue, here

And happy Labor Day to all my stateside friends. Enjoy the fruits of your own labor.

Sunday, September 4, 2011

160 - silence kill(er)s


silent movie

actors embellish where words can
not action emotion facial x-
press-i-on

we run
mouths miss

the point

our voices love-
ly in our ears a

clanging gong

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


Grammar teachers, no punctuation for you today. It all flows together to open some interpretations (and just drives you crazy doesn't it? ha.)


Also, over at dVerse Poets Pub we are using silent movies to write poetry. I am taking a second dip into the inspiration well after yesterdays silent poem.

Saturday, September 3, 2011

Insieme è meglio (a silent poem)


The kidnapper has released me. Smiles. Had a great time the last two days, in the lovely city of Charlotte, NC, where I watched my Pittsburgh Steelers dismantle the Carolina Panthers in the final preseason game. From the 50 yard line as well. 

Walking home, we came upon the most wonderful outdoor sculpture garden. Friday morning we had breakfast at a diner/art gallery then spent the rest of the day at IKEA and Concord Mills (outlet shopping). What a breath of fresh air and incredibly inspiring time. 

Today at dVerse Poets Pub, the ever amazing and artistic Sheila Moore has an intriguing poetry prompt for us. Definitely will stretch the imagination. Stop in after 3 pm EST today and see what she has in store for us.