Fudge Marble or Cookies & Cream?

old locker face

There is snow on the mountains,
cookies & cream--or fudge marble
i can't decide, safe in my seat behind
the rain speckled cafe window.

Men in ties & women in pants---
skirts in the closet, avoid the draft---
bustle passed, in conversation
with each other & invisible friends
on the other end of ear mics. My sons
run between the play place & the arms
of my comfortable chair---'dad, he
won't leave me alone, won't play fair,
won't...'

The mountains are beautiful, but they will
wait, they have this long, so i watch
them--my youngest sits a bench,
made to look like a stone wall, watching
two boys wrestle, his lips forming silent words---
he will be a poet yet---

'i heard them say they wanted to chase boys,
you should go over & see,' his brother prods
& he is on his way when i wave, a blond,
a brunette, the girls don't even notice

'where are you going?'

'well, Logan said---'

'He also told you the other day to---'

'think for yourself, it's all you have got
sometimes & that way you've no one
to blame,' his brows bunch over the corner
of his eyes, in a crinkle of blue & he grins
toothless,

girls already after another, he tackles
his brother---who screams, the mountains
still in the distance, maybe moved
just a bit to the left, on elbows now,
comfortably watching---the wind
their laughter rattles the window---

definitely fudge marble.

written for Poetry Jam

OpenLinkNight: The Reaping of the Ostriches

on the wall of the copyroom @ school

Look! Up in the sky!
      it’s a bird… a plane…a
product of our ignorance
at what our politicians pass
or discuss in committee

Robot drones over the US!!!!

to help enForce the law (of cOURse)
some even able to see through walls,
it’s not cheap porn they’re after
(well maybe). Next

we'll arm them, 2015 is- oh Orwell,
what have you wrought?
 what have we bought
with our vote? Some slick
snake oil to grease the wheels, attempt
to distract the eye
                     while the hand is dealt.

The House wins! Man,
    how does that happen,
again & again (don’t

all these exclamation points
grate your nerves?)

       ♬ My country, tis of thee
       Sweet land of.... ♬

Coming Soon! in HD, surround---
you and me & - SMile
when they come through the door,
your 15....15....15 minutes of fame,
lacing fin-gers behind your head
   laying prone on the floor…Welcome,
welcome one and all---
to the reaping of the Ostriches!

It's OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets - where we get all kinds of crazy poetically...doors open for OpenLinkNight @ 3pm EST. 

And before you think I am crazy with this verse, check out the news articles here or here or just google the use of drones here in the US, or the congressional hearing they held on drone usage last Thursday...scary truth.

signals at the end

peg board in the gym @ a local re-purposed school

The crunch of gravel,
signals the weekend
over

& we
are home

a mass of feathers pepper
the drive, like scatter shot
or some modern painting

a nest,
once resting in the cherry tree
crook, lays on it's side
in the dirt

my black & white
cat, crosses the yard, rubs my leg
to let me know i was missed

or perhaps, i am next
if i keep leaving him
outside

i kneel, stroke the spot
behind his ears & we discuss
senseless violence & lack of profit
in farming whirled peas

until he's had enough
& saunters away, knowing nature
will have her way
regardless


It was a good weekend. Cole played in the County championship football game yesterday. They lost 24-20 in a very tight game. They blew a couple opportunities to take this game, but he came away happy with a second place medal. Worked around the house.

Writing just to write.

Poetics: SKINmap

me

naked in front the mirror (fog)
i drag a razor along my neck
knock hairs out on the sink
                                     lip---

earlier, her fingers in my hair,
'what did you do?'

i dunno, find the crusty spot on the back
of my head, come away with blood, i dunno
a nick, a cut unnoticed---

admire the reflection of my skin map
& how many? a teardrop in the center
of my forehead from a glass bottle,
foot long, thick pucker down my leg,
along the curve of my ribs, a puncture
on the calf, my knuckles
                         my knuckles
a cigarette circle burn on my arm, ear
i pierced myself, sober & un-numbed,  
pad of my thumb, armpit---each

a story, street i am willing to walk
for willing listeners, a Trail of Tears, forced re-
location of flesh, big nose, broke maybe,
beard & hawk(it still flies), it's the green eyes she
fell for first---ReaD my hiSTORY in patchwork
quilt, stitched cloth shell i'll leave behind
to feed the next hungry mouth

& none of it matters

withOUT
WITHin

i splash water, rinse it all down the drain
& dry off, the sheets cold as i slip in
to meet her, look

for my place
in herSTORY,

& fan open the book
to read, before sleep
takes us---before
the great sleep
takes us.

Today at dVerse Poets, Fred has us painting self portraits in our poems for Poetics. What do you see when you look at yourself? Write it, and we'll see you at 3 pm EST.

55 - afternoon urban ballet

skate park graffiti, Lynchburg, VA

brick back drop,
blacktop drop back,
no black board, back board,
chain net

chiSH

trash talk chest bump,
high five,
post up, pass back
behind'a back dish,
juke, alley-oop,
airwalk swoosh,

chiSH

reps birth & die
in moments

spotlight, sun fades,
stars dim stardom
everyone goes home
'cept some

baDUM baDUM
lowrides roll on

chiSH

written in 55 words, for g-man.

FormForAll: Because 12 political fliers in your mail was not enough today (or how many forests have to die to elect a president) ~ a villain-elle

bathroom, Bedford, VA

"The alternate domination of one faction over another, sharpened by the spirit of revenge natural to party dissention, which in different ages & countries has perpetrated the most horrid enormities, is itself a frightful despotism. But this leads at length to a more formal and permanent despotism. The disorders & miseries, which result, gradually incline the minds of men to seek security & repose in the absolute power of an Individual: and sooner or later the chief of some prevailing faction more able or more fortunate than his competitors, turns this disposition to the purposes of his own elevation, on the ruins of Public Liberty."
 — George Washington, September 19, 1796 (on political parties)

"The beginning is Nigh!" (or near)
'The end,' overused, is seldom true
so says the great sidewalk seer

in rat nipped overcoat & nested beard
causing quite the hulla-ba-loo
"The beginning is Nigh! (or near)

No Christmas for many this year
on December 21, the rent comes due"
so says the great sidewalk seer

Everyone assumes, he's drunk & on welfare
"Why should we Believe, when said by you,
'The beginning is Nigh! (or near)'?"

To a cop's Tazer, he's fell'd like a deer
dribbling drool as they judge him cuckoo
"So," says the great sidewalk seer

To the polls they run with cheer
out the same window our humanity flew
the beginning being nigh, or near
so says the great sidewalk seer.

Over at dVerse Poets, Sam has us writing villanelles, a bunch of rhyming and repeated lines...maybe it was the repeated lines that got me thinking politics...or maybe all the people willing to sell out whatever they believe in, or say whatever they need to, to win an election, the comments full of acid, racism, retard(i hate that word)...like these things won't lead to further division which is just what we need right now...i digress, so i wrote one, rather silly, not my best but...you too can try it when the pub opens at 3 pm EST.

Roll(ing) over Beethoven, its a love thang

Logan

Chuck Berry wails "C'est la vie,"
say the old folks, "It goes to show you never can tell"

& he snaps, thumb to finger, across the table
a snake in his seat, of constant movement, the beat
ahold his soul, his ears - his eyes

though are on the computer - coffee cup
off to the side, hot chocolate & he

periodically talks, 'Did you know...'
LEGO-thisNthat& Lord of the RIngs,

his current obsessions & later we will read
together, but for now i connect his freckles
in a universal dot2dot-draw hearts
at STOP sign intersections, TAP the hammer
soft on the keg spike to drink the moment

'spell Arwyn,' Google, discuss pretty elven women
& things you find only behind book covers-or reside inside.
Chucks retired, replaced by Blues

we dance across wood tables, staring over screens
til they are gone, all the people too, just us
& we laugh as he blows into his empty cup,
cheeks puffing out BigBang expanding---
Louis Armstrong, smacks the table, says

bring chuck back, bring chuck & blow
it like its hot
"C'est' la vie..." phone rings,
'You coming home anytime soon? '
"...you never can tell"
yeah, sing it boy...'well, maybe.
soon.'

written for Poetry Jam.

OpenLinkNight: Flypaper for Freaks

The Patriot, a local school mascot

Despite there being 30,220 legal machine guns
in the state of VA, for me, he chooses a shotgun

it's messy,
     more personal
         Rorschach blots & pellets in the brain matter

     '& after we kill the teachers, we'll steal
     their keys and escape in one of the cars...'

but it never happens, like an alternate ending, Easter
egg hidden on the DVD found by chance, unknown,
until they come for me
during class

asking questions about his demeanor
this week and last & i figure it for drugs or

heard he was led away in cuffs, but
all the students are gone, leaves
crawl barren sidewalks & we sit in stiff back chairs
as they read

what would have been my epitaph---it's humbling,
having no choice in the matter of living & i

i...
i wanna know when the answer to failing
became cocked and aimed at the head of the one
trying to teach & who taught that, how a fourteen
year old can com-pile an arsenal, where the eyes
were as he did, thank God someone overheard
the plans & what made him so angry---really

i...
i...wanna wake up & pretend it never happened,
my only worry being getting them to pay attention
as we discuss exploration of the new world
where the only ones dying are First Americans
(as if that was fair or just) i can't

& he's locked up
in a cell awaiting a trial and yet...we'll never tell
how close it came---and it wasn't, it seems,
but my name
was on the list,
standing in front of the class
just isn't the same---as i search their eyes
for ticking timers, cascading
digital numbers & tell the story
of our shared history, which doesn't promise
a happy ending---

is it enough, we hope
things change-the more they stay
the same-the worse they
get?

BANG!

Over at dVerse, it's OpenLinkNight - write something, call it poetry and come join us...smiles. My wonderful friend Claudia, is hosting tonight, and will open the pub at 3 pm EST. See you there.

True story. Enough said. And the number of legal machine guns is VA was taken from an article in the Sunday paper. We have more owners than any other state in the Union. This obviously does not count those owned illegally.

Thanks to Hedge for the title-sometimes it seems i am.

An understanding

somewhere south of Bedford, VA

Her eyes are night dark, rolled in a ball against milky moon white. In them I see myself with the sun at my back. Her long lashes bat, not in interest as much as curiosity, unsure of my nearness. Neither of us breathes or makes a noise.

She has two children with her, scavenging. Anything they find instantly goes in their mouths to be worked over by tongues eager for flavor. If they notice the silent exchange between their mother and me, they make no indication.

A question sits between us, unanswered. Intentions.

There is no shame in her expression. Fear surely. Life is not easy, evidenced in her ragged edges. She twitches, takes another bite of a piece of fruit, letting her eyes waver from me.

You are safe.

Yes, I mean you no harm.

Ok, but keep your distance. Let us finish and we'll move on.

She shows me her back. Checks on her children. Rummages around for another morsel to chew herself. Quick looks assure her I have not moved.

Leaves rustle on the trees. Birds sing again, sweet & high. The grass shimmers. Cars pass on the road behind us.

She gathers her young.

Thank you.

A slight dip of her head. They walk the few steps to the service road that carves the boundaries of my property. She looks back, then they sprint into the forest. A blur of brown. A flash of white. Out of sight in the undergrowth.

I wait a few minutes longer, my cat, white and black, slinks around the corner and we re-enter our home.

Happy Sunday! We have a family of about seven deer that sleep in our back yard just about every night. They eat what fruit falls to the ground and just about anything they can find in the grass...and I leave them some treats as well. This time of year, the herd gets thinned a bit by the hunters. They had two fawns a couple years ago and they are growing up nicely.

Poetics: the ages of man (revisited)

Cole, in Branson, MO

kid in an alley, (color doesn't matter)
over trash caught in creases where walls meet
asphalt, bounces a worn thin basketball off the bricks-
toNK, tONk, TO---pauses,

as the three legged man SkitchShuff-les by
on the sidewalk, stooped, eyes
meet-only briefly though, as both
turn to the thuMp, THump, skizzle, ThuMP

top down convertible, blond beside him,
dark sunglassed, teeth gleaming
ina middle/man---slashes down
street

& is it envy or sorrow seen, knowing he is caught
in the impossible place of trying
to be both at once---but
then he's over the horizon,
chips cashed, around the corner,
ghost given---gone

TonK

TOnk

SkitchShuff

tONk

& i want the elder to say something
[here] to the boy, and him to
hear [here] but

TOnk

SkitchShuff

ThuMpSkizzle

they are man, not men
after all-alone
& too scared to show it.

Over at dVerse Poets today, Mary has us looking at the passage of time, the ages of man or 'all the worlds a stage...' so tune in a bit as she explains it much better than I. Poetics goes live at 3 pm EST. See you there.

MeetingTheBar: Everybody knows

Courthouse, Lynchburg, VA

Court and Church run parallel
streets through the city & autumn leaves
clog gutters with color. Crisp air, all the cars
chuff & cut
stone sidewalks---one block,
two blocks, three
blocks, four.

Smokers crowd courthouse steps, inhaling
their ease/exhaling hope
for grace, deserved
or otherwise. Butts line
the ashtray base.


Take your shoes off, pass
through the gate---marble floor
cold on socked feet. The guard smiles
knowing & wishes
luck---knowing. When ever a separation
is made between liberty and justice,
neither is safe, Burke says where he hangs
by a nail--on the wall

'It's like being in church, it's so quiet,'
behind me, an old man grins in flannel
overcoat, covering an American flag
shirt. His wife, a gentle whiff,
in matching shirt, shows teeth
too---hair dyed red and unnatural .

She too knows
as her man commentates the action,
each boxer gets backed into a corner
by 'the man' & 'down
he goes, looks like
he won't be getting up'

Court like church like boxing like his wife
pats his leg, making eyes in ways
that let you too know

either her hearing aide
is off or their love is true in ways fairy tales
are false---pats his leg & i laugh

at the lucky, crazy
humanity, of us,
one day---'Sir,'

the judge stares me silent, enough
to hear, 'oo, that'll leave a mark'
 & this i know
as well.

Over at dVerse Poets, Victoria has us working enjambment or steampunk....i went enjambed....which has to do with where you end lines---giving words or phrases greater meaning or just having a bit of fun...anyway, see you there....3 pm EST.

Had a couple people email me about my FIL, he had a doctors appointment just the other day and is progressing well on medication and will return to the doctor in the beginning of December. Thanks your asking. 

And this was from the trip to bankruptcy court. Still no news on getting my back pay, but it will all work out some way. Smiles.

from within our fences

behind a tractor, on the back road
between cornfields,
beneath the gaze of the mountains,
our long line of cars snakes slow,
 shadow of the day fast approaching

and why they do this during rush hour
i'll never know

green grass & cows stare as we pass-
two young calves awkwardly gallop
after each other, playing
   within their fences

within their fences
    play, making their own shadows
dance in the new dawning day

written for Poetry Jam

OpenLinkNight: ForMorBS (the remix)

dummy in the truck bed, Fireman's challenge, Appomatox, VA

the lie of the stethoscope, is just
cause you hear the beat, don't
mean there is music

whole cities are built on less
& run by men inside, while out
we wait for a riff

of deliverance, but all we got
was backwoods banjo bent. laugh, it will
make you feel

better?

'In God we Trust' is
still on the dollar? well most,
or vice verse, i surf
sunLight, off lips
of erupting volcanoes

nature abhors a vacuum,
so does my cat & yet
all the air sucks out the room at
'no new taxes'

HALLELUJAH, -yah or -iah
(oh yeah)

to the echo of, 'we'll just take
your deductions,'

someone.
failed.
math.

(insert campaign ad-thumb up, my smiling face)

& meth rots teeth,
had a lady once
tell me she didn't know it'd show
on the test, if she drank it

there is that---
keep the koolaid
on ice, i NEVER inhaled
either (cough, cough)

it's an urban myth people die
because they have no health-
care, someone, anyone

if i have offended, not to worry
47% of you don't matter anyway
oh heck, let's just round that up

enough to star
the spangled banner
(no one is taping this
are they?)

if you don't understand, you weren't
meant to (my staff will issue
a statement to retract
whatever i say today anyway--
to those that do[nate])

but be sure to VOTE
(as often as you can)
for me

just be sure to bring
proper ID(s)

(insert long disclaimer no one reads anyway
and my name - BIG strong & Bold)

fine print: this political (re)mix tape
will self destruct in 19 days
or as soon as the final tally
of the election.

This poem was paid for by FriendsOfResponsibleMasticationOfRealBrainSells, ForMorBS for short...ok, so really it is posted for OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets --- where you will find much better poetry than anything i can drivel on the page...anyone ready for election day to be beyond us? Well, in the meantime, write something poetic and bring it at 3 pm EST.

This is what happens when i take the senior government students on a field trip to the campaign headquarters of both parties---and I am not allowed to make comments or ask questions. Ha. 

i am your spaniel

from the corkboard backstage @ midsummer night's dream

it's not so much
to leave a small note
when leaving

& so lonely
in the morning
when you do

i can picture you
sitting at the desk, skirt
hugging your legs

(forgive me
if i linger)

coffee cup
full & open-

ing your computer
with thoughts

of work, only to find
my amorous scribble,

smiling

& if you place it
on the wall to admire
throughout the day

getting little done
because it, then you might,
even just a little

understand how often
you traipse barefoot
through the dew damp grass
of my mind.

The title is from MidSummer Night's Dream by William Shakespeare.

The games we play

downtown, Lynchburg, VA

'You owe me money,'

The words crawl across the table and into my lap, work their way up the knots of my spine. Without even looking I know I don't have enough---mentally tally what property I can part with to make up the difference.

At the table by the door, an older couple sits. The man, in a red and blue flannel shirt, runs his finger across the face of his eReader, throwing birds at blocks & pigs. His companion looks over her phone, eyes wide behind her thick glasses. She smiles, crinkling her cheeks, then feigns interest in whatever graces its screen, as she listens.

'I don't have it.'

Behind the counter, the barista fires steam into milk, which lets off a gurgling scream. Two shots of espresso drain into small glasses. Here eyes cut to our table. Away. And back.

'Ok, here. Take this. And this.'

I slide the only things of value I have left across the table. My tormentor grins, admiring for a moment his acquisitions. He raises his cup to his lips, taking a long pull on his drink. It makes a harsh click as it meets the table. A hand wipes a dark drip from his lips. He grins again.

'Cole, it's your turn. Get dad again, like we planned.'

And he does-ganging up to keep me from building monopolies. We laugh at the twists in the game. Payphone by Maroon 5 joins our table from corner speakers and my sons sing along as we lay our cards out-each round-determining winners.

They never need know the possessions sold this morning to afford this moment-gas to work, food on the table-or how easy it was to let them go. We shuffle. Deal. Play again.

Out window, a brown bird dances around the curled legs of a recently emptied metal table, picking at crumbs dropped from a scone or some other pastry. He works the morsel with his beak, taking it into his gullet---looks around, unworried----then is gone

taking the sun's shine, yet leaving the warmth & we play on into the night.

Hope the weekend is going well for everyone. We have had a good one---had a family game night last night---and it worked out each of us had a chance to win. Smiles. And walking around a railroad festival today.

submitted to Theme Thursday.

Poetics: Daredevil & Abraham have coffee in my Cortex

Parking garage downtown, Lynchburg, VA

The Man without Fear is blind,
      in certain irony. I never got
the chance to meet his creator, but later
at a comic shop in Bristol met
      the current artist & wanted to ask
his motivations
                      in taking the eyes
 yet leaving his hero strong

& what has kept me from taking a spoon
             to my own, in those moments---
 when I wanted to be anything but…

 (DON”T MAKE ME WATCH)

from my camera perch armored gladiators advance
 the ball endzone to endzone---
      young kids play by the side
     of the bleachers & all their dreams, pass
     a plastic football, fighting, full of life,
     throw themselves into the fence for a catch

boys & girls too young for sex to get in the way
of being or make proximity uncomfortable, innocent,
 sweet tinkling laughter----

 we can’t unsee memories
etched firm in the membrane, the student killed
last weekend by head on collision---all their crying
friends on Monday morning---the unseen
haunts my dreams

 the BUMP of each whorled fingerprint
as my son slips away, the sound a body makes
under the city bus, a gun shot//a gunshot//his hollow cheeks,
in wasting sickness & the look---always
           wanting
         to know
                 why?
                   as if I could protect him,
could i?

 I am no Abraham, I AM
no Daredevil & my fear--- Stands empty,

I pack equipment in silence, so later coaches can play back
highlights of last nights

game & head home, under the same stars,
   where they are sleeping.

Over @ dVerse Poets today, Stu has us delving into our deepest fears&phobias for Poetics. I have written a couple times about mine and it is that something would happen to my kids...So what's yours? write it poetically and come join us at 3 pm EST.

FormForAll: young once, myself

fog on the floor, Forest, VA

i buddha his brash in class, sack da' quarter-
back, caught throwing a pass
counting charm on fingers, ass
as well, (though not great with maths)

a hung bull through china crashes, making
not one but two asses
listen, lesson one, classless-
it's not you---her, that's Paris

Lesson two: learn to notice the little
don't just spas-spray spittle
and thus beauty belittle
questing bone sucking victual

and all the boys laugh like WTF, this
old guy know 'bout strut
learn their romance on the late
night smut shows---but, they say---but,

form up offensives lines, men ready to
protect his ego, me---
i let them step off easy
maybe one day they'll see

she's slipped away and gone now anyway
they left flat foot, i chuckle,
amble on, young once myself

Over at dVerse today, for FormForAll we are playing with Englyn, a Welsh or Cornish form...I linked a few 'englyn unodl union' verses and...well... the last stanza i kinda broke away, but kept some rhyme and tried to play around throughout mixing up which syllable in the first line of each i would rhyme with the rest...anyway (said that just for cat, smiles) all the form stuff is confusing so stop in and read someone that knows what they are talking about at 3 PM.

the ever-tightening Screw

Polar bear head, Snowplex, Lynchburg, VA

all the rows of books
& my old boss

clean,
sipping a Venti,
laughing

among
well dressed friends

bankruptcy is like that,
only employees wonder
where last month's pay
went

& Sunday
@ church
she greets

'God bless
& keep you.'

'amen.'

i answer, both of us
meaning it
just about the same,
i guess.

It's not the monsters under the bed that should scare you. Maybe the ones inside are scarier. Yesterday I went to bankruptcy court to try and get a bit of my back pay. Funny how their attorney got his. But there is the monster, twisting things, once hurt and wanting to feed the pain & be angry.

 written for Poetry Jam. and in 55 words for my good friend g-man.

OpenLinkNight: a Public education

chalk wall, Charlottesville, VA

i am not a cow
i am not a cow
i am not a cow

scrolls down my screen, a cut & paste
job if i've ever seen one, but a point
made for mOO-ing

during the pledge of allegiance
the  difference between freedom of speech
& the alphabet---as sung by Aretha Franklin

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

most days we start with a walk, rewinding
the tape, reminding him who he is & the need
not to make a fool of himself for attention---
this morning

damp & cold clings to us, like a cat stretching
its paws, as we cut between buildings

'i have detention again tomorrow.'

'why's that?' our footfalls click
on the sidewalk, off bricks

'This teacher she...' always
them first, someone else's fault & i don't doubt
they played a part but

'and you?' i let sit in the bowl of silence,

a centerpiece of plastic fruit, indigestible
at best, oft pondered as to purpose, a curse
we passed to this generation by not taking

O-W-N-E-R-S-H-I-P

(where's Gallagher---when you
need him?)

'i did this,' he screws his face up, waving
spastic hands in an apt caricature

& i nod,
not to laugh,

& know
better than to ask what his parents thought

students watch us out windows, intent
on things other than preachers in pulpits
to English or His-story

'ok, let's
focus on today,' and we break down
the basics of building kingdoms on beaches

as the breakers roll in
as the breakers roll in
as the breakers roll in

in ever crumbling cut&Paste statistics, reTurning
once more to class.

It is OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets, where we get all kinds of jiggy with poetry, so find your beat and dance to it...ok that might be scary, so just write a poem and bring it @ 3 pm EST.

clutching at secrets

Left a message in the leaves for you

i wince.

bedsheets lose heat quickly and having had all day in the basement are frigid, yet after the initial shock of immersion their cold fingers sooth the muscles of my back & legs, draining sinew of  serious pressure-nothing special, just life.

i flip through Sandburg & settle on a few poems before bed, something for the unconscious mind to tinker with while i sleep.

                      A stone face higher than six horses 
                     stood five thousand years gazing 
                     at the world seeming to clutch a secret.

entering the room my wife pads to the closet. door open i watch in the mirror over the top of the book as she changes into bed clothes---returning to the page as she turns, giving a random line an intense look, as if waiting for it to move.

the bed moves slightly as she enters & i settle the book on my chest, push a thumb and finger into my eyes, working them back and forth. we talk of things that are none of your business, well really of no interest to you & and i really remember little, distracted by the warmth of her leg on mine. it's smooth and...

'want to cut the light off?'

'yeah,' she answers & does,

drowning the room in black, our eyes adjust. taking in the faint hint of moonlight that leaks through two small windows. the dark is a blanket we wear, my book thunks to the floor, forgotten & i will apologize to Carl tomorrow, if the opportunity comes, finding myself occupied currently.

'i forgot to leave the light on the stairs for the boys,' she says

stilling even the cricket that sings every night as we close our eyes & fills the room, leaving us unmoving, turning the thought over like a found bauble to see where it fits in the story we were just writing together & the possibilities that come with not responding

like a good mother, she rises, passes through the night, clips the switch and returns, her flesh cool now. i pull her in and we settle into comfortable places of each other, only truth between, clutching secrets until dreams overtake us.

Another write, just to write. The italicized verse above is from Sandburg's 'The Has Been.'

Poetics: seedSpilt of burstTomatoes

Nuyorican Poets, NYC

it's not the same if not summer
      but given the ingredients & implements
      you can find, this side of the after, a now in the soil,
      seeded with rain, a stone to suck, cutting the parch
      & make tomato sandwiches like my great uncle taught

first, fruits chosen with care, flesh firm, not hard,
     giving way in a squeeze, between finger and thumb,
     kiss the contours

with just the edge, let the blade do the work
cleave thick slabs---the width of one digit
     measured knuckle to knuckle, same as your great uncle,
     the summer spent in his shop---learning grain, honing wood
     learned manhood & watching dis'solution of life

     the smell of sawdust & machine oil,  gasoline,
     acid on my lips from eating too much, but
     that was all he asked for lunch, a last rite of waning

Toast the bread, smear mayo & salt, pepper to taste  
      & as his gums push through, the juice fills crevices
      in his chin & rewards a smile, un-dead & a twinkle
      his eyes behind glass, death losing another  

     day in the living, the bell out front the house
     i never heard ring, but keep an end table  
     that bears his initials like runes, same as my son   
     autumn turns & he's gone

Sit the porch, as summer sun fades & find peace    
     with his memory, a stone i keep
     under my tongue,  
     turn as fall comes

     & draw spit
     when water is sparse   

Over at dVerse Poets, Claudia has us contemplating food - fresh or in a recipe a and with all the things with my FIL this week, my thoughts have rang with death and thoughts of other men i have lost in life...this is my great uncle Lawrence whom I spent one of his last summers with, watching him & caring for...i usually write about him once a year or so...any way, go write your own food for thought and bring it at 3 PM EST.  

My FIL is home and on meds to help him heal now...

MeetingTheBar: in an uNForeseen Kiss

downed tree

kshhhhhshhhhhshhhhhhshhhhh
shhhhhshhhhhshhhhhshhhhshhhhh
TCKARKOOOM SKIAshhhhhshhhhhshhhhh
shhhhshhhhhglurrggggggllurlurgggggchashhhh
shhhhhh plipplipplipplipplipplipplipplipplipplip
plipplipplipplipplip plink plink plink
plink plink plink

RUMLABALABLA

plink

plink

ploop



ploop



ploop

Remnants of rain litters the grass, leaves & limbs
a paper cup from a fast food joint, thrown out a car
window or washed off a porch. Each green blade
glistens under a once more sun, the water in wispy
waves rises where the lawn meets the asphalt. Earth
flavors the air. A deer pokes its head from behind
a rough bark copse of trees.

plink.
plink.

Last drips freefall inside the gutter to the aluminum
bend, run out onto the stone, disappearing into mulch.

ssssssssssssssSSSSSSSSSssssssssss (a man on a bike,
rainslicker shiny & yellow)

FWAPchish FWAPchish 'Hehehe,'
    'Watch.' FWAPchich sLOOsh
'Hehe' (two kids in rain thick sole rain boots,
mix with puddles)

my cat stops to shake its paw with each step,
one last drop lands along my brow, follows the lines
to the corner of my eye, around my cheek to my lips
in a sloppy wet kiss---I AM
alive & without regrets


Over at dVerse Poets today we are blending poetry and prose with Anna, our newest pub tender. It is a fascinating article, so stop in when it goes live at 3 pm EST.

Today is my oldest sons birthday as well, but he won't be home to open his presents being down with my family at the FILs. Dropped a note in the comments last night, but they found the source of bleeding and are figuring out what is next.

whiteSwanblack

grille of the pace car, Bristol Motor Speedway

poise en pointe, turn, snap pure
wing ~ wing ~ wing
swan Queen

(they adore you, court you,
stage & spot---) & from the shadows plays
her twin, dark & foreboding, come to seduce (you
don't want, they don't want you)

binge.
                            purge.
   
            thinner

            thinner

tiny dancer find your grace
keep
      your
            lines

(others waiting to take your place
& R willing to---but R you
for aRt?) a pound of flesh
makes all the difference, love/

HATE yourself, the stage, those that adore you,
love---yourself, carve the ledge of your ribs
where they lift you high, cheek bones,
bones & bones
                     (fat, fat, fat)

dance, we can't look
away, as you descend for our delight & what
is it for you whiteSwanblack,
does it answer the voices
when you hear them clap
                            clap
                       clap

fade to black.

written for Poetry Jam's love/hate and also for New World Creative Union.- I danced in college, to woo the dancer who would become my wife - and got a glimpse behind the curtain as well to how much they push themselves and ultimately hurt themselves for art.

Of course some of the same things are prevalent in our society as well. A friend, Emily, has written a book that tells her story of struggling with and overcoming an eating disorder. I think it is a book that will touch lives....it already is. You can read more on the book or purchase it here.

Thanks for the thoughts for my FIL yesterday as well....they are still unsure where he is bleeding internally and losing blood, so they are sending a scope down is throat and running liver tests today.

OpenLinkNight: Under a paperSun

leaves in a web & the moon

Indian summer afternoon, the bell
no longer echoes, kids run here & there
to meet a bus, a car---heading home, i'm

on the shore
of chaos---
        an owl on watch---
                ferret of truth---
                        the trickster fox---

'Have a good evening Mr. Miller'

'Yes, you too. Don't forget...'

the test, but they are gone, cars in, cars
out & waves of bodies duck between,
a white sedan cuts & weaves, slamming
the horn, HOWLing out the window & a kid

detaches from the curb, silent, eyesCast
down-the sound of each footfall as maddening
as 'WTF are you waiting on get in the GD..'
dad giving it to him, point first-spear,
not through the back but the breast

so he can--'Look at me when I'm talking
to you'--see the life leave in 21 gram mist
off the lips, the door opens and they sit
there, so the kid can really feel how much
of a fuck up he REALly is, dad's face contorting
& contracting--f''This, f''That, i waterWalk
the chop, cross

by the open window say, 'hey, have a good evening'
to the student---i don't even know---but know,
catch dad's eye, so he too knows & continue
onto my ride, lean on its side, in

five minutes, the parking lots empty, save
trash & tomorrow is a test, he won't study for
just attempting to pass & won't look back come
eighteen, home a nightmare awoke from---all the same,
the scenery's just changed---i finger

an origami ring
one kid gave me today, pulling it piece
by piece into a paper sun, then a ring
then a sun---it rises, sets & rises,
sets---

there's a promise
in there, some-
where

It is OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets & the poetry is flowing, flowing, won't you jump in the stream...smiles....hey write something, bring it & let's have a bit of fun. The doors open at 3 pm EST.

Personal Note: My wife's father was admitted to the hospital yesterday---my family is down there & i don't know much more at this point but appreciate any thoughts you might send up.

For want of a nail---

don't let him fool you, he thought it was funny too 

Coming back from the bookstore,
by the church with a yard of headstones
aglow in the half-light of fading day
and empty windows

Taylor Swift on the radio, 'Race cars
on the kitchen floor, plastic dinosaurs...'
turned up to drown out the sing-along

my youngest son, as if just remembering
and fearful he would soon forget, exclaims
'i need a nail for school tomorrow!'

and without a breath my oldest asks,
'a fingernail or a toenail?' and we laugh
the rest of the way home

an audible hug, as soft as cat feet
nails clicking on the linoleum

so good, our sides hurt

& maybe
you just have to be here.

Don't usually post on Mondays, but...Happy Monday everyone. Hope you have a great week.