(T)rain in the Distance

April showers

twice now this month

and we’re only three days in

    –not to mention

the onion snow

guaranteed

to make you cry.

 

Thunder

shoulders the heavy

lifting, furniture

looks better against

the far wall

upright

bass as the raindrops

plink against

the air conditioner,

grill, I’m itching to use.

 

And the train

bellows at the crossings

peals of its whistle

announcing its arrival

snow-capped gondolas

boxcars

I’m itching to use.

 

Finding flowers

along those Western routes.

Advertisements

Lounging

surrounded

by this great cloud of

witnesses

behind and before me

letters

the stepping stones

speaking out Your name.

 

I cannot bear to drink

from the cup

You’ve been offered,

yet I continue to request

a seat at your table.

The left, of course,

my liberal side,

but not too much so

because I am more comfortable here

with my OCD

holding me fast
to the simplest forms

of norms

I’m not willing to do without.

 

Stepping in time

with this parade of sinners

saints, as they go marching in

robed in the school colors

blood of the lamb washed white

technicolor dreams

of funding the arts

reflecting facets

of Your unending

spin cycle

the rinse and repeat

as I stare

while You hand wash

the delicates.

A walk in the park

Witch’s familiar

unlucky

black

cat in the hat

pushed from its perch

with a squeak and a lurch

giving Barry the evil eye

curses

a hiss, unmissed

amid circles

that speak in creaks

stifling ciphers

toeing translations

in shifting sand.

He sniggers

as the pounce

send the beasts bleating

retreating

in their sheepish ways

turning tail

leaving trails

droppings, like breadcrumbs

led ‘em.

Disappearing Ink

red pen

not in correction

    but connection

a written revival

red letter Bible

words of Jesus

    may it please us

 

the rule of thumb, among

us creative types:

write what you know,

but not about one’s self.

the unholy trinity

of me, myself, and I

 

bouncing bullies in back alleys

against the dead end

of another wall

the past, stacked

against me

boxes, such are coffins

bodies of work

parchment

sloughing off like old skin,

yet the hair

and fingernails

growing long in the tooth.

The Distress (Letter to the Editor)

My eyes peruse the abuse

from the tip of an unbeliever’s pen.

 

We shall counter that blade

with flaming swords

holding back

their tide of triumph.

 

The enemy shall not overcome.

 

Funny, how quickly I run out to the paper,

funny, the faith I have

that He will do as He says

as I meet Him at His word…

 

Yet I can’t remember

to read the daily Bible passage

on the bottom corner

of the same page.

 

Fairest

The mirror’s glamour

gloomy shade

reflected not

what he thought:

 

the sleep on the road, on the run

prisons of papier-mâché

monsters of men, martyrs

wearing crowns of thorns.

While the tales have all been told,

and the lies

behind the eyes, as

crow’s feet peck and hop

and four and twenty black birds

murmur across

dark waters

and oft-forgotten woods

where dreams once dwelt.

Cauldrons scald of stone soup

made with love by

those Bremen Town magicians

visions of beasts, eat

and as they feast, their eyes

on the throne of bones

dragged away by their own

evil desire and enticed

their animal natures, rut, rote

reign forever in this world

atop a hill of beans.

 

He forgets his face

until the next time he looks,

gazing at the grays

that weren’t there last time.

Homecoming

This predilection

to malediction

diseases, such as these, if it pleases:

mad cow

hog cough

chickensick

 

bold wives tales

in old folks’ tomes

three, the number

of your destiny.

wishes, fishes,

cowboy creamer

spoons and dishes.

 

the prophecy

naught but a fallacy

whispered in the wings

over moonshine

and dandelion wine

in our cups

under the table.

 

the forest council

all but forgotten

spun from straw

the golden fleece

fooled, pulled

the wool over our eyes

thrown

to the wolves in sheep’s clothing

PYRE

‘tis only right,

but we ain’t got time

for a proper burial.

 

Even a cairn

of unbridled possibility

stacking up to cover up

bodies

we pray you’ll never have to see.

 

We don’t want no animals

poking ‘round the remains.

The scent of fresh blood on the air

will drive ‘em down the valley

…and we want to be long gone by the time they get here. 

WORTH

shuttled through the tunnels

like so much spoiled meat

snuffling and a’snarling

this beast upon two feet

 

Minotaurian presence

half-man, the body shared

double the size of mere mortals

if anyone dared care

 

he had no strings to tie him down

or keep him on the path

this city was a festering sore

‘twas dim, and dank, and daft

 

it was another of their tests

the smarmy, grim cabal

gave no twine or map, no lights down here

as he felt along tepid tiled walls

 

cast about into the depths

naught much more than thoughts

how it was he got this far

how much he had lost

 

find his way somehow, he would

these subways built to last

also ran quite systematic

he’d be out before much time had passed