The admin of the poetry newsletter
posts his name
and address
in the email signature
dry
droll
“Daring”
Dave Bonta
Podunk, Penna.
An invitation
beating down his cabin door
but much gentler
these poets
oh, they know it
they just don’t yet know
how to learn
at the foot
of this towering
mountain
hermit.
Pilgrimage
for his presence
and the wit
unsure
what to make of it.
the muse and I
are having yet another
state of the union
addressing
affairs of the heart.
she has spread out before me
love letters
my chest so full of pride
the intoxicating scents
waft, slipped into
envelopes
moistened with her tongue.
no longer do we speak the same language
which threatens
an already uneasy alliance
backroom negotiations
the players
have changed
but this cold war
has never ended
temperature
kept well below freezing
pen, hovering above the page.
I adore this.
a dream i can’t recall
9 November 2018
in autumn we embrace brown
but in the spring we will it away
in spring it’s all promise of green
watching whiskey melt the ice
rust colored trees, matching the burlap wrap
the tonic to settle the nerves
The uncertainty of love
tonight we embraced for the first time
for three years I waited for those arms to wrap around my torso
hoping for a peace to settle on our hearts
a false pretense worn away
if the color brown had a smell it would be this:
sun setting on your commute
darkened dinners with the furnace running
breathe caught in the crisp chill of forgiveness
the promise of another season
Like the precursor
to a best-selling
teen dystopian novel series
with half-heartedly-made
cash cow movies,
the cherry tree in our front yard
has failed to blossom
for the first time
in twenty-six years.
We do not buy
into symbolism,
yet trees being
the lungs of the earth
those that still stand tall at the capitol
boughs branching out
embracing
amid further political unrest
pushing back
against barricades
for certain unalienable rights
each ones’ ideas
of freedom
under banners
such are false flags
and comes at the cost
of choking on the pollen
that is tear gas
as flowers fall
gracefully
like defeat.
But home
is where the heart is
(no insurrection here
though unsure as to what this lack of affectation means)
while our love
written in lines of
poetry, stories
carved into the skin
M.L.M.
+
G.R.H.
like tattoos
bleeding that sap
sticky, sweet lifeblood
still pumping
rings
true
for you, our children
rings
chronicling the years
the orbit around the sun
rings
around the rosie
ashes
take upon new meaning
as we hold onto life
neverending.
I found a teakettle
at the high water mark
after years
of riversong
movements
magic lamp
water djinn
beaten up
broken in
boiling off
impurities
because all that mess
is still serviceable.
Three wishes
after dishes
because we still have cleaning up to do.
i rested so long
woke up in my room
saw my shadow
and seen I’d turned into bones
time moved on
as it often does without me
slipped through my fingers
found this no longer was my home
echoes of ghosts
glimpsed in the mirror
looking at yourself
through haunted eyes
chains been done rattling
dem bones dem bones gonna walk around
connected to the heart
but all that’s left are empty sighs
Rip Van Winkle
off in the woods to take a tinkle
after playing nine pins
and drinking with the dwarves
I’m naught but an old man
twenty years grows a long white beard
friends and family all passed on
which is something I’ve long feared
tuning fork
only i can hear
my body
humming
with opportunity
to an unknown frequency
the songs
of my brethren
vibrato
whistling
through my skull
in concentric
pulsating circles
ripples
in pools
that time
has best
left
forgotten
I can’t remember
our last date
or much of the drive
back from State College.
Also known as “Happy Valley”
onceuponatime
waybackwhen
longlongago,
times sure…were.
The house we passed on 26,
and every time
from that day forth,
I notice the awning you pointed out
that reminds you
as it in turn reminds me
of the eucalyptus tree
and the lies that we once held:
koalas are not bears.
I also misunderstood
the visual acuity
and leaps in logic it would take
as I look past you.
Much like whatever we had,
you don’t elaborate
and it’s taken me this long
after this many drives
to realize
why it is
you didn’t tell me
why it is
you may have thought
I wasn’t important enough to understand.
I still don’t.
But that I understand.
Randy robin redbreast
running
repeatedly
into the plate glass door
as if looking for a way in.
I worry about today’s youth:
the instinct
above all else
this drive
to procreate
when
for the life of me
circling back around
cannot recall the pros
only to be found
in prose.
Are you and I
birds of a feather
having already built this nest
just
as concussed
beating my brains
looking
for a way out.
