big pond in a little fish

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

A Little Misunderstanding

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.

Featherhood

An American robin.

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.

B-Side

when the songs you sing

have someone else’s lovebites on them

you are flush, burning:

though not from passion,

but embarrassment.

this here whores den

you rail against,

frequent.

not only as a customer

but as proprietor 

you write the checks

your saddle sore

ass 

can’t cash.

moseying down

poking ‘round

back stair

fire escape.

hell,

throes of passion

deep breaths

lying 

in the bed you’ve made.

you sleep the sleep

of death.

you know your guilt.

Autumn’s Fall

feel

the thrum

of a ruffed grouse

mating call

as it 

beats

beneath my breastbone

asking after me.

ruffled my feathers, too.

***

pine boughs

like a lover’s caress

feather

down

my back.

spent, red

bed

of needles

whispering promises

of the green winter to come.

***

foliage 

fanning flames

burn orange, scarlet, yellow

screaming

peals of atomic thunder

lick

‘cross the ridge.

On Being A Tugboat

Been tryyyyying to make me a schedule during this pandemic with all the ups and downs. This gives me some hope.

BREVITY's Nonfiction Blog

By Kirsten Voris

I was going to let this anniversary go unacknowledged.

I must have known it was a big deal. I wrote it in my calendar. One year out. July 26th, the day I took the decision to sit down for a specific amount of time, on specific days every week, to write. No matter how I felt or what else was going on.

Guess what?

For one solid year I have been sitting down, for a specific amount of time, on specific days of the week to write.

I wasn’t going to mention it. But that’s just false modesty. And feeling shy about outing yourself is counterproductive when you’re in the business of writing personal essays.

You might be wondering how I did it.

I had some help. From the Tucson Writer’s Table. What we do, is write. For two hours. Together. At a table. Every Monday. After…

View original post 780 more words

What’s Donne Is Done

What’s Donne is Done

 

John Donne is done.

 

Perhaps

buried alive

a poet 

who didn’t

quite

know it.

 

The denouement 

rock 

flawed

headstone

to be made known

where he lie

yet in all fiction

we unearth

clods of truth.

 

The bell’s final peal

tolled for he.

 

Pavlov’s coffin:

measured 

in dog years.

Schroedinger’s casket:

nine lives.

 

Alone, we all must

answer half-hearted riddles

dig our own holes

with the rest

a dirt nap

spooning 

Mistress Death

the other half of the coin

such is life.IMG_20200701_140650

Palaver Jaw

The summer solstice

perches

atop the highest

spot

in the sky.

Scavenger

spies

its carrion crawl

across the horizon

of the porch.

Zorched

in the heat

the months tumble by, dry

husks.

Empty days

quarantining

against the unseen, 

enemy

such is age.

The deliberate 

forgetfulness

playing games

with growing shadows

as our days 

linger 

longer.

 

We rock here, 

spittle

dripping 

from our chins,

the curvature

teetering back and forth

between

past 

and present,

a see-saw

for us old-timers

set

in our ways

from remembering

why we came out here in the first place.

The Tangled Interwebs We Weave

I am but an insect
toiling away
at social media
a fly

ho
     ver
ing

about the desecrated bodies
a spoiled
movable feast
they’ve laid out for us
in the heat of the moment
the day
whatever is
the latest drama
they can cook up.

Caught in this kitchen
unable to stand the heat
thmp
thmp
thmp
against a window
the pane but a screen
yet the mesh suffocating
circulated air of
heavy
breathing pleading
for an escape
asking the same masters
for answers
with productivity apps
and fitness trackers
winging it, buzzed
just enough to feel good about ourselves
flitting to another pile of shit.