Mother Moon and Father Sun Take a Smoke Break (NaPoWriMo17 11/30)

Mother Moon wanes, hides

in the moments just before dawn.

Hanging on to the last

perched

at the horizon

bushes and fog obscure

her once stately features.

The night clings to her

sings to her

birds heralding her retreat

pigeons, pecking at

cigarette butts,

the destitute

grasping

for one last drag.

 

Father Sun

bookends the beginning

of the day, subsidized housing

in the vaults of heaven

shoring up the infirm

and impecunious.

Characters of stories

both husband and wife

shine upon

shadows, wistfully

waft from the throne

a corona of smoke.

And they do not speak during their morning constitution

but signaling

as she beats her rugs

that he has long stamped upon

and shorn his stately visage

carrying younger than her years

yet he shall always remain in her.

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On Lock: Interview with Ryan Rose

So hey, my buddy Ryan Rose had this idea to interview my ahead of the release of my new poetry chapbook. I dug this very much. So much easier talking to someone about this than it is talking to myself.

This inaugural episode of On Lock covers my process, some poems, and my hometown.

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Big Adventure (NaPoWriMo17 10/30)

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Cruising with the top down

shotgun

to escaped con

showing what the rebel is,

still getting the work done.

Yet two,

count ’em, two,

distinct threads

that have unraveled

while working another angle,

and though I look my best in this here dress,

it’s all just a smokescreen

the disguise from which

I hide my eyes, the authorities,

and those carefully woven lies.

Taking pictures won’t make it last.

So on to the next charade.

 

Patching up other things

loves, lives,

tires on a bike

that lay within the basement

of the Alamo.

A fight for independence

from studio execs

my kids demanding:

 

“ACTION!”

 

when I’m always forgetting my lines.

 

Yet, I’ll always come in swinging,

run into that burning building for you

even with the threat of snakes

consequences be damned.

A Christian Man Tries His Hand at Parenting (NaPoWriMo17 6/30)

I think I tried this

last year. Struggling

through the day:

amid laundry, dinner,

dishes piled high.

 

Bathtub, filling up, just enough

the rest upon the floor,

now, your eyes

taken out too early

off to bed too late.

 

“Take my hand, oh fisher of men.”

The waters as they

rise, course above my head

upended by the waves

capsized, baptized

looking for the light, found,

saved,

by the side of the road, in a

puddle, muddy, muddle, shallow,

reflecting me.

 

 

Sundowny (NaPoWriMo17 5/30)

The golden

seething summer sun

settles in the west.

Beams, like bristles,

a pointy sundown crown.

 

I don’t know who you

are, but I’ve been waiting

as you walk away from the forest,

animals following behind you

frolic as you call to them

with your magical whistle.

 

Seated beside you

holding your hand

holding back

holding on.

You are here,

but I am waiting for someone

else, for this to be over.

TTOWBW: Last 4th of July: Plan of Attack (NaPoWriMo17 3/30)

20170403_131712Founder’s Mound on the common green

where heads of state still sleep

rings of concrete and of trees

be careful where you step

Circles kept them safe at bay

from rolling over in their graves

gazes baleful, turned their way

should the two dare aim to misbehave

Stood stock-still as ceme’try stones

as the two boys hurried past

the Red Eyes rose to their full height

to the old rules they held fast