stacks of notebooks
like cordwood
fending
off the cold
paltry fire
barely big enough
to keep my fingers warm
so i can write
and count the pages
as they flutter
into the fire.
Kindled
National Poetry Month
via negativa (for us)
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
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.
STUNTED
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.
Another Chore
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.
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
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.
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.
Big Adventure (NaPoWriMo17 10/30)
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.
