Kindled

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.

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.

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.