I’m too tired
tonight
like any other
when I have to wait
this late
to get a poem off my plate.
Plus:
it rhymes, too.
So suck it.
National Poetry Month
Poem for the Older Set (NaPoWriMo17 7/30)
Poem for the Older Set
The proper term of respect
for my elders
is
“sexagenarian.”
Not that I want to think
about that
and the laughter swells
(even if they cannot)
with the words that
raise
the level of seriousness
awareness
of the problems
all men their age
must one day face.
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.
Continental (NaPoWriMo17 4/30)
The slow sweep of her geological clock
the Pangeatic drifting
as Mother Earth conjures up
grim futures
fissures
faults.
TTOWBW: Last 4th of July: Plan of Attack (NaPoWriMo17 3/30)
Founder’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
Quirk Hollow (NaPoWriMo17 2/30)
Sleepy little burg
that isn’t on any map, you
can’t get to it from here
and were traveling back
is the only way forward.
Population varies
dependent on how the light
catches, the facets
of my star-studded personality
in the dark.
Ringing hollow in here
echoing off walls that won’t release
us. There is an emptiness
I cannot grasp.
Yet it reaches out to me
Thinking in Circles
Here I sit, again
trying my hand at it.
Tired of the type
the hype.
Wishes in one…
and the other?
NaPoWriMo: Thirty//Thirty #5: At His Word
THIS:
is why the chicken crossed the road.
Only, it wasn’t a chicken,
maybe a quail, or a ruffed grouse,
the state bird of all things
strutting his stuff in the middle there.
Staring back at me,
I, as unfamiliar with the animal
as I
am with the state of affairs
concerning my own
preening feathers.
Calling out,
these great and unsearchable
things I do not know.
Hazy, like a mirage,
is an answer,
that He will bring me back
from captivity,
gathering, and restoring fortunes.
You may not see it,
I know, yet,
even I barely have an inkling.
Arms and hearts
making a highway.
Crooked is now straight,
mountains and hills brought low,
rough places made smooth.
Thank you, Lord, for hindsight.
Let my belly do the talking.
I’m hungry.
There’s chicken for dinner.
the oracular beard 