Posted on 11/24/2003 9:52:48 AM PST by January24th
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turn
smile
softly
lock eyes
unspeaking
bagatelle
unfinished moment
screeching brakes without the sound
of bumpers banging.
uncreated
energy leaves the scene
of unaccident.
a bad poet
the tiny stream
says little well
caged crickets chirp
winter fiddles at windows
heart fires contained.
boring sermon
dutiful box elders
think outside.
herons roost
laundry flaps cleanly
on the line
Simple silence says
all or nothing imagined;
whatever one wants
two roads, yellow, whatever
pollen Friday, cat with a saffron
nose stargazes, lily-stained
with fragrance she’s no honey,
but my baby lays down tracks,
yellow brick road paw prints
that slap up against
an emerald city, break its lamps,
showing me there’s no genie.
But at least I get my degree in reality
from Oz, and that has made all
the difference.
Reactionary
Once everything from
the drug store came
wrapped in white paper
and green string, a bonus
for the thrifty, who were dying
for something to save.
I dumped my voicemail
today without listening
to the messages. I needed
the space so I saved it for later,
left un-transcribed the transitory
poetry of disconnected voices,
sounding so damned professional
saying something but nothing
personal, like time is the only
revolution that consumes all
its children. So then, blessed
be the ties that bind, but if they don’t
save the paper, save the string.
Love's
perpendicular
dream
drifts
on
the uncertainty
of an outcome
requires
no maintenance
"the uncertainty
of an outcome
requires
no maintenance"
then it certainly
was expected
whatever
comes to pass
Longaberger lines
I. Oh the architect’s brief is design
to marry the curve and the line
functions form is fantastic
when the building’s a picnic basket
and the ants all work inside
II. I wouldn’t say I’m really old school
imagination is the architect’s tool
I’m fine with the lines
they draw in their mind
But some ideas should be over ruled.
What was so tenderly
articulated
in wax
by the hand of the maestro
must now bend to the apprentice
its bronzed mass yielding
to brutal blows
of hammer and chisel
ground down flashings
plasma-torched
sand-blasted
burnished roughly
to bring it back
hard as stone
to its soft beginnings
the wax is lost
but the art is found
she's packing heat.
be carefull how
you accost
a lady artist
on a dark
and lonely street
the mind
can calculate
but the spirit
yearns
and the heart
knows
what it knows
-stephen king
i
remember
tomorrow
Forty-nine
and holding...
holding on
with empty arms
and a
full,
brave
smile
Time without a back up plan,
rings the future with
strange horizons. A singular
seduction, this tomorrow
thing, just around
the next corner. I
want to see what waits,
like yesterday
for today.
kay
wives and sisters
stand on all shores
watching men
go out
on the sea
in cloaks of grey
or brown
there on the shore
that dwindles smaller
from the boat
while the water
grows wide between
as red
sinks to ash
in the west
and ash-grey
sinks to black
and the sea and sky
are wholly dark
in the end
To Sleep
John Keats
O soft embalmer of the still midnight!
Shutting with careful fingers and benign
Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower'd from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine;
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,
In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,
Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities;
Then save me, or the passèd day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;
Save me from curious conscience, that still lords
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oilèd wards,
And seal the hushèd casket of my soul.
i thought
a horse
sorrel and silent
stepping through
green bamboo
between mountains
and high tide
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