Sky waxes poetic over Kyoto
spills rain polishes street taps passersby
on the shoulders
lights footways here and there
sounds off with thunder for its oration
plays on roof of temple
with drumming fingers
caresses porch beams slicks up bark of trees
and lowers itself
in misty clouds
to kiss faces.
5
A Sister
Risenshine, sounds like raisins,
Not though, Pa says Risenshine
Means morning is here,
Get up, put on shoes, wash face.
Risenshine, risenshine, I hear risenshine.
Pa, Pa. He is here, he is not taken off,
No monsters, no Germans tooked him.
He said, “Baby sister is here.” Who?
“Ma has a baby girl. Lets go home.”
Pat is gone, Foggy is too, but Ma is not.
Maybe monsters and Germans will go.
Bye neighbor lady, it’s risenshine day.
K. Bruce Florence
If I’ve had half
a big-ass bottle
of Pinot Grigio,
do the mosquitoes
busy with drinking
me think they’re
awesome poets
too?
a tiny white spot on the MRI
right in front of the brainstem
wrapped around the third cranial nerve
on the left hand side
stole his childhood
worse than any evil character in myth fable or reality
my youngest son
was incapacitated by recurrent headaches
pain so bad he had no words to describe
inoperable
not amenable to chemo or radiation
none of the medications helped
sometime in the sixth grade
he went really dark
the headaches became constant
he avoided interaction
covered as much of his face as possible
in a dark green hoodie over a black Punisher T shirt
black denim pants black socks black shoes
he slept as much of the day as possible
spoke in a whisper and never spontaneously
he rarely went to school
the only world in which he found some peace
was superhero comics movies and TV
shows his knowledge in this area was encyclopedic
one day he came to me saying he was very sad
not unusual but unusual to say so
he spoke in his whisper that he finally had to admit
there is no Parallel Universe
where there would be a kid just like him
only with no tumor no headache
who he could find a way to travel to
and experience being that kid
I had no words
Alone
in the world with little grub
out of numbers, even zero,
and odd that rain now spits
on the never enough where
someone is left under leftovers
and someone sinks below
from a blow to the head – hard
right to the lasting lust found
between the legs of what
might have been. Was it
Zee-sight at 18 or simply
mistaken as a skinny old
81 with Miss Taken like Miss
Universe on the verge
of nothing?
3 a.m. maybe for Mauve &
Naive minus eight little grubby
fingers: Last Out turns off
the light of tomorrow, “so
sorry over your stillborn sorrow”
apocryphally, they say
you paint your home’s door red
when your debt’s been paid
it’s unclear if, or when,
their aquamarine portal
will turn oxblood–
it opens and closes and opens
again, so often
surely that creaky ingress
would scream crimson by now–
and so the teal must speak deeper
to their soul: embrace, serve, create
an authenticity of welcome
a seafoam wave of home
that washes inward over all who enter
past well-worn jambs, splintered wood
and locks that are a little too loose,
and outward with the departure of
every customer,
nay,
friend
Watching,
A new mother scrubs her baby,
A birthmark,
Mistaking it for dirt.
She scrubs:
Her baby is not dirty; she is
a good mother–she might scrub until it bleeds,
but it will persist.
Perfect courtesy
is a mandate
And I still grumble when my wife asks me
to pick up dirty clothes
or when my daughter says:
“Daddy, read another!”
I treat strangers just fine
It’s my family’s heart I put on the line
Perfect courtesy, Paul?
Three kids, no spouse
and I still disrespect my mom
She forged my will in iron
It’s her fault I have the heart of a lion
Can’t be offended by a neighbor,
this woman gave her life to raise me
and I’ve made her think I hate her
This priest cloak cloaks my bruises
Forgetting what my King said
My amnesia keeps growing
The Kingdom belongs to the least of us
I know where Pharisees are going
I forget
where i was found
a tax collector
beating my breast
can’t lock eyes with Heaven
have mercy on me,
a sinner
i met my Lord there,
bread and drink in hand
offering
Perfect Courtesy
It was a peaceful march that day,
Throngs waving palms, almost joyful,
Chanting their hosannas—
Blessed Be!—
But how quickly waving palms become
Tidal waves, turning, churning,
Tables overturned, anger rising,
Gods become scapegoats
In the fear-gripped face of fundamentality;
Trampled palms and bodies
Jerusalem
Alexandria, Tanta,
London, Paris, Charleston
Orlando, Istanbul,
Gothenburg, Herat—
And on it goes
And the cry rises
hosia na! Please
Save us!
Palms lie,
Crushed and bloodied,
Desperate eyes dart frantically about;
Hoarse, dry voices still cry
Hosia na!
Save us!
Ah, but who in heaven,
Who on earth,
Is listening?
