I liked this boy from Michigan,
but I knew it from the beginning:
You’ve got a girl at home
we listened to Lana del rey
at the shittiest park near
like our own sountrack
to heartbreak.
We sneak into the movies
and not just to watch
the picture show.
But we knew it from the beginning
its over,
the early worm got eaten
before we had the chance to see
the sun.
This prison used to hold my mother’s laugh
Tightly in the walls
Now, the holes I leave in the drywall
Won’t give the slightest sound
No inkling of a smile
Or warmth of a hug
I am a playwright-
A storyteller-
I study the art.
Intensely.
A lot.
This is what I tell myself
When I’m too lazy
To turn off the TV
And write.
we’re going to have to assume
No matter which challenge you choose
Depression and Anxiety
Violence and Trauma
Housing
Education
Employment
Social Connectedness
The proposed presidential budget will remove future funding
Blue jay chirping
cloak of lead
pall of caught breath.
Self-preserved
payment due
birdsong cannot
reimburse.
Born from sand, staring
at borealis show
of certain fate.
Distracting,
never noticed
wind-blown dunes
coming to bury again.
Taken for granted
emotional intellect
compassion
breeding space.
The jay echoes
call of home
worlds fade.
Dream ending
few month sleep
jay has flown.
Curse of investment
waking up
to what was
hardly ever real.
Huge pots of marigolds
Impatiens through and through
Little seedlings pushing up
What else have thay to do?
Sun Speckling through the trees
Patterns all around
Casting shadows everywhere
Especially on the ground.
Birds singing, swooping down
Trying to scare the cats
The kitty’s prance into the sun
And tell them to “get back!”
Lazy planes flying overhead
They’ve someplace else to be
I wish that I could be on one
To see what they can see
A magic kingdom in my yard
Where I can go and pray
Filling up on God’s sweet love
Before I start each day.
Usually
Usually I do not struggle to write poetry,
but today is Thursday.
Even before the garbage truck’s creak
jars me awake, I lie deep in thought.
Thoughts have a way with poetry
that overshadows feelings any day
& while rain muddies Old Seventy Creek,
new loneliness & angst overtake
me & my feelings becomes a sinking yacht.
Written today after receiving my final issue of the
Australia Times Poetry Magazine. I have been a contributing editor
for a year. It was an excellent publication. I am saddened that it ceased publication.
Rudy Thomas
Her habitual trapsing is solo now
except for those forced marches
when she tries to imitate intimacy
So too late for the early morning
avian rush when the deep woods
take on the vibrant tones
of a well supplied sanctuary
she ventures out after the sun
has burned off matin’s due
With this peak of unrestrained foliage
she feels dryness approach the world,
her simple attempt at an absent-minded
chat with herself begings with the same
dryness that seems to seep
down the curved slope of her spine
Still a crone of crows care enough
to caw and cause her an anoyance,
but soon she’s mocked only by silence
and the ebb of phiscal yearn,
lean into it she says
I used to feel that nature
would always put itself right again.
I don’t feel that now.
She dutifully performed
Even at her most unexpected,
I expected things set right again.
Our town waited
to be woken
from its bleary,
dark dream.
In the Valley,
water fell
and water rose
and covered it again
Rowing over the churchyard
the bottom of the boat
scraping now and again
over a bench or tree trunk,
over what I now understand
were probably gravestones
wreaths of white peonies
and green apples floating past.
When the black waters receded
My Daddy said,
” I don’t care what anyone says,
We have the nicest church,
the best little congregation,
wherever one or two are gathered,
I will dwell among thee”
Later, the flat desert of Los Angeles
becomes the rolling knobs
of Kentucky before my eyes
Everyone’s in the street,
leaving their cars,
to look up at the falling rain.
It had been over a year.
On the Television,
a preacher rows through
New Orleans.
I scour the grout in my bathroom
For the first time,
Ballooning thickets of bleach-foam with a toothbrush,
Sweating the square feet
For hours.
When I wipe away the froth,
Murky with years of soap scum,
Spilled coffee,
And see the tiles, now seamless–
One white plane–
How could I not have seen past
The fuctioning
Sooner
To the vast potential
For improvement?
