Posts for June 14, 2017

in the shadow of a succulent
I find myself watching
the derelict home of an absent arachnid
wave with the breeze
providing no comfort or capture
but simplying hanging as a remnant
of life’s gradient cycle
floating between my eyes and the backdrop of
forrest, midnight, hunter,
ever, ivy, mint,
teal, pine, moss,
jungle, army, fern,
myrtle, artichoke, laurel,
light, sap, kelly,
dark, shamrock, tea,
celadon, sea, neon–
and everything in between
leading me to believe that
life itself is rapture
and all the rest is nomenclature

I’m starving, but it’s a humid,
Summer night, and I’m lazy. 
I’ll have a wrap again – soft tortilla, 
Some turkey, spices, and shredded cheese.
Microwave it for one minute.
It’s quick and easy
And meets the minimum needs. 
Sadly, it’s not just the menu
That gets taken care of this way. 

76 years ago
Joe Dimaggio watched a Bob Feller curve
Find his 0-2 swing
Clipping the barrel adequately enough
That the ball found the short grass
of right field 
Legging out a single
Joe found first and a 1 for 2 day
And the streak reached 27.

It was not a towering moon shot
into the cheap seats
of old Yankee Stadium
Or a game winner in Fenway breaking
Beantown hearts again becoming
One of those summer memories 
You tell hand me down stories about
This is the result of the grind
This was grit
This was baseball 
This is life

I’m on the porch rocking,
and a robin’s chirping on the line,
and all around me time’s passing,

while the pink knock out’s are blooming.
A neighbor says, “That skinned knee’s fine,”
and I’m on the porch rocking,

and someone’s dog’s out, tail wagging,
looking for another master not to mind,
and all around me time’s passing,

and the sky’s thundering and drizzling.
A threadbare flag next door’s blowing in the wind,
and I’m on the porch rocking,

watching a butterfly sipping
summer from a flower, inclined
to ignore all around it time passing.

Later in the kitchen I’ll start cooking,
fill my glass with deep blushing wine,
but now I’m on the porch rocking,
and all around me time’s passing.

Tell me, Jacob, how did you rate
so favorably in God’s eyes?
Your grandfather, Abraham, received
the promise to father a great nation.
Yet, you lied to your father, and swindled
your brother of his birthright, but
the tables turned on you.
Your favorite son, Joseph, was sold
as a slave into a foreign country,
by, of all people, his own brothers.
Why didn’t you love all your sons?
You brought pain to so many
people, but God loved you anyway.
Sometimes, when I look in the mirror,
I see you looking back at me.
But something I’m still trying
to grasp: no matter who we were
yesterday, we are all special
in God’s eyes today.

There are scratches on the vinyl.
It used to play such sweet music—
Mozart and Beethoven
Tchaikovsky and Bach
Throw in some John Lennon
and Michael Jackson  

But now
the crack down the middle
makes it sound
distorted and strange.
Ode to Joy sounds like Jaws
Billie Jean is a murder victim
and I am the record
playing over and over
skipping a beat
missing the music
because I am stuck in my head
Repeating
Repeating
Repeating
Die
Die
Die
and now the song is ending.
The critics have written their reviews.

I trek Dividing Ridge to investigate
the persistent putter that sputters
across the crest of the abandoned                                                                    
lane left for dead like a rusted truck.
The gate to Hawks Point off its top
joint creaks in the day’s unexpected
squall of a spring gale and when my
inspect for four-wheel tracks reveals
heavy press of bovine feet through
the Clear Pasture my antennae glow
intense.  I‘m incensed: an invasion
of the wildflower field where nature’s
flowers grow for the bread of my dreams.
Dread overcomes dull sense when
the whole herd is heard in full munch
of rare hyacinth and I bound forward
all akimbo to shoo such a cudish
bunch from my coveted treasure.
Alas, Negligent Neighbor shows up
on a John Deere gator, slows to count
his torrid gals and mashes the remnant
Ephemera.   Illusion takes a hard blow
from the mobile combustion of his cattle
prattle as high above in the mottled sky
the pulled cinch of a cumulous saddle
unleashes a drench on this Charolais Mush:
Plato’s ideal caves in from the sad deal done
below where delicate bloom is doomed
to the sideways chew of Holy Cows.  

guess what?
i am fun drunk. 
that wavy moment 
between beauty &
desperation. 
that shadowy place
we all want to linger.

sometimes i play chase,
sometimes i hammer down,
to try to arrive.

i hardly ever achieve you.

you need to be transformative;
i need to forget, yet remember

you are different,
every night,
each time.

You are a world wonder –
your ways are mysterious.

take me now.