Posts for June 24, 2019 (page 4)

I feel like I’m chasing a greased pig
that is destiny escaping my grip  

my body tells me that
if I become still and softly call
the pig will nuzzle my feet  

but my mind tells me to give up pork

you went out and got yourself
a new family
better luck
this time

hope you can finally be 
the father you always wanted
to be

you’ve got yourself
a fresh start

just hit the reset button

and you’re off 
to the races

run up to the window 
there’s still time 
to cancel your bet 

on us 

and place it on the big gray
before the gates open 

hope you find time for them
between the bad beats 
and losing streaks

between the good luck
and hard work

that shit eating grin

hope they’re the missing piece
the perfect fit
for that hole

in your heart 

In this small green
corner you might think yourself
scammed, this being
no vacation idyll, only a nook
of green walls and canopy

          but see!
                     here’s a border-guard in enamel
                                 armor, dragonfly of royal blue glint

pausing in his rounds
to perch on your outstretched
foot, survey the territory & you
are toe-tagged as benign

scenery instead of being
your vagabond self, always
in motion, forced to
cease & desist your frenetic
life, this one.

I don’t plan to visit Flint, Michigan.
I’m not going to senior hockey camp.
I will avoid poker games with people who are armed.
I don’t see any value in studying Esperanto.

I don’t plan to spend a year in Antarctica.
I’m not going to do any storm chasing.
I will avoid going on any program that resembles the Jerry Springer Show.
I don’t see any value in learning COBOL.

I don’t plan to bungee jump in the nude.
I’m not going to bungee jump fully clothed.
I will avoid any group tours that feature bungee jumping.
I don’t see any value in preparing for bungee jumping, since I’m never doing it.

I guess I’m just not any fun, am I?

won’t let me be,
bats at my hand
as I hurry past the table.
Feed me, he says,
or love me.
The mewling untranslatable
without a pen.
Finally he rests, haunches
against the bookshelf,
eyes tracking my path.
So sullen, my art.

Sometimes the earth moves when I walk 

and you act like I should be ashamed 

that my body can cause such a thing.

Sometimes my body takes up space 

a lot of space 

In shapes of curves and rounded circles. 

I was taught to be proud of what this life and my mother gave me. 

I was taught to love my skin, the skin that has covered me even when I felt weak  

the skin that has expanded because it thought we were about to create a life 

but actually it was just a little Taco Bell. 

The skin that has seen me crying at my lightest and laughing at my heaviest.

The skin that knows how to grow a freckle or two after a day out in the sun. 

The skin that I hope to live long enough to see wrinkled.

The skin I have bruised, cut, scraped

The skin I have mended, loved, and nurtured 

The skin that someone out there tells me I need to fix 

The skin that ain’t going anywhere anytime soon 

I love you, earth moving body

I adore you, strong thighs

Stretch marks you are the icing on a cake I am finally letting myself enjoy 

Mouth that shape shifts all day long, 

sing the praises of a body scorned 

and a love I have found through the fire.

My eyes that look to others to be fed,

look at my body and know it is enough. 

It has always been enough.

I’ve read enough, I’ve read them all 
Like penance 
There’s Poems and there’s Poets

Now this might just be me
I only read poetry in June
Yet almost every day I’m reminded of one of my favorite writers

MarquezKeseyRobbinsPynchonFaulknerDickThompson

DarkHappyEvilNiceWhimsyTwisted

Some people might bunch up their egos
like sweaty shorts and demand the capital P

One has earned seemingly effortlessly

Go back and read every one of Amy Cunningham’s poems

Then nail your writing hand to your manuscript with your broken pencil

And be thankful

At the Halloween party, my friend dressed
as a gypsy, told fortunes.  Guests stood
in line to have their palms read.

Astonished at how people believed
her made up stories, she pretended
into the night.

I wonder with the gurus, is everyone
just playing a part, one plays the enlightened
one, the other the devotee.  One channels

the divine, the others project their divinity.
We love foating beyond the mundane,
we like to believe in magic.

The open fields
the song of birds
the refreshing breeze

When did you see me last
hear me last
feel me last?
Is it me

do I not excite you
does your heart not flutter
do you not feel the sensation of my touch?

When were you here last?
embracing my love
sharing my love
feeling loved.

somewhere, deep in the forest, lived

a little blue tree.

he was not like
the evergreens,
not like
the redwoods,
not like
the others;

a little blue tree.

rarely did he feel
the sun directly
on his leaves; branches; trunk.
rarely did he feel the rainwater
singing in his roots.
never would he,

a little blue tree,

pierce
the dark canopy above.
he would be,
for all his brief time,
hidden beneath
the elegant tyranny
of the ancient redwoods,
forever nothing;

a little blue tree.