Being the middle child is really rough when you have no siblings.
Poverty is manageable as long as you have money in the bank.
Night blindness is generally not a problem during the day.
Those who have nothing to say should express themselves if they want to be heard.
Learning from your mistakes works best when you get things right.
Infinity is a concept that needs to end.
Finally, this has been more fun than having a good time.
now, looted or not worth the effort, some windows smashed, others opaque under layers of posters and graffiti that grew as control of this last city changed with the ebb and flow of battle, the doors and walls that frame them pocked with gunfire’s blemishes. Where passing feet and tires would have once brushed dust and hubbub aside as a matter of course, the sidewalk and pavement are dirty, almost silent, almost abandoned. The woman sits on a crate, holds her daughter close while eyeing a man and a boy across the way. The sound of distant gunfire ceases so suddenly it takes a moment to register that perhaps the armies have finally done it, have finally killed the last of each other everywhere, and she turns her gaze away from the two strangers, pulls her daughter even closer as she wonders fearfully if this is the end of days or an uncertain Eden.
And now friends and other and what more
These poems we have gathered for
have found at
Last
their place
If your disquiet was disturbed
or these dad-joke titles left perturbed
Think but this and pains be curbed
The end is at a haste
And as I am an honest broad
Made more of cozied
Less of clawed
It serves me best, on this day
to beg your ear for one last verse
and as it is my honored curse
a little bit louder and a good bit worse
I love you. You’ve got this. You’re going to be okay.
I promise.
And now,
when you look in the mirror
and
gaze at your eyes
sparkling back at you
and
recognize the smile
that plays
at the corner
of your lips,
it will be difficult
to remember that
once,
not long ago,
you started
this journey
back
to yourself.
Redhead mermaids from outer space
You spread new stars all over the place
You ride white unicorns to the moon
You’re codeine cough syrup on a spoon
I fancy a redhead gingerbread girl
To snack on when my day is done
She’ll laugh and give her hair a twirl
Then leave me alone to set the sun
I’d settle one down if she could be tamed
I’d give her presents to earn her love
Then she’d go off with my very best friend
And I’d sing out the stars like a mourning dove
Covered Bridge at the End of the Road
Crude span saves one from the rain,
Shadows for the beat of sun, or blowing snow,
Screens lovers’ stolen kisses, and more.
A strong brace against blasts of cold wind.
Keeps horses warm, maybe even a dog or two.
Turnstile blocked and begged pennies
To save us miles, time, even before time
Became the dreaded thief of later days.
Two hundred years it cast reflection
To creek below, hiding minnow, crab.
No badge awarded for steadfast service,
Or protection from vandals’ rape, graffiti,
Or time’s erosive wrath.
The crack of beams held fast against
Yellow buses’ weighted load of children,
Tractor wagons overloaded with harvest,
Raging water vainly thrashing trestle stand.
Repair neglected by keeper state while raucus
Ones steal its shelter for kegs, cigs. Gags
And rags of tune. Why you did not burn, who
Knows? Instead you stand, a welcome to all
Who use your planks and passage into an ancient
Road’s memories, history, past and present.
Tales of the road are tales of its people.
More stories there are to tell of church bells,
Plowed fields, harvest labors, savage storms,
Summer droughts, sickness, dreaded death knell.
School, sheep, hemp for rope, dams for lakes,
Corn, hay, pork for ham and work, oh my, work.
This, though, does end this season of pen to paper,
Or fingers to keys. We await the book, brag to
Our friends, and feel down right proud of our effort.
Thank you to all who make this possible!.
I
Dalton, America’s Carpet Capital,
nearly unravelled
when whites refused the low paid factory work.
So Latinos make our rugs
and once a year–or twice with with luck–
drive 2000 miles to Mexico,
500 more to Guatemala.
Earning enough, a few bring families,
settle down in Dalton.
II
Bumper stickers, mid-60s to 70s,
America, Love it or Leave It.
Ramhurst, Georgia, twenty miles from the factories,
First quarter, 21st century:
Welcome to America
We speak English
Learn it or leave.
What they mean:
Don’t come.
Even if you love America,
we have nothing for you.
III
When I lose things
Someone always asks,
Do you know where you lost it?
If I could answer,
It wouldn’t be lost.
My America,
What did you lose?
Do you know where you lost it?
You had a lamp.
You had a golden door.
You struggle with your age
While I wrestle with my youth
I wish I was eight years younger,
You say, thinking it would make things
Easier. Would twenty four year old
You like twenty four year old me?
I’d like to give credit to the
Brilliance of time and place
And trust the path we’ve created
Is nothing new.
All our own. Speeding up
And slowing down
at random intervals- the only constant
our communication.
Clear and steady and honest
and at times awkward, but authentic
All the same.
And when I feel silly or stupid
Or downright juvenile
I think to the moment we met:
Sitting face to face at a coffee shop.
Me; with my white overalls,
Space buns, and
strawberry flavored
Coffee. You; with your tired
Eyes and sweat soaked t-shirt,
Striding In from the skate park;
Talking of books and
Poetry and people.
The real magic
Happened weeks later
when we could sit silently
And write and read and Be.
Time does not validate
Relationships; people do.
Do you have to write one every day?
a good friend asked when the month began
with its weiting challenge I’ve grown to love.
Her concern was for my exhaustion,
the extra work the challenge daily required
for what exactly do you get out of it?
You could be sleeping more.
I sleep enough as it is,
sleep amd lose myself,
nodding off even as I write or type.
It would be so easy to give in,
letting the tide bring in the ocean black
because what would I be missing anyway?
Few would think anything if I were missing one day.
But the thing about such unknowns
is someone out there knows it.
Any gap would haunt me
as a day I tried and failed
or worse, failed to try,
a slipping away from who I am,
a weakening of passion.
I hope you can see, friend, villain,
what’s then gained from these trials.
I may not look much better myself
but I’m free of the emotions poured into this.
Certainly didn’t mean to bleed everywhere
but sadness is part of the spectrum of human emotion,
giving it a literary placement.
It scares me what I might have been
had the words never taken me over.
I think of fellow poets, musicians,
artists, novelists, dreamers who put it all out there
as a way of working through their pains.
Without such dreams holding us together
we are just tragedies that haven’t hit the news yet.
As it is though, I still stand today,
if I still haven’t accomplished all I hoped for.
I worked through this darkness
same as every other nightmare of the heart
catching me fast asleep,
all by being true to myself every day.
I am a poet after all.
