ice cream pearls pinecones pieces of cloud tender fronds cardinal staccato
moss-veined twigs coneflower petals kite tails sea glass mist
thunder’s edge grass perfume rain-stained rocks
slice of titian sunset Chinese yo-yo
lace fragments
tumble & slide down
a woodsy chute lined with Aegean
sea tangle glistening like crocodile eyes into your soil-
smudged waiting hands trembling with anticipation like childhood
A spacecraft shaped like a whale body with a smoky mauve
crescent moon as a tail-flipper, glides through the gauzy,
gold-pink glow of an alien atmosphere. Three smaller vessels
hover near—one reminiscent of a white seagull, another a pair
of black upside-down wings or a mustache with one side bushier
than the other, and a lone oval eye. The whaleship heads past
an emerald planet to the docking station in front of a charcoal moon.
They’ll cradle the ship’s belly in a curved expanse, recharge
before heading home. On the deck, sharp-angled women
dance to ethereal sounds floating through rosy dusk.
Pounds of peaches
Picked in Georgia
Trucked to Kentucky
Become
Pounds of peachy flesh
Increasing girth
Through baked goods.
TO THE RUNNER OF HARRODSBURG
Running is his religion
that heart pounding
muscle aching discipline
of stride that carries him to oblivion,
He’s been running all his life
what’s behind him
has faded
what’s beside him
is blurred and
what’s in front of him
he can never reach
He runs alone
no one else can keep the pace.
Some have tried but
he left them behind.
Or they abandoned him
for an easier path
a slower way.
Does he run from the past
or to the future?
He runs up alleys and
across highways.
He never stops for lights
or signs
he is not afraid
he is protected.
Running is his religion.
Tony Sexton
Weakness
I have a weakness
for poetry–the kind that hides
in shadows beneath Sewell Bluff–
naked in plain sight,
fragile,
as colorless
as an Indian Pipe is
when living.
I have a weakness
for women, Venus like in tides,
the ones who strut their stuff
& own the night,
fire in their veins, no less.
They are unforgiving.
It is
no difficult task
to surrender to words.
Lust is that kind of vice
poets pursue,
& love is their easiest
weakness to lose.
The beach
used to be the hardest thing
about vacation,
particularly in returning
to the beach house,
to the phone.
With all the anticipation
of being hours away
I was desperate to see
who, if anyone,
had taken the time
to reach out to me.
But day after day
spanning the week,
that anticipation
was better left in the sun
with no shade,
left to burn.
Nobody,
always nobody.
The beach itself
eroded my hope
that never set sail,
my constant disappointment.
Fortunately,
I can sing
a new song now,
the melody of someone
I deeply care about
who is always there.
You, my dear
perfect the vacation experience
as much as you possibly can
without being here yourself.
My mind isn’t lost as it once was
in the nothingness going home brought.
If there happens to be
no message waiting,
I know it’s coming.
It’s your affections felt
across time and distance,
the sweetest anticipation.
Loneliness no longer has
any place at all
in the vast ocean expanse
or among
all the grains of sand,
for I am loved by you.
A young boy with newborn shine still on his behind
Strolled carelessly down the street
His thoughts soared like the neighborhood birds returning from the winter
To sing his favorite melody
His back ached from lack of nutrition
Stomach numb through acclimation
His folks didn’t know he had been gone for the last week
Well, they never texted or called to show they cared he was absent
He had just walked the 6 miles across town
Dazed from the smoke of a poorly rolled joint
Pondering his place in the world he stumbled over a sidewalk crack
He awkwardly stepped back into equilibrium and raised his head
The sprout was looking at a person
Possibly homeless but certainly down on or devoid of fortune
Gazing at a forgotten bike in a neighbors yard, covered in vines
Resting in the shade of weeds that had grown round it
Suspended, stoic, and statuesque
The boy looked at the man, the man at the bike
Oceans churned and boiled, clouds grew dark and heavy
The balance of justice had no-counter weight with which to measure such a moment
Suddenly, the skies parted, the sun shown and man revealed to the little boy
The value of morality and the struggle of living with integrity
He returned from his inward travels and stood as the King of righteousness
Thorny crown bestowed upon him, exclaiming prominenece and suffering
A King with no possessions was richer than most
He left the bike to its forgotten slumber and disappeared down the road
The boy has often peered from around the corners of his mind
To see if he has grown as tall
I fear for the little boy
For the world offers nothing to such giants
Gods lived in the earth.
Their anchors, like ancient trees,
tapped deep into the repetition of everything
The stars spun above,
trails crossing in complex mandalas
and faraway tides gnawed on beaches
each swelled and sank in daily sets of four.
fractal spirals curled in shells and pinecones
honeycombs and seafoam
settling into comfortable hexagons
When spring melts came
and the sky brightened with no promise of rain,
gods of blooming mountains and withering stalks
watched their people leave for fruitful plains
All things came in patterns
When the rain returned
so would they
