A lazy day for poets
I
Just turned (twenty) nine.
You can write rhymes
I wish lin manuel miranda would write mine.
I
Just turned (twenty) nine.
You can write rhymes
I wish lin manuel miranda would write mine.
with filament & anther
& stigma
as her spotted
flushed petals
unfurl & curl out
& down
thickly
a backdrop
of stars
vibrating
in the swelter
of early summer.
This is what the is is. That is what
the is is not. Thought not-is are those.
And none, the not-to is, that’s never.
The never’s that, it’s more than less than this,
laid up, paid up, sweating blots.
But is the never
really what it is, not the this or that
but other’s none, a knot of nots? What one wills
will be another’s those. Inverse of what
is never is, only neither that nor this.
but hate the unknown.
How miserable is that?
I love adventures where
I know where
I’m going (McConnel Springs)
and how (walking along a lovely shaded trail),
but hate the thought of
alighting onto UK’s campus to
face a major I’m uncertain
is the one for me.
Last night, I dreamed I was riding
Occasionally, somebody I knew
would get on, but eventually, they’d go–
their stop reached.
Everyone left until it was just me
Our ankles touched.
We held to each other. The bus bounded
along its predestined route.
I saw my mother today.
Didn’t realize it was her at first.
Guess it was because she was in the garden.
But there she was, khaki capri pants,
Red Sketcher tennies, and cap
Sleeve Rod Stewart t-shirt.
She was sittin side saddle across the
Back of a beautiful, blue dragonfly.
Sunglasses on, hair blowin in the wind.
She’s always had great hair.
I’m pretty sure she just stopped by to
Prove to me that what she
Told me is 100 percent correct.
Dragonflies have four wings so they can
Transport angels back from heaven for a visit.
She didn’t say anything, just blew me a kiss,
Tugged on the reins and she was off.
Twenty tiny shoe boxes strapped on the back.
She’s always loved shoes.
The porch of my growing up
Remained my father’s realm
Most nights he would sit there
On his lawn chair with his Irish coffee
(We weren’t even Irish)
And contemplate the world
Weekends and summers when he was at work
(Hard labor on his bar stool)
My sister and I would invade that space
Makeshift rebels blasting our tiny transistor radio
Too young for deep thoughts we stared instead
Into Johnny Wilson’s bedroom window
We’d pet the splintered green paint
And declare it a good porch
The first one without my father
Proved to be a concrete stoop
The air buzzed with The Grateful Dead
And motorcycle clamor from the group next door
I had a dog then who lazed away the day
When the sun hit the step just right
Sometimes he let me sit next to him
And we pondered the postage stamp yard
He loved the birds and rabbits
(I can’t remember what I loved)
The largest porch I populated
Was a shady wood country affair
Porch swing hummingbird feeder
Plants enough to keep the world green
A welcoming lounge for animals
And the rejoice of banjos and dulcimers
In quiet times I studied the chapters of nature
Relished the ranting of stars
Now my metal perch rivals city rooftops
Man’s homage to tool and technology
But the evenings are cool enough to move clouds
And the wind chimes stay busy in their music
I lean back and sip my coffee
(No Irish in sight)
Muse the question: After years of porch zen
Was more gained looking out or into myself?
hepp peep, ay’s wad
whi’t dats n’ska
lae, lae don
m’i shoo tigh’ga fa’wea
m’i stik keel
m’i us wi’u
uhn wata fom ska
blod lis’ m’i wil
