Posts for June 14, 2021 (page 8)

an incomplete list

open / reserve    earnest / skeptical    palm / back   
fingers / hair   teeth / tongue    eyes / eyes     patient / silly
warm calves / cold toes    wrist / finger tips    shoulders / arms    anxiety / stillness    laugh / ears    ears / laugh   
ankles / ankles    chest / ear    solid / uncertain     
brain / brain   angry / sad    hurt / soft    chest / ear    
sweat / neck    urgent/ stubborn    lips / lips    lips / neck   
lips / shoulder

After two days
Of spring rain
Everything is
Swollen green
Dripping even
As the sun
Begins to rise
  

come become beastflesh
go along with me
on this pathway of desire.

claw, belly, foot, hoof
hissing open- spun and cut.
all along this way.

arch, bend, drop – wonder
follow his renewing line,
all along this way.

barkbound- hot heartflesh
holding, scattered,  laid refreshed.
on this pathway of desire.

Sad to live in the horse capital of the world 
and have nothing to do with horses. 

It makes you feel left out,
prone to pretend you know who Oliver Lewis was
and why it’s called bluegrass
when the grass clearly isn’t blue

and why, on those cold misty mornings 
when you can see the colts’ breath
as they gambol in the pasture on your right
as you drive downtown to your office,
you wonder what would happen 
if you were that colt on your third birthday
with thousands of people watching 
as you stand trembling at the gate,
ready to run.

John from the Hickman farm
toiled behind a plow
he left to serve in the Great War
then returned to leave no more
simple were his years
from house to barn to field
every Sunday seated straight
in the second pew

Who remembers John?
The picture from my young eye
an old uncle with a wisps of hair
a quiet smile in a rocking chair
he loved a peach after dinner
but all the rest of John is lost
how he marked his ballot
if his heart filled for another
it was love unsought

Who remembers John?
His friends are long gone
the ones who last stopped at his stone 
are now resting under their own
I’m last to carry his memory
and will take it when I depart
then more years will fade to time
and the forgotten will be me

(11:31p.m.  6/20/21)

no mornings like swollen sponge
no more muckers, swamp rot or
foot fungus….no more shrooms
on croquet lawn, pig weeds to
send down impossible roots
happy maize dies of thrist
baby ducks attack rats
red wigglers surface
daze of dog
Orion goes to bed
locust miner at work
Time begins its march
to dark……..okra likes it

I got nothing to say,
but I keep on talking.
Got nowhere to go,
but I keep on walking.

Got noone to see,
but I keep on looking.
Got nothing to eat,
but I keep on cooking.

I got nothing to feel,
but I keep pretending.
I got nothing without you–
all things are ending.

My reflection on the window’s glass
is a shadow stalking in the grass,
cracks and crevices in certainty
letting something out or something in.  

Monkish monkey riding on my back,
spooky bird nesting in my throat,
thoughtless sloth that sits between my eyes,
all play in the tree that blooms as me,  

or they’re just reflections in the glass,
shadows that patrol the predawn grass,
cracks and crevices in certainty
letting something out or something in.  

Life is tainted with anxiety –
I can’t see what’s me with certainty

Shirt is on a hanger but shoes are in the sink
Shirt is on a hanger but shoes are in the sink
Eat your cream of wheat
while your lips are still so pink

The watch is on the nightstand khakis are all pressed
The watch is on the nightstand khakis are all pressed
Breathe deeply honey baby
I will get you dressed

That old Oxford doc says it’s much too late for shoes
That old Oxford doc says it’s much too late for shoes
and you are all laid up with the Oxford cloth blues

Whole world is in order your folded v-neck tee
Whole world is in order your folded v-neck tee
Stay right here darlin’
you’ll be looking fine with me

Everything you own you had done it by the book
Everything you own you had done it by the book
but where you have gone you won’t need a preppy look

That old Oxford doc says it’s much too late for shoes
That old Oxford doc says it’s much too late for shoes
now I am all laid up with the Oxford cloth blues

Housekeeping–that being an older
woman, strong regional accent, and a
bearded man learning the ropes, offer
commentary to the wind about the writers,
the cabins they’ve left—
this one used two blankets, but one
bed. That one—
said she was a pediatric librarian
—ever heard such a thing? Who knows
with these types? I think
she’s just retired.

Empty the trash, strip the beds,
do you know that one—with the
googly eyes—she took old books
from each cabin—as if she knew
what’s good to read—me—
I don’t want no one tell’n me
what’s appropriate–
what I can or cannot read. No,
don’t change the temperature,
set it to automatic—

Her golf cart bumps across
the lawn hauling laundry
as the man
ambles toward the dumpster—
where ya going? Where’s
yar car? Well, come on,
ya might as well ride.

We writers, those left
to defend the grounds,
scurry off porches, grab
pencils, slender notebooks,
characters
squawking among us.