the soapbox at the yardsale
poets carry forth
as if philosophers,
believing their wind chime
a mighty gong.
poets carry forth
as if philosophers,
believing their wind chime
a mighty gong.
there isn’t much to it
driving along the curving roads
staring out at the
massive green hills
listening to the music
while the hot sun
blinding us in every
turn
but at least
we’re not at home
thinking about tomorrow
with bills that can’t be paid
and for a moment
we are free things
upon white hot pavement
to boil carrots is to love you. to peel the rough
into a pile, to hold steady my finger behind
the blade and weight of palm to balance
a straight cut. to let my nose reach the
heat first, hovering over the steam for
the right sense of time to send the earth
orange into the pot. to place a lid and
trap enthalpy of my heart. to soften
to sweet. to drain all the excess, to salt
butter, plate. to watch you watch me as
i have shown i know, this is always enough.
I promise
we will never
have to stress
stay up gritting teeth
worrying over all
the things we can’t change
Or the people who don’t want to
when it’s all over
none of those
greedy
selfish
bastards
will matter.
By then
we’ll be there.
Really there.
Waving
from the REAL V.I.P Section.
you and me.
someday.
Git yer boots on
follow the wood’s trail
tadpoles are waiting
black and slick
ready for your jar
salamanders sleep
we wake them with lifting leaves
gentle hands
slight silver streaks
race in schools
too fast for nets
skimmers skate, glide, chuckle
you’ll never catch us!
Some of us
Are listening
Some of us
Ignore what they hear
Some of us
Want to care
While some of us
Are busy with themselves
Some of us
Will say hello
Though some of us
Know no greeting
Some of us
Cry for others
Some of us
Cry only within
I sit alone in many places
When they leave I feel relief
I sti alone in my car no traces
I sit alone at PEETS in disbelief
I sit alone on my green plush davenport
with the lonely bed tucked inside
I sit alone and sometimes wonder . . .
What it would be like to teleport
I sit alone in a sea of thoughts playing with words and phrases
a snail mail love letter found in my P.O. Box
Alone I read words painting hazes and mazes
I see you alone scripting this poem to me
I am alone even when I’m not alone
making friends with a friendly alone
When alone it’s easy to see how I am but a loan to me
It’s no longer lonely being alone
Funny in a strange out there way
Like a magic solo dance you may say
I stretch my mind and aura . . . curtsy and take a bow
in honor of me
I can now see
alone
yet
never
lonely
White sun warmed blossoms
Beckon bees to fly and taste
Pollen for sweet fruit
Greedy green-wing flies
Care not for creating food.
Steals and flies away
Floating butterfly
Momentarily rest wings
Perching on petals
