Posts for June 12, 2022 (page 5)

Each one a box
Filled with stories
Memories that may
Or may not be true
Hopes and dreams
Coloring the walls
Soon to be
Redecorated by
The next occupant
Abandoned
I move on
In my head they remain
To be wandered
At will.
Am I remembered
Or was I forgettable?
A blip in time
Easily erased
Painted over
Or wall papered
Only to be seen
By some future
Restoration expert
In the paint chip
Removed from the wall

Jumping back 

mightn’t save you

from sharp chards.

A fire heated limestone—

trapped air expanded— 

explodes! Innocent though it looks,

a flat stone, field wise,

isn’t. 

with apologies to Mr. Eliot

Shall we gather, you and I,
where the marble meets the sky
And listen to the pundits cry their chants for all to hear?

  While the people come and go, speaking of Joe DiMaggio

Or should we sit at home and moan
doom scrolling all across the phone
knowing it’s safer here alone where no one takes a stand?

   while the people come and go, speaking of rising bread dough.

What is it really worth, one vote?
The end’s already decided.
The end is near, the end is here, and no one left to fight it.

    while the people come and go, speaking of last night’s game show.

Do we dare to eat a peach?
Do we dare to say our piece?
Do we dare to slay the beast?

     while the people come and go, mumbling in braggadocio.

Sitting outside on a summer evening
brings its own peace
birds sing their commentary on the day
a breeze gives a gentle stir to the leaves
the only disturbance is the tiny buzz
the little twinge you smack without thought
the blood smear shows you got the target
or you didn’t and your fingers can’t help
to scratch the blossoming welt  

Now you want the bug spray
to keep the mosquitos at bay
and spare you inflamed skin
that doesn’t fade for days
but if you coat your arms, your legs, your neck
the smell, that prickling chemical smell,
is your uneasy companion whispering to you:  

        You can give a few drops
        and take the pain
        or have the constant reminder
        of what you wish to avoid

There are whispers in these hills
Stories that say these peaks were formed when god
Themself
Grew weary 
And left their washing up 
in divine magnificent piles amongst
The mortal land

Just as they planned

I hear one time the neighbors dug a hearty pair 
Of underwear
With flames on the bottom
Alongside their thicket 
They say it’s their ticket
Off of this hill and proof
That there’s more above than our little minds can reckon
I reckon, but

It’s hard to say that unders mislaid
Feels much like the ineffability 
I was promised.

And I can’t help but wonder what happens to this rock
If the great unknown ever runs out of socks.

Worming words among ruinous runs of a burbling,
stirred, disturbed, intuitive gut,

this pickled affliction poetry’s pruned from:
shit that, suffice it to say, 
                                              spurs on a bonsai—

peels from a withering rose
such sumptuous blush among silken appendages, maybe
prosthetic,
                    prophetic, 
                                        perfected, even

pluperfect before but pregnant terms 
instilled in them stenting symbols,

flickering fumes reborn upon redolent pages pinched
with scraggly sigils,
with svelte and nettling noises
cramping pencraft 
combs from a piling mind,
a throat imploding,
sketchy ideals dredged 
from a smirking scarp or a swan’s comportment, 
freckling fox kits craned to a godling’s glaring genius,
gibbering goldenrod, strident cries of inviolate bluegrass,
rhytons reprising plump or departing moons—

just as a far and conceited star unfurls
in runs of neurotic and chronic decay
these glorying oils sloshed across 
bristling barks and leaves illumining—

all of immensity tunes to a finicky feeling
begging the bees to bumble,
                      trees to weep, 
                      glib flies in glorying promenade
                      dance as damsels damnably freed
                      or untethered from tortuous towers,
            tabards cathected,
clothes encoded in cumbrous tones,
the brilliant chitter of blithering bilboes 
(stirred to an awkward itch or an achy sonnet,
 surly song, a smarting tonsil teased to a tercet, 
 a tiercel’s tirade picking at ponderous scarps or stones, 
 a—

You were the love of my life,

But it all passed us by in the blink of an eye.

700 hundred miles away,

And a few days too late.

You’re with someone new now,

I hope she only chooses you now.

Maybe we were built on fantasy and fiction,

But it felt like we were limited edition.

In reality, I was only volume 3.

I won’t beg. I won’t plea.

Now it’s my turn

To leave.

One hundred degrees,
still nine days until summer,
mother earth, will we survive?

prickly pear blossom,
mama martins in your kiln,
dearest ones… I do not know.