come and disappear
beating branches
without reply
this blue allowed-
in the hollow
pecking otherwise
dry done hitting
hard echoes
of dead wood.
bore with needle
beat of beak-
as draining tap
let the drilled sap
drain back for
the sake of three.
way down here-
thus by every
common man
fresh cut greens-
shoot in desperate
stands of three
one let go-
when every way
was right and wrong
one side pouring-close
while the reform
of time wears on.
The lines of the poem
lay flat on a paper, freshly unfolded
on a cleared table top
The words like soldiers are lined up
some bravely in front, the avant-guard,
Some Capitalized craving leadership,
others obediently filling gaps,
And then those just holding on barely
half falling off the bright blue floor line
running across the page
recalling a muffled paper-rustling chorus
chanting for them to hang on,
even though they were scribbled in
at the last minute
Finally the Poet arrives
with a two handed grasp
picks up the paper
and begins to read
One word after another
But with each word released into the air,
a choreography of relationships change
the simplicity of understanding
one word alone alters
Words begin to hold hands, murder and lie,
Love and languish, oppose and challenge
Begin to mean several things at once
Yet within a word or two, or a skip across the blue
they might regain their original guise,
but will now eternally shape shift
With all the gymnastics it is easy to see
that words might get pumped up
A little word might grow in size,
balloon off the page and float
into an archive of memories
grabbing secrets or hidden feelings
Luckily the listener has left a whale hook
in the progression of the poem in progress
being able to return,
back pack full, with accumulations of wealth
It is impossible to stop
the phenomena transpiring now
meanings of words we thought we knew
found a new stage and were cast in new roles.
And with more lines read and set airborne
the world is forever different
Many phrases give bloom to brilliant colors
and mix with songs of intent and desire, past and present…
fluidity of mind takes the lead.
Whole lines hang in the air
twisting sheer ribbons turning
on a rotisserie of reflection
While all still aloft
a few words glow,
others melt
some get extinguished in agony
by those who dominate,
as they want to go home with you
The words have behaved like soldiers
not still and restrained by ink,
but moving, running, flying
battling it out
in a fight to the finish
The Poet comes to an end
and stops reading.
All the words settle back into the page
The folded poem travels
compactly away in a pocket
Today reminds me of you.
Would it be wrong to say I never want to see you again?
I don’t understand why you left like that.
You’re last words to me a torrent a pain.
You called me a liar.
Called me untrustworthy.
I don’t even want you to trust me.
I know you never will.
You never stopped to think that maybe I wasn’t lying.
If you stepped off your pedastal maybe you would notice
how much you hurt me.
My smiles made of hypocrisy.
Pretty lies I tell you
that you lovingly call me out on.
Not knowing I say these things for your sake.
Only notice the faults, never the beauties.
Excpect my obidience
but never my praise.
And don’t forget
the daughter you drove away.
i won’t open my windows this summer
because this time last year a wasp built its nest in my window pane
pain from the sting
stinging my heart because i hate to kill a living thing
because i had to kill every wasp that flew through
or watch it suffocate or
burn in the sunlight or
duel with the spider that already built a life with her web inside
Heat carves at my being
Vines hung down
from Ash trees
now extinct.
Barefoot trails
and blackberry stains
on fingers and face,
green mock-oranges
low on thorny branches.
Dogs barked,
then stopped,
then barked again.
Titmouse
or rabbit
or squirrel
scurried below.
Light faded
and night came
sudden,
big,
dark.
A Fierce Bad Rabbit, by Beatrix Potter
This is the story of a fierce bad rabbit . . . .
