Bushy
leonine show cat
comfortable in his skin
trots to greet us
his furry largesse
lifts our spirits
hazy sun sparkles an apocalyptic glow across grass that crunches underfoot as i go check the bird box for spring hatchlings too soon grown for this violent world, this cess of rhythms that seethe breathy dares to whom all these presents shall come, greetings, in dulci jubilo, until the sweet recompense of our reward stays the hand of the axeman so that we may once again strive against each other seeking fortune and glory and that ill promise of capital gain which serves our dreamy desire, the American dream, that nest coddling our young minds in our house shut out from the hazy sun of this reality
Shadows stretch long
in dessicated wasteland
yet still you find a way
to creep up on me
The conversation mute
the number blocked
I was never supposed to hear from you again
then a chance discovery
deep in cell phone memory
has all my portcullises descending
It is your reply to my last
door-slamming censure
allowed through by an unknown feature
I set the phone down
not quite ready for this
There’s so much in my life to be made right first
The message is a blade
to be run through the soul
because I don’t trust you to have learned God’s voice
but if He has a plan
still for you and I
I’ll have to pull back the curtains from your mind
Devils of Sorrow and Malice
may have their way with me now
yet it is you who towers over all in the distance
for my own peace of mind
I must be open to you again
even if today the message gets left on unread
Shadows stretch long
in dessicated wasteland
and I am terrified
of the dark of you
fast approaching
we did a Reality Fair
wherein we children would:
choose jobs and
spend our pretend salaries on necessities.
I chose to be a screenwriter.
When asked why, I simply stated:
“it was better than being boring”
It was better than waiting to want.
I.
Tonight’s moon is full and nicotine stained,
our bodies electric like Whitman’s words.
a sparkling moving target.
There is room here for the dreaming.
Flowers so wild they dare not be named.
Soon the heat will reach dangerous proportions.
The roof will not shelter us as it once did.
There comes a time with the abstract holds no purpose.
We saw the end of the sun some time ago,
but that hasn’t stopped us.
Even the beans, joined forces with confetti,
will rejoice in an unknown dead language,
dreaming of sudden salvation,
dark eyes shining.
II.
Sometimes the elegies you never write will kill you—
a sudden knocking,
the bell that sounds for each of us.
It’s been years since the dead heard any song.
Sometimes I hear a train and all I hear are
howls like cold wind that sends shivers down the neck.
I want to rage until I am nothing,
bursting with joy to be that sad,
ready to take in everything.
I would nest in the brambles,
shadows playing a song just for me.
Survival sometimes means you hunker down and hold real still.
To great each day with our heads above our haunting—
an equation for forgiveness suddenly solved.
II.
We make our way home crookedly,
tread down the black sidewalks like generations before,
singing of the streets we cannot walk,
stumbling over the words like it’s the last song we know.
When a witch hands you a jar of moon water you take it and you use it
This is what we are—each other.
And the world is a poem and we are all part of it.
I’m listening, I’m listening
and I will follow your voice.
With lines by most of these poets, and apologies to those whose names or words I left out! Bree, Ralph LaCharity, Joshua Lew McDermott, Eric Scott Sutherland, Jason Baldinger, Jim Palmarini, Jeff Weddle, Ryn Ane Griseto, Damian Rucci, John Burroughs, Jonathan S Baker, Juliet Cook, Tohm Bakelas, Amelia Christine Matus, Chad M. Horn, Kerry Trautman, Bob Ernst, Mark Widrlechner, Michael Grover, Chandra Alderman, Dean McClain, Jason Hardung, Scott Laudati
beams of sunshine
a clear blue sky
the loveliest of days
thankful I can claim a respite
I am allowed a day, an hour or two
to not worry over later or tomorrow or next week
much less the distant future
what a concept
to be off
unplugged
these odd words that now describe us when we’re simply enjoying a Saturday
the stuff of summer
joy
This thing I’m afraid to say
it won’t leave the back of my throat.
I swallow and gulp down gallons of water
until finally I give in and switch to gin
infused with little bitter juniper memories
of the wind wept trees
whose roots grew down into our foundation,
breaking it up years before we lived there,
before we knew enough to know
what happens when things seem
Too beautiful
They smelled green
but their berries were
a funny shade of blue.
We never knew
what we cut down.
It happened in Vegas, but it didn’t stay there,
Frank flew to the moon,
Dino loved somebody sometime,
Sammy had to be himself,
Joey, well, he was there,
Peter was in, but then he was out,
That’s what she said (sorry).
The Rat Pack is gone,
But Vegas is still there,
It’s not the same,
Huge hotel/casinos dwarfing the earlier ones,
Computerized slot machines instead of the old ones,
The ones with handles you had to use muscle to pull down,
Elvis had his own thing, but he’s long gone,
Wayne Newton is not as visible as before, but he’s still thanking us in German,
A lot still happens in Vegas, but the memories go everywhere.
To hold the glass doorknob until it’s warm
in your hand, but not walk into that old
room. Or open the drawer where the mind-
altering drugs are stashed, though your body
recalls bliss. The list you must write every night
when you just want to rub your eyes. The way
you must share every note you wrote with one
other soul. To let go. To watch the ash float. Float away.
