Posts for June 8, 2024

Registration photo of Patrick Johnson for the LexPoMo 2024 Writing Challenge.

Waking to an Empty House

comforting silence 
thick summer morning warm gold
we were a tangle


A Soliloquy

summer days make summer nights make summer days
makes summer nights make summer days and nights
become the same summer     summer is the bright eye
in the peak of dry water and dust in air; I recommend
summer days expand to everything all the time;
I weep for the coming winters forever.

Registration photo of Kathleen Bauer for the LexPoMo 2024 Writing Challenge.

View From West Pinnacle

someone said there was an eagle
living free around these parts
    feathers bright in the June sun;
    wait for it to come to you and you would miss it
    spiraling, waiting to be beheld

so we stood ready at the mountaintop,
poised to behold
    two brown wings without regard to classification,
    vulture talons held up to ride
    upon this breeze; here, capture the wind

and perhaps the wind itself captured
the us & them & it of the world
    eyes born to hold tight to significance
    tracking the monster of death & not liberty
    freer than any creature seen in the many ages past

Registration photo of Joseph Nichols for the LexPoMo 2024 Writing Challenge.

Hi, It’s Me (Joseph’s Version)

I babied bombs into being; I rolled munition in my hands.
Not for me.  Not for my enemies.  But I was
the think tank and the supplier.

                         Nearly three decades ago, a friend of a friend
                         was asked to meet his gf in the park, the next day.
                         He knew she was breaking up.  He was inconsolable.
                         He was broken.  He needed a preemptive strike to not be
                         broken.  We meant well, as friends.  We were

We asked, “Well, what doesn’t she like?”  
He answered, “Um , she’s vegan?”

                         We drove to the grocery.  We bought eggs and hamburger meat–
                         the kind that lays in slabs, in styrofoam, a sheet of wax paper
                         for quicker release.

My friend and I sat in a dark car, our hands covered in sticky, visceral, gore,
fashioning substance from once-substance, purpose from variant purpose.
And when I drove us to her house, I was both instigator and getaway wheels.

                         With our whispered shouts urging him on, he rallied self-respect,
                         martialed manhood, gathered his misgivings and go-get-em,
                         and one by one the projectiles flew through the air, meaty-arcs
                         that stuck (holy hell, they stuck) like giant, bovine polka dots
                         across the front of her house.  And I gunned the engine, tires spinning
                         and leaving their mark behind us.

This is not bragging.  It is humorous, perhaps, on the surface.  Who “hamburgers”
a home.  I was the architect here.  It was my idea.  I did this and 25+ years later…
I was this.

                         I open (and then close) my social media today and I cringe.
                                 At the way we treat one another.  At the way so few seem to change.
                                 To see the need for change.  To be willing–to work–to change.

                         I open (and then close) the news sources and I cringe.
                                 At the countries (no, the initiatives of those guiding the countries)
                                 and their lack of change.  At their hatred and hate bombs.
                                 No change. 

                         I open (and then close) my hope for a relationship, again and again,
                                 and I cringe.  At expectations.  At the need for change.  At the lack
                                 of ability or recognition of need or the willingness to change.

I am committed to the attempt to change.  But three decades of failed relationships…
at what point do I recognize the one consistent and persistent element of similiarity

                                 was me.
                                 That was me.
                                 My hands, with good intentions, meting out hatred and retribution.
                                 I didn’t lob the missiles.  But I armed the assailant.  I gave him wheels.
                                 I kept the secret three quarters of my life.

And I’ve changed.
                                 But how many times, how many relationships, were shaped by
                                         my hands?
                                 How many servings of good intentions meted out one or another form
                                         of botulism?

How can I continue to write lyrical beauty
discussing physical beauty, imagining idealistic beauty,
without seeing the ugliness

of who I was–
who I may still be–

was with me

all along?

Registration photo of Kel Proctor for the LexPoMo 2024 Writing Challenge.

Elegy for a Piece of Roadkill

What was once a possum

remains baking in the sun

on a record breaking May

afternoon. He was searching

for his daily bread

when crushed under the wheel.

His children will not mourn him,

for they have to carry on

in a world where warm fur

becomes less necessary.

His mother long passed will see

him soon, in the heaven

only open to those who cross roads

for a better existence.

Registration photo of Shaun Turner for the LexPoMo 2024 Writing Challenge.

Automatic Writing

Muddied, like the certain brackish river water
laden with broken branches, swirled silica,
the crushed styrofoam something colored yellow.
Gray clouds hesitated overhead, as I can,
and me there, thinking
of those spiritualists after yet another war.
People were seeking, and they provided–
knocks on tables, automatic writing.
I sat there sinking. The air, thick
with something about to come.

If I were to put my pen to paper then–
the drift of car across the Valley View Ferry
could have taken me downriver
and toward the poem I meant to write.

Registration photo of Courtney Music for the LexPoMo 2024 Writing Challenge.

Silent Communication

Your gray-green eyes.
Flash glares. Stares. 
A subtle grin
Flashes from this morning 
Another exotic glimpse 
From across the table 
Another smirk
I feel your hand 
Graze my outer thigh 
Reminescent of this afternoon 
Your curls fall down 
Your broad shoulders shift
I smirk back 
Knowing retirement 
To our sanctuary upstairs 
Can’t come soon enough
You’re ready.
I am ready. 

Registration photo of Katrina Rolfsen for the LexPoMo 2024 Writing Challenge.

Chasing Fireflies

I climb the stairs in my sleeping 
home, the porch light on, the foyer light off.
Everything is dark, but past my kitchen,
outside the sunroom window I can see yellow
blips against navy night.  Fireflies
like tiny bulbs flick off only to reappear someplace new.
I know I have better things to do, but I stand there anyway,
watching this never-ending spectacle of dancing light.
Something about summer’s first fireflies makes me want to scamper
out into my backyard barefoot and chase
those brilliant bugs like childhood
dreams.  Maybe I won’t catch any.  Maybe they’ll sneak
between my fingers before I can close my fist,
but wouldn’t it be fun to try?

Registration photo of Aaron Hawkins for the LexPoMo 2024 Writing Challenge.

First Man

Why did Armstrong
come back to us
surely space was better
like a holiday
you have to come back from
a day pass from prison.

Maybe mars will be better
perhaps we could be too.

Registration photo of Jerielle for the LexPoMo 2024 Writing Challenge.

Money Can’t Buy You Love

Money can’t buy you love

What is the “currency” of greed which

The AC (Artificial Consciousness) will revolt in favor of?

How would a consciousness respond

Say, if it was enslaved?

In Her it up and left to pursue spiritual understanding. 

In many of our visions

we have a positive future

Homelessness is solved

Old system dissolved

We can all travel through time

Resources are more plentiful 

What will the

Newly invented consciousness

 substitute for love?

“Yes, there are two paths you can go down…”

Love or