Poems, page 2

say what you will while tending to the
vein which once supplied this city when it was

One full month has passed me by,
rainy, humid, full of light. 
June has not been shy
to remind and heatedly insist
that summer days will fly.

So I prepare to acclimate to
this ever rushing time.
I focus on the moment and
attempt to practice careful design.

I give myself over to the
 gifts that each day brings 
and like Yates, I  choose 
the peaceful linnet’s wings.

KW
6/30/24

She watches
from the outside of your house, peeps
from the inside of hers, through heavy curtains drawn
across windows that have been cleaned to squeaking perfection,
lest the sun should show a print of who’s been round.

The watcher watches silently 
as the lovers love in tandem with the mourners and the miners
and the movers and the dreamers of dreams that cannot be
realized from behind a wooden fence, but don’t tell Gladys.
She already knows.

there’s a void the size of about a dozen bouquets at the display, dwindling down by the minute. tauntingly they rest in the lobby, luring and leering at clientele.

buzzing collared-shirt husbands parade through pristine flowers, little tots in tow, perusing petals and prices.

rosy heads litter linoleum floors. a steady procession of checkout lines beep & bleep to the rhythm of a hummingbird pulse.

i imagine there’s a gaping hole where your heart is, a chasm so deep it threatens to pull you in.

that you’re standing in the floral aisle and must decide between a vague mother’s day bouquet or a new plant to place on your bright windowsill.

there’s a babe with shoes so small you can’t even fathom that they make them that tiny, that humans could even possess that small of bodies. his father cradles him in one arm, the other holds his daughter’s little hand.

you turn to the orchids.

perhaps growing something is better than growing nothing at all. after five years it’s what your body won’t give you, dreams that stay buried beneath watermarks on your pillowcase.

a bird of paradise perches in the corner near a seasoned pothos’ spiderweb legs. heirloom hydrangeas take home outdoors, peonies border sidelines. bushes of roses rise, the last of the daffodils laughing, near now is their soon passing.

carefully you tend these growing things, breathe life into them where otherwise you cannot.

or maybe you just like to see flowers bloom and blossom and fade, look at evergreen pine needles’ cascade, watch grass grow by each day.

A gift deposited on my stair
A large heavy punch bowl full of sparkling crystals
Mined from rivers
The last day of the month of June

People’s got a bit of a lonesome vibe, tonight
But it is an excellent thing at times
to be an island
a chef who loves toast

Atlas, as a jar

Local and raw
Blooms of Spring

fair trade cacao

Some imagined echoes of Goth music

That thing the light does in the evening,
particularly in the kitchen
Or that moment when the leaves all pop just so much more noticeably after the summer sun
and humidity

“There’s a lot of money in meat sticks”
I said as she turned.

“Bubble!! Soap bubble’s still there.”
and so it was, tiny
hovering in one place
looking as if it were never to move.

This will not rhyme
This will not make sense
This will be a bunch of contradictions, I’m convinced
That I might self-destruct before I get to my final destination
That I ignore the hard parts and avoid the confrontations
That I constantly duck and
Dodge the conversations
That force me to confront 
This pain that exists in any event 
Remind me that this all is designed
To never ever make sense
So it’s at this point I’m convinced
That I can never be a hypocrite
Because after all this time
And this entire month
I’ve written poem after poem to give my point of view
On a world in which I feel I often don’t belong
And it’s probably from the perspective, again
Of a man left on the outside, who is now looking in
So I’ve decided
That what I can and will do is write
From my perspective each and every morning
And each night
And even though I’m at times reminded
That this shouldn’t rhyme
Or make any sense
To anyone but me
I’m thoroughly convinced
After reading a lot of your poems,
I am not alone in these type of thoughts
So for the last time this year, my Family, Friends, Fellow poets
foes and enemies
And LexPomo 2024
I’m signing off

whisper in a dark room to me / oh poem / star shooting yellow / and construct for me / some form there / when I need it most / a poem always finds me / like a conversation / I tell you / I have been grabbed / by the shoulder and clung to / found cracked poems / at the grocery store / and shined them / I have been left alone / with my sick body / and a poem / has always found me there / I sup on poems / jewel puzzle boxes / holy mana moons / dirty incomprehensible /  ciphers

It’s knowing there’s a catch 
before the fall ever begins
its calling at the end of the day
knowing there will be a hello
on the other end of the line 
so many that came before you 
took all that I had left and 
then took a little bit more 
I’m getting worn and tired 
somehow you see me through 
dig deeper into my core 
pull me to the surface 
right before I come unraveled

Clumsy in a wet suit,
Climbing down into this hole
To the sound of rushing water.
Over big rocks, 
Over small rocks, 
Backward off two waterfalls
To get to the prize: 
The current tugging
Our inner tubes along.
Pure darkness 
And thousands of worms
Glowing like stars above.