April 21, 2017
An ordinary miracle
Might make my day good night.
An everyday freak hailstorm
Should soften the certain gravitas of agony..
Would my monday to monday/ Gone on to a good gravy, when
My dumptruck of good luck sails in?
All this will be laid to waste.
Then strong sprouts/ in not long/ will no doubt
Green the place.
(5 yrs back)
April 14, 2017
If I’d insist on playing the pacifist
(I’m maybe miscast)
I’d resist being all-too-willing
to killing time.
If I would want to resist the persistent praying
For my mercy, for all our mercy,
Inarticulate verses of mercy,
Maybe I’d want to take steps,
I’d want to take things into my own hands,
Maybe I’d want to take on the task
Of yanking my mask off,
Of thinking of thanking
Tho’ I’d heed less
March 29, 2017
“You know it never has been easy
Whether you do or do not resign
Whether you travel the breadth of extremities
Or stick to some straight line…
In the church they light the candles
And the wax rolls down like tears
There is the hope and hopelessness
I’ve witnessed all these years.”
-Joni Mitchell, from “Hejira”
STORM WINDOWS IN SOUTHWEST FLORIDA
In this small part of the planet
Nobody stores storm windows,
Though probably, storms away won’t
Muster much more blow
Than in this small part of the planet.
TWO ALARMS ( Impatient On All )
Is or isn’t it odd
that the gods have their own take
on what all gets the go ahead
and all just what must wait?
I was brought up to believe in
That All’s “seen through” for some reason./
All would happen ”as it should”/
But What when intuition warns it’s all gone wrong,
and it’s all gone wrong all day?
When two alarms should’ve gone off when rising?
When once again you wince & wait on your own way?
March 22, 2017
West, we rode & wrested away of, save the olde facades of Savannah.
When in Jesus-sodden Southern Georgia
Some sign solomn told me “try him”,
I ran & ran that mantra by
& waited ’till my lips straightened.
Here, I take my sweet (& dear, fleeting) time
Rake up raw data…
I’m readyish I guess for you to take my order
March 13, 2017
M U C H
often it’s uncertain to see,
to see the true things through,
but certainly sometime’s there’s time
when surely much of what’s new
when noticed might matter
to you or rather
D U E
I fear I forget that the frail,
nearly unable, but
when a whisper of Will…
when they muster an incalculable
measure of reach
to straighten, and lean up
for what’s due.
That’s alot to wait for
The Freshest thing in the clearing
by the pond’s sunk boat,
near a nest, There’s this ringing
drop, possibly just now dotting
one leaf, left just new
by all the dew
That’s what I wait for
March 8, 2017
young acidTongued Erato,
go forward yr foul followThrough,
spitWhisper her cryptic figures.
i’d dampen the barb,
reshapened of fogWebs.
i’ll soften all blows against the liveWire
i’ll try to translate all i need
from freed ashes
from the spillFree gashes in the flare’s hottest fireGrate.
If I could face the palace/Going holed up in a hotel/Is not one way I’d go
March 3, 2017
Still and night wind/
And still standing in/ Deep in the shadow end/
Waiting in the wading pool To see my moon bounce to me some/
Wait! At the airport bar the atmosphere swooned bountiful/
Maybe sating metaphoring mating whoring fourth down plays/
Bountifully Enhanced Last Chancing that face it, basicly it’s too late not to dare/
Back here I’m not so rough, I swoon my own way, I tarry, and my moon’s enough
(photo credit/Jared French/ Clinton)
.mangata: reflection of the moon on the sea at night (Swedish)
February 24, 2017
Neruda’s “impalpable ash”
In the fray of my own tiny ruins.
“If I touch/ near the fire/
And supports the clearing away all
Makes way to take less blinding steps away
From cave to climax
I’ve come to have left out
Crucial rescue tools
From my matutinal
Lost-combination locked bag of tricks.
In touch information.
(3 yrs back)
February 6, 2017
When we get a might old & quite daft/
We better wear sweaters as we waffle whether there’s a cold air night draft/
When we don’t remember/ all the holidays in september/
When we won’t remember/ When the hearth needs more timber/
We’d do windows wide open mornings/ & doors too snow storming/
Fruit left last long past their sweet-point/
Just short of when vermin/ just cavort into the joint/
We’ll start to tell our dreams, last night/
It’s a cinch/ we’ll end on that rain-drenched island, right?/
We’ll toss & turn on real green moss/
& you can barely feel we’re wearing wet white/
On a hunch/ Our punchlines/ Without fail/ Will get filled in/
On a promise/ Our premises will trail off & off & off again/
We’ll lose the car keys of sensibility/
We’ll lose some to the dark scenes of seniority
We will never forget to never let go