Belated Words

Write On!

Category: Poems

  • Witness

    The leaves are gone.  Wind rejoices in
Their leaving for their dance betrays;
Painting hints of body on his shame.

Shoulders cringe under iced breath
ravaging this frigid, emptying street.
Chimes to the right sing winds intent,

To flee this memory, falling behind,
To allow us to lie in a contrived bliss
Like those wreaths on those graves.
    The leaves are gone.  Wind rejoiced in
their leaving for their dance betrayed:
painting hints of body on his shame.

A witness of this carnage, he whirled
in helplessness, sharing horrid chaos
with us despite our hands over our ears.

Shoulders cringe beneath iced-breath
ravaging this frigid, manicured yard.
Chimes to the right sing winds intent

to flee this memory, fall far away,
to lie in a contrived complacency like
these plastic wreaths on these graves.

  • Bird

    OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

    Speckle/breasted thrasher chucks the one-eye;

    tschuck!…tschuck!…tschuck! he warns and scolds

    perceived encroaching.  Sorry, I mumble at his cry.

    How did I reach this instant, this soul plateau,

     

    accepting censure from an ill-mannered bird….

    his chirps articulate, more true than mine;

    their spring pure unlike my struggling words

    failing to fathom their season, their place in time?

  • Gossamer Chain

    Clinking gossamer of phantom links

    Weak as will, strong as adoration,

    Binds us One from our separate shores,

     

    At times, dangling to currents tumult,

    Jerking, teasing a tangled bereavement.

    But, at times, tensing to beams of bliss.

  • Plastic Flowers

    Gaia reveals the truth, at times,

    Not subtly, but rocking….tumbling

    What we deem rock and tumble proof.

    That flora in that window box,

    So bright and white and red; erect

    Despite this freeze? Distance deceives

    Our naive hearts and eyes effortlessly.

    Scent would have squealed; revealed the fib.

    Too high the price a sniff demands?

    We “hem and haw” and she larks.

    Our claims of dominion, our crow,

    As meaningless as plastic blooms.

  • Haiku

    shells fall as spring rain…

    the widows child dies…and yet

    hearts are leaping pups

  • Calla

     

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    Calla lends herself to lyric,

    Flowing lines sync; visual rhyme.

    You and me, our whining’s, not so much.

     

    She exist in pastel syllables,

    Cello bliss, dabs from the sacred palette;

    Copyrighted; forbidden to us, by ourselves.

     

    Deprived, we paint only you and me:

    Gray lamentations, stark primary tints;

    Decrying fate in strident sketches

     

    Of perceived losses and longings.

    Satiation, our illusive deity;

    Calla, complete, an ignored embrace.

  • Heart’s Script

     

    We all bear witness, self-sworn daily,

    speaking our lies, shinier than truth;

    painting ourselves, molding a visage

    of reflections from fouled mirrors.

     

    We profess enlightenment yet cling

    to darkness choosing each sin care-

    fully writing new, discreet definitions.

    What is written will endure; flourish.

     

    Our heart’s script perishes with flesh.

     

  • ordinary people

    Must there be a differentiation, a notedness,

    an elevation above, a falling below, a middling?

    Does Gaia favor fierce or meek, exotic or plain?

    Does ranking serve our need to condescend? 

     

    I resist the rant when the phrase is proffered,

    again and again, naming us ordinary people.

    I will let my beast strut, flaunt my plumage;

    flare my hand-painted hackles and post a selfie.

    IMG_20161111_133637506

     

  • you and me

    I knew you would come today! I knew.
    They’re good to me here, really, they are.
    They’re not the same though……as family.
    Have you seen your brother? That rascal!

    Can’t come to see his old Mama…ha, ha!
    Is he retired like you? Can’t afford it,
    I guess. I would send him money to come.
    I still have some money don’t I? Well…..

    How long have I been here? Five years!
    It only seems a few months. They are
    good to me here. I would not stay if they
    were mean to me…I would go home today.

    A new place, I mean…..I know I can walk
    but they won’t walk me anymore…help me
    up, to try. Well, then…I guess I’ll stay…they
    are good to me here. I would leave if not.

    I sat by the window this morning…the trees
    they are dogwood…aren’t they…are beautiful.
    Is it warm outside? They keep it so cold in here.
    I need a new jacket. See, my sleeve is torn.

    Yes frayed… well then, whenever you can.
    Let me tell you…this morning…sitting there
    at the window watching the trees…dogwoods,
    I had the most wonderful feeling I’ve ever felt.

    God said we would feel that way in heaven
    all the time…every minute of endless days!
    I can’t wait to see your Daddy there again.
    You have a baby sister in heaven too, waiting.

    God told me it was a girl. The doctor couldn’t
    tell back then…I was just a month along or so.
    Something happened….I never would cause it.
    Your Daddy and our baby are watching for us.

    But she might be grown now; raised in heaven
    by your sweet Daddy! Who knows how it works
    up there. Raised in Heaven! She would be a true
    angel. Something we can never be…you and me.

  • He was born to ride that ass

     

    He was born to ride that ass

    though plow-handle legs rigid

    flaunting bare feet, toes splayed,

    might be read as reticence.

    •

    Through the four-way shamming

    nonchalance pretend bugle blaring

    his tune of eminence’s arrival,

    he clopped. To to, to to, to toot!

    •

    Eschewing drive-through his ass

    clopped bank lobby; Clop! Clop!

    “Hooves on marble! So delicious!”

    “I like your neck-beard.” teller said.

     •

    “Unkemptness is a fashionable virtue;

    a visual cue denoting ones calling

    to a higher sect.” Poet explained.

    To to, to to, to toot! To toot!

     •

    With bewilderment he studied

    his pointer pointing to infinity.

    “Is infinity always up?” he inquired

    without a clue. “Merits further

    contemplation, a sonnet at least”

    Clop, clop, clop! “Delicious!”