Belated Words

Write On!

  • The Blissful are Pardoned

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    We walk daily; Fuzz, so ravenously alive,

    reclaiming spots he owned the day before,

    brashly stolen, claimed by a vagabond mutt.

    This was my take at first, his selfishness:

    primal greed.

    Now I see only frantic glee of knowing wafted

    through quivering nostrils scripture enshrined in golden globes

    left to entice on green/grass blades and sticks.

    He wears the mantel of joy reading ecstatic visions;

    cheeks pulsating, pulling in holograms only he can see.

    wonders I can never see….never imagine!

    Fuzz is joyous in his bliss of piss and I

    cursed with crude senses, can only cry for his joy;

    for joy is joy, not to be diminished.

    If he in canine/glee jerks our tether in disregard of me,

    I still can only smile though yanked, drug hard

    from bush to yellow spot of grass and post.

    The blissful are pardoned for thoughtlessness.

  • Ambushed

    Just an old man on a fast, healthful walk,

    I was ambushed on quiet Magnolia Street;

    my assailants, two boys, seven or eight,

    flaunted their plastic guns from their dead yard.

    One sprayed me from the hip, old-gangster style,

    the other, took careful head and chest shots,

    leering at me with deliberate calm.

    Refusing to ordain their murder play,

    the chest/clutching drama/death of feigned pain

    on a twisted face, which they demanded;

    I threw them my pain and a snubbing of

    their killing fields, a dam/you/glare as only

    an old man tired of rote/learning/games can.

    Incessant perforations of the air

    by forced/breathe bullets pursued me far past

    my escape around the corner to Oak.

    Their muddled voicings of derisive taunts

    rent the air for my refusal to die.

  • The Winds Lament

    The leaves are fallen and the wind laments

    their leaving for they mark his passage

    painting visibility on the ethereal.

    My face and ears feel a cold breath

    face/on as our directions collide

    on this sunny yet cold, empty street.

    A chime to my right sings winds intent,

    his hope to fly till the tumult of his birth

    dissipates to calm, allowing him to lie

    and rest quietly as a wreath on a grave.

  • Yellowstone: 1989

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    Bison moseyed nonchalantly huge

    among our tents, hushing with awe,

    on their way down to the Yellowstone

    to drink in saffron, morning light.

    The kids, dumbstruck, pointed in glee

    as one mountainous beast halted

    and glared; signing with oracle eyes:

    “Today I will be your token beast.

    Tomorrow you will be mine; locked

    in amber, stone and layered time.

     

    I will hoove your useless remains;

    eating grasses from cranial urns 

    recalling nothing of your holocaust.”

    Can beast, once a coveted commodity

    slaughtered for trophy, flesh or skin,

    mimic disdain? I know I saw it there.

    Guilt mandates we heap self-accolades

    for our forbearance against a token few

    free, yet still, goods for our pleasure.

    Will we be allotted a token few to roam?

  • Rose Box

    Oak and Cedar Box

    Natural, unstained, just shaped by my hand;

    every so gently, my fingers caress

    your lustrous, polished surfaces.

    Is it your innate beauty I cherish,

    or my own creation I so admire?

  • Far off the path

    Far off the path, once for wagons, horses and sturdy legs, now returned to green/growth and rut/ravaged into a faint trail I find the place spoken of, the necessary spring source, hidden in tangled vines/web, secreted away below a stone surround snugged in emerald moss; now briefly guarded by March’s pale bluebell sentinels.

    The only evidence of human touch: the dry-stacked surround and haunting creaks…muffled thuds….underfoot of roof/tin buried beneath a century’s damp humus. No foundation stones, roof rafters or siding survive; all salvaged or burned or rotted away by nature’s plan.

    Searching for origins of myth; family tales hinted of this place; of skimpy, poor raisings and violent pasts; of one, if word of mouth can be believed, being strung by his neck in this, his yard, from this massive oak, in front of family for desertion from the war that cleaved both family flesh and a nation’s harmony myth. Voices still cry from beneath the ground, some say, but I only hear flora sway and taste the water’s cooling release; the taste savored by the one hanged in this, his once yard.

    Mountain laurel, head high, further extends the shade and boast purest porcelain, blood/pink-tinged, blossoms. Minute Bird-foot violets peer …surprised…from the knurled feet of the oak that lives with shame of complicity. The earth thrust spiraling fern/fronds upward in rampant arrays, prayerfully uncoiling, reaching for dappled pale light, offering beauty’s recompense for the chaos and raging rants of her progeny.

  • spring place

    Off a path once for wagons and sturdy

    legs, now rutted and rocked into a trail,

    I find the source, the spring-head spoken of,

    sleeping in deep shaded vines, secreted

    by a low, sweating stone surround, finely

    encased in velvety/emeralded moss

    and guarded by pale bluebell sentinels.

    The only evidence of human touch,

    the surround and haunting creaks beneath leaves

    of roof/tin’s leaf/muffled thud underfoot.

    The jeweled woods thrust spiraling fern/fronds up

    in rampant arrays of prideful bearings

    uncoiling toward the dappled pale light.

    Minute individuals of Bird-foot

    violet and Indian Pipe peer from

    bases of old-growth pine and giant popular.

    Mountain laurel, head high, darkening the shade

    boast purest porcelain blossoms of white.

    •

    I came searching for origins of myth:

    family history told of this place,

    of skimpy raisings and violent pasts.

    Of one, if word of mouth can be believed,

    strung by his neck in this, his yard, in front

    of family for desertion from the war

    that cleaved what little harmony was here.

    Voices still cry from beneath the humus

    some say, but I only hear flora sway

    and taste the spring’s trickling, cooling release.

  • weather rant

    It seems to me, man has changed the planet and thus the weather and I don’t see that being reversed.  I am not a very optimistic person, I guess. But the earth will survive; life will adapt,some species may perish (even man) but others will take their place. I see it as part of a natural process.  All life, as we know it, may at some time become extinct on earth but it will be a process (though aided by man) out of the control of man.  Man’s belief in his power, both for creativity and destruction, is, to me, arrogant and delusional.  That is not to said that we should not be striving to correct the damage we’ve done and feeling great shame for what we have allowed to take place.

  • Leaves

    Should I be raking leaves; they’re piling up?

    My yard sleeps beneath a saddle-brown snow

    complete with two/foot drifts snug around shrubs.

    The paths and spent flowers seem content though,

    resting without pressure to be well-groomed.

    My eyes tell me this without judgment of

    their own; leaving the decision for me.

    Taking my cue from nature, I chose to

    lie fallow and rest beneath a rich snow.

  • The Moth

    Your history flows freely:

    a gently bubbling shower massage;

    effervescent revelations of sweetness,

    moist longings and caustic bitterness.

    They twirl and coil,

    these memories of your considerable passion.

    My acceptance of one entices another

    and another and with each a glance

    from gleaming eyes, demure and measuring,

    wondering at my salient calm.

    I wonder: how close can I linger,

    how long can I sooth and be soothed

    before my dusty wings explode in flame?