Every guy has to have his Eve; gal too, her Adam. If not an actual mortal, a blemish to blame; given, no, inserted undetectably and inoperably by God! "God made me do it: I had a really, really bad day!"
Tag: poetry
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Don’t Blame Me, Blame Bug!
Hercules beetle -
Green Time
To this day, some 40-odd years past, still I can recall that instant of offense: a negative taken to a shop for enlargement and some clueless dudes’ snide comment, “There’s a lots of green in that shot man!” I probably blushed offering no defense. The photo; my son hop-splashing across shallow, cold rock gurgling Holly Creek in glee, startled water and he, frozen blurs of joyous motion deemed forever known. Suspended trees' and banks' radiant greens swaddling him in infinite hues of caring. Is there such a thing as too much green; over-abundant life? Are there cravings for hard-gray walls, rarefied and songless air, worlds existing in a mirrored box of self? Slap! “Little mosquito shit!” I wince as he takes a sip of me into eternal green time.
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Nimbus
Wind awakens in courteous puffs
nudging drowsy trees to breathing, yet
allowing lazy-child chime a sleep-in.
Yawning sun flows over dew-sheen
in soft sighs, sating my August heart.
Yet, with the brimming, fear of the hollow
following; the known ebbing of hope
of this bliss someday returning.
Grass laid down his jeweled-cloak
to cast my steps in brief time, but
……my prints are fading fast behind;
I’ve laid no cave line, the way is lost.
One step passed bliss was taken:
one, two, then more into this alien tangle;
dew-bliss, now, only a suspect memory,
a dying nimbus, a heart’s quiver only.
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who knows?
Goldfinch ravishing the sunflowers! Too much yellow!
Too loud; his song demanding…screeching: Me! Me!
Entertaining, but not subtle enough for beauty? Maybe.
Though there are truths he does parade; offering for a fee.
Can beauty only be the delicate; truth only glaring?
“The truth is ugly!” “You can’t handle the truth!”
A curve of flesh, real, depicted or imagined can still
Elicit bliss; the intuited joy of the incorruptible line.
Gastrocnemius, Soleus, Iliotbial, Peroneus enfolded;
The legs perfection of muscle, tendon, bone and skin.
Middle-aged crisis guy entranced by a woman’s legs;
Her elongated neck’s porcelain skin, shiver releasing.
Does need dictate the beauty we see…becoming our truths?
Truth might be beauty; perceived beauty our only truths.
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Muse
Why search purposefully fabricated, lying walls,
That trashy sweet gum, this August depletion;
Listening for the….A…purveyor of truth?
Again, I enact this sweet, silencing ritual
With little nuance; certainly with no perfection.
With paper…neatly creased, and pen gently held
I smile, waiting for Muse to tweak the light.
Muse is our deliverance…or…our false prophet;
Which? “Ignorance is bliss.” Just give me light!
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Going out of Living Sale!
I’ll stick that sign at the end of the drive
Monitoring any respond…spying through
Cracks at the sides of shades, now drawn,
Which, unlike my neighbors’, were raised
Night and day in defiance of hidden lives.
Must I place items neatly on slackly shelves
Or will the sign itself be enough to summon
What I am seeking….and what am I craving;
A grimace, a laugh, a Jehovah’s Witness tract;
A splintered door jamb and feet rushing in?
What would adorn a shelf, entice another,
That they would not already have, though,
Perhaps, deny? My truths, though clean,
Sparkling spirals to me are likely idiocy
To them as theirs to me. The sign is enough.
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grackles swarm the trees
Once again, delightful squeaking swarms the trees,
celebrating en masse, here to there; chucked down
by some suspect deity who, for whatever reason,
laments or teases my petering out; my “it is what it is”Rescued, again, by one with a scratching voice;
compelling a lifting of chin, a prying away of eyes
from ground, from monitored, measured steps;
I search the canopy for Joy: There! She lingers! -
greed
Perhaps, I am too quick to call it Greed: this yearning for an accumulation, this lust of Mine! self-gratification, a trophy case crammed with coin, heads (metaphorical and otherwise), ivory trinkets carved of banned tusk, Likes, notches on the bedpost (that shows my age!) Firepower! The rich give, but not without accolades, plaques for display and….receipts. Nature demands self-interest if we are to survive, but studies show: the poor give more than the rich; percentage wise, of course! (that could be Fake News) One thing to me, another thing to you. What of a heart soothed by Riches lure more than thanks of those in need? Perhaps, I am too quick to call it greed; one thing to me, another thing to you. -
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.
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Bird
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?
Belated Words 