the window

i had a friend…intensely dear…who would wax poetic about the aftertaste of mocha, latte, and anything amaretto. she did not like coffee, she would proclaim, but the taste was a mnemonic link with her past. so she drank it, gulped it. like a never-ending rosary, she recited the line that it was necessary…

there were lines in her face. the ones that never left. the ones the foundation tried to hide. the ones that forced their way through a smile. she could not hide from them. for they were her history.

but i saw love in those lines. i saw gentleness. i saw a passion for life. not the fading years. not the fading promise…

in the stillness, i like to sit at my red and white checkered tablecloth, the candles lit, the flames flickering against reflecting panes, and remember those lines…the ones i said, the ones she said. they were not captured in the wind, nor written in a thousand poems, nor remembered on the five hundred miles home. but somewhere they are etched on a window beyond this place, beyond this time...

prelude to a promise

Though snow cover the whole world white

and death descend on the land like night

this season will pass ‘neath a coming storm

to wake us anew in a heavenly form…

 

 

 

 

 

questions in the dark

when I was twenty-three, I thought life was chocolate cake…

yet so many sobering faces confronted me

from the crowd that lived the longest-

no sunshine in their veins,

nor smiles in the topo lines etched in flesh 

their passing like the scent of a faded gardenia

or an old musty beige house,

sadness lingered like a mist about them.

 

solace was my grandmother’s friend

but a clueless mystery to a boy of nine

clinging to the porcelain edge while taking a bath

as if the flood of memories would invade the bathroom

and I the drowning captain of a big white boat…

but solace slept with sadness

and I saw her sleeping at an instant

when the grey eyes drooped and the mouth dropped.

 

but it terrified me at six when I tried to remember the sobbing sound

that came when I closed my eyes and opened my ears in the

dead of night, the purple black.

listening to the snoring wheezing of an old one in the room beside me

and wondering if it was catching, this sobbing sound-

would I get it too when I became as crusty as the old woman?

 

 

 

 

 

 

looking up…not down

when the mud is so thick

and the world is so cold

look to the heavens

to that city of Gold,

your reward awaits you

for all those long nights

you prayed for a miracle

for wrongs to become rights,

for all those long seasons

when hope kept you from fear

and you walked in the grey-light

your angels were there near,

for God has been watching,

indeed, God has been true,

so keep your eyes to the heavens

until God sees you through.

 

 

 

 

 

 

you capture my mood

you capture my mood

you capture my sun

so sorrow surrenders another day

dissipating droplets from finger-limbs

 

the rails will rust through another rain

and tears will wash away in the torrent

as you capture my breath

as you capture my wish

and I like these seasons

am renewed once again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

in the void of time

the world is cold, and unafraid,

but that world won’t let you go

the weight of my hands on this clod of dirt

as i stand before your throne

it’s not the Hill of Tara nor a piece of my mind

but a picture of you going home….

warmth, rush over me

hide me in the nothing 

the everything, the all you are

in the void of time………..

finger to tablet, lips to screen

you can kiss it a million times

before these eyes see another flower like this

they will be digging them inside my mind

and as the fierce wind blows, and the fire grows

there’s a silence of a different kind…

warmth, rush over me-

hide me in the nothing,

the everything, the all you are…

in the void of time…………………….

warmth, rush over me-

hide me in the nothing,

the everything, the all you are…

in the void of time

you are tempting, tasty, and true

you are tempting, tasty, and true

on a lightly

toasted

bun

or another kind of one

flat or crispy…

you…you tickle my tongue licking my lips

you are better than pastry

better than bread

butter

in a stick or in a spread…

nothing like you

in this world of the living

not dead.

butter

o lovely butter

you have my heart.

it is that time of year again when poets around the globe begin polishing their poetry for the Bad Poetry of 2014 Poetry Awards. Are you ready? Do you have an offering for the white porceline throne?

or, are you engaged in serious poetry?

i am not yet engaged, nor single minded…but eagerly awaiting the final four…

a tornado comes to Garrett Hill

gray outstretched arms

waving without and within,

a song sent over the ridge

ridge-crest-covering crescendo,

ripping siding from wall-sides

snapping the breath from my dried lips…

face to the ground, face to the ground…….

a glob of bright red acrylic paint

and a whispering, a whispering above my ears

the breath of God came and took her

though the body on the tailgate…

these tears painting are painting her face

Rebirth

where men worked tired hours

weight of the years digging

shovels bigger than city houses

only the dust of history remains.

where lunchboxes sat in the windy sun,

a grey soil remains,

a mineral face.

it whistles like a piper’s tune-

that wind from nowhere 

where tails ride out the breezes

and birds dive into blue holes,

and history changes-

rebirth. 

Turn Right At The Sign of The Dead Raccoon

 

she turned to look me square in the eye…

“you best be going off on this road”

and pointing to the map, there sitting in my lap

why, this is the story she sowed…

 

“turn right at the sign of the dead raccoon

and follow this road that is long

and sing that old Irish anthem you sing

and you’ll be there ‘fore you finish that song.”

 

so i took my map and i took up my keys

and i traced long the red road divide

and up and down this ol’ car went round

to the top of Potts Mountain side.

 

but the car it was shaking as i kept up my snaking

round and round- oh she went

till the car was baking and i felt like breaking

as my nerves like gunshells were spent

 

till the top i saw and the sound of the caw

of a crow of some gigantic size

 let me know i was there sitting hard in my chair

with a breather ‘fore descending that rise

 

so i prayed a couple prayers, and i prayed i would not fall

and i turned the car to descend

wiggling around as the bends go slowly down

till at last coming to a great mighty bend

 

there that old road slipped down into town

and the sign said i had made it to the West

so i slowed down a tad, seeing it was so bad

with a side full of potholes at best

 

till down on the plain as i sped up again

i found that the road broke in two

so i noticed the right opening up straight

and i drove on the road that was blue

 

it was there on the map, a mighty blue line

unlike that old red one i’d found

and this narrow trail always had a guardrail

not a thousand foot fall to the ground.