Sindoor Sun

(Painting by Sunita Khedekar)

Veiled from the setting sindoor sun

by a charcoal roof

and shaded downcast eyes,

I still feel your tears on my face—

what are these thoughts I think

in the gray of a fading day?

Just to know, for my own sake,

I look from the window

as we used to do, to see

if the fishermen’s boats

still glistened in the

setting sindoor sun.

__________________________________

For dVerse. Grace has us writing with color in mind, using artwork by Sunita Khedekar for inspiration. It's been such a long while since I've posted anything, but Sunita's work is so powerful I just had to give this a go. Click here for info. on sindoor. Please visit dVerse and write something you can share with us; at the very least, you owe it to yourself to check out Sunita's art. Incredible work!

Poppy's Brush Pile

Poppy’s Brush Pile

Poppy liked to tell the story

about the time he did a little

yard cleaning and had a grand old pile

of brush and leaves, probably

about ten feet high more than likely,

and reckoned he couldn’t  

bag it all, that Ketchem’s

didn’t have enough bags to sell

even if he’d a-wanted to, so he

figured on it awhile and settled on

a big burning as the best way—

shortly the pile would be gone,

and while it was a-going he could

set on the porch and just watch.

So he took a dry bunch of leaves

up under the pile and dropped

his half-smoked Marlboro.

One tiny spark and a smidgen

of smoke and nothing else.

Well, this ain’t working

worth shooting, he said.

Then he went to the porch

and got a-hold of the morning paper,

crinkled it all up, stuffed it

in the pile and lit a match.

The paper burnt quick

and awful hot but petered out

before doing its business—

‘bout like my pecker, Poppy said—

so he went back to figuring.

Then he remembered that five-gallon can

of regular gasoline he had sitting

in the shed, and he wasn’t about

to let a damned brush pile

make a fool of him. He took the can

and scrabbled to the top, standing

like the precious good Lord

come again on Mount Olive,

and dumped the gas all over the pile.

‘Course it took awhile to pour

five gallons, so in the meantime

the fumes worked their way

all into the little pockets

of air. As you might guess

but Poppy didn’t, not quite yet,

when the match was dropped

the blast blowed him

clear into the flower bed,

heels heavenward. He said he smelt

singed ass-hairs for two weeks after.

He liked to tell this story and say,

See there, honey, even if you reckon

you got the best idea, you still

might want to figure awhile.

------------------------------

For dVerse Meeting the Bar. I have been absent from the bar for a few months, and sincerely missed everyone. Peak season at work, tons of overtime. I still was able to do a fair amount of reading, but very little writing. Just couldn't find the motivation, the inspiration, the whatever it is that makes me put pen to paper and try to make sense of my world. 

Anyway, our host Tony Maude has us hearkening back to previous prompts, and since I missed so many I felt a lot of freedom. This poem is meant for the prompt Victoria offered, in which she invited us to write close to home, personal, in the common speech of daily life. I actually had another poem ready that I wrote last night, but things happened and I didn't submit. Then as I was falling asleep I thought about this story, so I wrote it out this morning.

Apologia Pro Vita Sua

On the bill tonight at dVerse Form for All—Googlism poetry! Sam Peralta invites us to create a list poem by using the search results from this site. To create mine, I searched for “nico” and chose several results that were incomplete sentences or thoughts that I felt I could do something with. These make up the first line of each stanza, unmodified from the original. The second lines are just whatever first surfaced in my disturbed head. The title is Latin for "a defense of one's life."

Apologia Pro Vita Sua

nico is finding that his fumbling around with this pal is leading
       to unavoidable personal discomfort for both parties.

nico is based on the fick method,

       but is a bigger ficking method ficker than a real fick.

nico is also ex

       -plained very well by nothing known to humankind.

nico is a quadruped robot which is based upon principles of 4

        legs.

nico is designing

       a fool-proof means of escape.

nico is ready to stop while dani is clearly interested in

       continuing. It’s an age-old plot.

nico is without a doubt extremely smart
       -assed.

nico is really impacted by the beauty

       of a stiff bourbon.

nico is gay

       friendly.

nico is currently for sale for more information please contact us at

       the discount booth.

nico is one of the most flabbergasting electric bass virtuosi i've heard
       people say, but they were undoubtedly lying to me. Or I might have said that

nico is one of the most flabbergasting electric bass virtuosi i've heard
       and the word “flabbergasting” always makes me think of enormous butt cheeks vibrating 

       from the forcible expulsion of air from the rectum.

nico is a happy boy who is great with children of all ages and dogs too

       --it’s the big humans he has a problem with.

nico is as nico does

       so get over it.

-----------------------------

Moloch

Moloch

    Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone!

                                             --Allen Ginsburg

Drilling   spilling   pumping

                                                blasting

                                                      

removing every mountaintop

to find the pearl

of great price

casting the star

named Wormwood

into every river

made bitter

unwilling to say—Enough!

until every son and every daughter

has passed through the fire . . .

I stand off

and see the smoke of burning,

and the circle-jerk

of those who wax rich

through the abundance

of her delicacies.

O God!                         We all

(yes, stupid fuckers one and all)

invoked this beast insatiable

conjured

him from the smoky pit in order

to have our way with him,

this pet that does not merely

bite the tit

that feeds it—

it devours all

sometimes slowly

                              over time

sometimes

                   in one huge gulp.

--------------------------------

Tonight is beat poetry at dVerse MeetingtheBar. Even if you aren't up to writing tonight, you owe it to yourself to head on over to read Gay's informative article. I took inspiration tonight from Ginsburg, John of the Apocalypse, Jeremiah the Old Testament prophet, and human greed and stupidity. Seemed like a good blend for a beat poem to me.

Running

Running

I return today to Shingle Creek,

walking in the fine fall afternoon

alone. Wading through the shallows

to the east bank, right where the creek

cuts close to the old Bronson place,

I feel like the last ancient Israelite

crossing the Red Sea, barely ahead

of Pharaoh’s chariots.

                                     Crouching low

under the barb-wire fence I swish

through the shin-high grass, the humming

dragonflies hunting insects, shining

their blues and greens

in the lowering sun.

                                 I hear

a tractor in the distance, the rumble

carrying far in the clear air,

and I think about that day

we ran, you and I, making paths

through the field, pretending we were

dirt bike champions, shifting gears

by the rising tone of our growls.

For hours we ran, stopping just to catch

a lazy red corn snake sunning

on a sweetgum stump.

                                     I know

that with these old knees

I couldn’t run like that now, not by

any luck or necessity; and you,

old friend, only in memory

will ever run here again.

--------------------------------------------

For dVerse MeetingTheBar. We are writing about friends, friendship, loss, in honor of Dave King. Dave was a regular contributor to the online poetry world (at least until his health limited his participation), and his kindness and craft will be missed.

Relics

Relics

The mountains that in ages

past were level plateaus;

the shoreline that has

not kept its place;

the bones of extinction layered

like words in a holy book,

telling the story

of what once was;

the changing sky,

a glimpse of the universe

passing, rolled together

as a scroll.

Everything

everywhere

always

never

            the same,

yesterday’s relics,

like the boarded-up shops

in any small town.

---------------------------------------------

For dVerse OpenLinkNight. Claudia's post had me thinking about culture, history, place, and this is what came out. 

when my time comes

when my time comes

these days I rarely

have a prayer to say

but one in my

stumbling way

to whatever

listening gods

when my time comes

let me be as the trees

releasing browning leaves

letting them tumble

gently down

------------------------------------------

Goodness. It's been a while. Tonight for dVerse Meeting the Bar, Victoria Slotto has tempted us to write a spicy, erotic, or touchy-subject poem (death, religion, politics, hot-button issues) using metaphor and image to elaborate the point. Of course I chose to write about death, a touchy subject for some people, with a little religion thrown in for good measure.

The Skeptic

The Skeptic

this poem wanted

to be written

l   o   n   g   h   a   n   d

do you see what i did there

making my poem self-aware

as if things become

more believable

by little tricks

of consciousness

i don’t believe

my own tricks

no i’m not truly skeptical

since i have an inflexible

belief in doubt

--------------------------

dVerse MeetingtheBar night, hosted by poet Brian Miller. Brian has us paring down to essentials, crafting stories of 55 words, no more, no less. I suppose mine might be more anti-story than story, but it goes that way sometimes. Check out all the great poets posting tonight, and maybe write a poem of your own to share. Happy Birthday, Brian!

The Last Meal

as you sit

elegant

in the soft lampglow

i notice

careful shoulders

              sloped away

no telling word

hurdles the pearls

pulled tight

on dimpled neck

-------------------------------------

I know, this is very late. I've been slack about writing new poetry. Laziness plays a big role. Not felt well the last few weeks, some kind of tummy virus, which did give me poopertunity to make some new doo-doo jokes but otherwise left me uninspired. Anyway, last night Sam Peralta hosted the dVerse FormForAll, prompting us to try our hand at writing Twitter poetry--that is, poetry that fits within the character limits imposed by Twitter. I thought, Surely I can write a poem of 140 characters despite illness and laziness and lack of inspiration and all the other enemies of creativity. So here it is, exactly 140 characters (using creative spacing for a few characters). I also tried to channel my inner Wallace Stevens, in memory of the anniversary of his death today. The title is not actually part of the 140 character limit. If that troubles you, just pretend it's not there.

A Dead Deer Reminds Me of William Blake

A Dead Deer Reminds Me of William Blake

She hit it before she had time

to swerve or stomp on the brakes—

the deer wide-eyed in the windshield,

then stretched out on the roadside

as if placed there on purpose.

A tan and white mound of once-life

now dying, the round red intestines

exposed on the grass still

digesting the last meal of clover.

While the deer stubbornly died

she trembled at the curb

in helpless sorrow and cried,

and I couldn't help but think that her tears

were proof that sometimes we can

even comprehend Blake:

Every thing that lives is Holy.

But what about the dead? Blake again:

If thou art the food of worms,

how great thy blessing!

A day later the buzzards gathered,

nodding bald heads in agreement.

_______________________

Last October I wrote my first poem for dVerse, a marvelous online poetic community. It happened to be a Meeting the Bar prompt. So imagine my happiness to find that for tonight's Meeting the Bar Tony Maude has invited us to choose a prompt from the previous year to use as inspiration for a poem. I blended a few prompts together for this one--obviously, Victoria's Literary Allusion prompt. And Anna's prompt, The Unfathomable, which I didn't have opportunity to write for the first time around. One might also judge this poem as an example of Anna's High/Low Art prompt. At any rate, while it's been a fun year, I wish I could have been more consistent. A poet's family cannot live by words alone!

Balloons

Balloons

They gave balloons to all the kids,

in hopes (my guess) of keeping

them occupied as parents shopped.

Helium-filled, squeaky red spheres

of shimmering joy, tied on each slender

wrist, and the scheme did work,

for a while at least, until we

tried to take it off to strap him

in his seat and he screamed

holy hell; and we fingered

the string to feed him supper,

and he fought us off; and it was

time for bath and there was No Way

he was going to wear it in the tub,

but he gave our ears such a

buffeting that we gave in, washing

around the knotted white twine.

Then time for bed, and now

for sure he would obey or else,

and the hollering resumed; finally

I had enough, took the balloon

in my furious hands and wrenched—

Pop! My sudden act of benevolence.

And later, sleepless, I wondered if God

felt guilty for ending our fun

over one shiny red obsession.

---------------------------------

--Submitted to dVerse OpenLinkNight. Come join in!

Nightmares

Last week, my friend and fellow poet Henry Clemmons posted a poem about nightmares. This afternoon when I sat down to write his poem was still in my head, so I thought I'd run with it. Thanks Henry; and please, poets, send your week's thoughts to dVerse OpenLinkNight!

Nightmares

The night-fears return,

a little green man

with clicking teeth

and omnipotent eyes,

fingers pungent red

gripping a corner, any corner,

leveraging a feline pounce

to send me running,

running, I cannot see

my unsteady footfall

pounding on

and on —

terror, stale-tasting

like motionless basement air,

and if it weren’t for nightmares

we’d want to close our eyes

and sleep all

the live-long day.

Parlor

Parlor

The room was kept dark,

funereal silence only broken

by the hum of the fish tank filter.

A few bookshelves, lined with

Encyclopedia Britannica

and the latest children’s

books, the kind one might find

in a hospital waiting room,

all pulled invitingly close

to each shelf lip.

In one corner

a piano, never played,

now that she’s gone,

and the water in the fish tank

constantly drips

like the tears that wrinkle

the unread pages of your book.

-----------------------

Submitted to dVerse OpenLinkNight. A lot of good poetry happens over there tonight--type a few lines and send them in! 

Alterity

For dVerse OpenLinkNight. Short and sweet. Share your poem, long or short, polished or still in progress.

Alterity

That vast space between

I                            

                                 you.

Under

a gibbous moon,

philosophy failed,

and there I laid you

down, I laid you down.

It Is Enough

Anna got me thinking about willing, wishing, answering the call in her great post on dVerse Meeting the Bar. I put a few lines together, but nothing seemed to fit the prompt as well as this older poem, slightly reworked. My apologies to the few who may have already read this one. 

It Is Enough

I heard my share

of sermons, serving

time on straight-backed

pews, begrudging each

moment lost

                     to eternity.

My elders sat willingly           

in expectation

of heavenly reward, glad

to leave all worldly affairs,

glad to rest weary bones

if only for a moment.

They meant well.

I see that now, now

that my own bones

need rest, now that

I hope beyond all hope

to be free in the divine.

But we will never

decipher the mystery, try

as we might. Will we?

All we have from him

we already know,

written bold:

do not kill,

do not steal,

do unto others.

We stumble over what

we do not have: the

in-between-the-lines,

shrouded, incomprehensible,

written in sand, faint

markings that lead us

to belief or despair. I believe

it is enough to want

to believe. It is enough.

Bump

(Image credit: http://redwasp.net/)

Another dVerse OpenLinkNight, hosted by the illustrious Claudia Schoenfeld. Making connections. Here, I make a connection with a red wasp. We are not so different after all. Post your poem and join in!

Bump

In my pickup waiting,

window open to the day,

a red wasp lands

on the dusty dashboard

to clean her legs, rubbing

them earnestly on her

heart-shaped head.

Bump Bump Bump

She tries to take off,

lifting her cinnamon body

upward only to bounce

off the windshield. Again,  

Bump. She pauses, puzzled,

seeing the same blue sky

above, the familiar yellow

pine dust floating, the ordinary

soft air just overhead.

Bump.

With something akin to rage

her stinger pulses, in and out;

and I, with utter gentleness, lift

her to the open window,

knowing what it is

to go Bump.

Alone

Tonight at dVerse, our hostess, Victoria Slotto, invites us to write something with voice, passion--something about which we are motivated, inspired, excited, or outraged. This one is not really up to those standards, but it is about an event that held deep feeling for me at that time of my childhood. And I think it does ring with my voice, such as it is (that is, I think it's typical of the kind of stuff I usually write!). Come share with us!

Alone

That blazing afternoon

when I chased an ill-thrown ball

into the front yard, and saw

your shoes beside our car’s

open door, your upturned

purse, and you were nowhere,

and what can you expect

from a boy weaned on

Armageddon and the Imminent

Return of Almighty Christ?

In the twinkling of an eye,

we were told, and the blood

rushed to my hair-tips, and I looked

for you, would not be comforted.

And later, you came home and told us

how you saw little Randy

running across the street, careless,

and the black low-slung sports car

screeching, flinging him into the air,

and before he came tumbling down

you had dropped your purse, run out

of your shoes, and he would be

all right, just a few broken bones,

but I thought you were gone

to be with Jesus, one taken

and the other one left,

and never again have I felt

so alone.

Watching

Another dVerse OpenLinkNight. Grace, host of tonight's event, has me thinking about spring. Write a few lines, send them in, and join the fun!

Watching

The storm, asking

no permission, broke

fiercely. Never one

to miss a good show,

I took a hard-backed chair

and cold beer out

on the front porch. How

long I sat

watching the water

thrash the trees and

tumble from the eaves,

I don’t know.

My reverie was broken

when I heard a voice

from the neighboring porch.

Hey there! Earl hollered out

over the storm noise.

Just watching it rain! I yelled back.

I hear you, brother!

The rain continued

to fall,

delicate drops

now, baptizing

the new grass.

We both went back

to watching.

The Holding Hand

Too many nights spent at work. Submitting this to dVerse Open Link Night, in the sincere hope that I'll have the leisure to read and comment this week. Come join us!

The Holding Hand

The holding hand

knows its happiness—

a woody bourbon;

a well-made tool;

or the warm secrets

of your body,

late at night.

Miracle

Another poem about birds. And common miracles. And other stuff. Submitted to dVerse OpenLinkNight.

Miracle

And the ravens brought him bread and flesh in the morning,

and bread and flesh in the evening; and he drank of the brook.

Through the open window

I hear the titmice pecking

the seeds held firmly

in their feet, coat-button

eyes and electrified tuft

giving them the look

of habitual astonishment,

like old ladies who pluck

their eyebrows into

overturned vees.

Nothing really surprises them,

though, not even when I swing open

the storm door to take out

the trash; they drop

their meal and dart away, scolding

me from the top

of the crape myrtle, glad

for the chance to dramatize

a non-event.

Inverting the miracle

of Elijah’s food-bearing ravens,

they return a moment later

for a fresh seed.