We will not be simplified
into five colors and a heart.
We are deeper than a painter’s plate.
Silent laughter is far off thunder
pressed behind my sternum,
straining to get out.
We know, the smile is meant for freedom,
not to be hidden behind our hands,
to sit and sour and sicken us.
We will not be deafened,
drowned out by the rain.
We are swifter than a flashy flood.
Blind trust is branching lightning,
after images dance behind my eyes,
blinking to fade away.
We know, the sight is meant for understanding,
not to be hidden behind our screens,
to drift and daze and dazzle us.
We will not be forgotten,
by those who close their minds.
We are brighter than a rising star.
Careless joy is thrashing wind,
nudging me along from behind,
tripping to keep up.
We know, feet are meant for dancing,
not to be pressed into the floor,
sore and slipped up and still.
This old house gasps great steady gulps
of rain ready wind
to hold it, musty and close
For dull blue daze ahead.
Our decadence is presumed
when there aren’t enough Swedes
to go around,
or give us eggs, hardly-boiled.
So here we are, let’s
break the sky,
sipping icy lemons, renew traces,
perspiring of athletes’ expirations.
I burned my tongue on chocolate
kept eating anyway.
I don’t know why she let you
dress me, when I didn’t know
better or worse. Maybe,
this time, it won’t hurt so bad.
In the distance are the mountains,
blue in the gathering night.
City lights wink and glimmer before us.
I know this road; I see a familiar sign,
what relief, the name of my home.
Behind us, brief friendships, bright reunions,
aching feet, and smiling hearts,
glowing warm with memories of motion.
Still now, we smile, remember laughing times,
reclining in soft exhaustion, we are home again at last.
Sorry, I’m still not terribly inspired at the moment. Anyway, I don’t like it much, but it’s good enough for having just gotten back home and with little time to spare.
Today, poetry is not in my hands, but in my feet.
I can put steps to music easy as breathing,
but don’t ask me to make words good.
Today, the fiddle and the accordion move me.
The mandolin and the drum get my foot tapping,
but my hands just go where the music says.
Today, I revel in giant floor fans and breezy doorways,
in marvelous bands and old-time friends.
no poetry is in my hands today, my feet have danced it all away.
When roads smooth out
and the rain is brief,
we keep Clementine nearby
to nick technology.
Then suddenly, white above
and blue below, sight-seen,
hold on to your launches,
the swerve is sickening.
Funny how way-stations
are only for couriers anymore,
while scenic lavender hillsides
for nomads to pitch their cheese.
break the wagon’s axel,
and no little battery can fix it,
we write to Mr. Morse to keep our pieces.
The slate is singing,
we wonder where it went.
It was Earth Day, after all,
why can’t it stay there?
It’s all the same from there to here,
except perhaps the voices.
Even the trees are the same shades of pink
and we’ve all got similar choices.
I was unable to post yesterday because I was traveling to a contra dance. I wrote this poem on the way there, and it’s all observations of things i saw or experienced on the road.
Having recently realized
how woefully limited
I am in poetic form,
with my crowded words and lines,
I decided to do one of those spacey poems,
With lots of
Sounding less like greens and peas with a lemon squeeze,
more like five dry beans in an empty pail,
and addressed to the brief little spider who finds himself
Quite suddenly dead
I’m sorry, but I’m as uncomfortable with you as I am
With empty space between my lines.
I want to squash both flat and together
in neat little stanzas smeared
into the carpet.
Isle of Pines
This one was inspired by Lowe’s paint sample chips. I love looking at all the different names for colors, and they often (for marketing purposes) have a pleasant ring to them, so I thought I’d try to arrange some of the ones I’ve collected into a pleasing rhythm and cadence.