My Brain is a Dog
which has its ups and downs.
Lunging on his leash,
he takes me places I may not want to go,
sniffing nuanced scents of random thoughts found along the trail.
I dare not let him roam
lest I lose my mind.
But what to do?
Make him march in time with logic’s haughty steps?
To be ever cogent and correct
seems a little cold, even cruel.
Maybe fence him in a big backyard,
let his neurons freely fire,
with no fear of burning down the house.
He eats his meals from shelves of books
and snacks upon the bits and bytes
of googlicious treats.
There’s lots of
who and what, where and when,
but mostly
why, oh why, oh why?
He keeps me up half the night,
paws pounding round
the racetrack of my head,
chasing squirrels of what’s to come,
and what’s been left behind.
No matter what the night might bring,
the squeaky toy of his existence
wakes me every dawn to greet another day,
another day of work and play.
Good boy!
Poetry and Prose
“we’re wonderful one times one”
—e e cummings
Newlywed
they sat atop
the poet’s
lofty perch,
resolved to fly
above the fray.
No sooner did they flap their wings
Than all their plans came crashing down.
They quickly learned that life is better lived
If feet are planted on the ground.
They winced a bit, but had to say
It’s mostly prose that rules the day.
And rule it did…
• They drove to work
• Wrote some code
• Went to school
• Taught some kids
• Mowed the lawn
• Pulled the weeds
• Took some trips
• Cooked their meals
• Had some fights
• Made some love
• Walked their dogs
• Read their books
• Drank some wine
…and said goodbye.
Upon her death
he flew again
to the perch
from which it
all began.
Looking down
upon their days
They truly were a life of prose.
But wrapped within, around, above,
In each and every breath of air
The poet’s words were always there.
Sipping
Ripened by a setting sun,
Picked with gnarly fingers,
Crushed with purple toes,
Aged inside an oaken soul,
Sip these notes of love and loss,
These hints of hurt and hope,
Reflecting when and where
The grapes were grown.
Uncork the bottle of my words,
Hold them up to the light,
Swirl the read around your glass.
Sniff the scent.
Taste the tart.
Drink the dark.
Let the swallowed verse
Not belly flop
Into a pool of gastric juice--
But spring instead to a higher place
And linger there with a bit of grace.
The Vowel of My Life
You were the a of our days
The i of our nights
The o of our love
The i of our life.
You were the y of our why
The o of our who
The a of our what
The e of our when.
You weree the i of our tried
The u of our true
The e of our breeze
The a of our gale.
Who you were is
Who we’ll always be.
You’re the u in I
I’m the i in you.
Ever the vowel of my life,
You enliven me yet.
For all that I say
And all that I do
I owe you.
My Address
Find me
a mile or more
from the Church of Dos and Don’ts,
where dim meets dark,
and sweet turns sour.
Not far from the Bar
of Dreaming Big,
a block from bluff and bluster,
on dying Dogwood Avenue,
near the wild and weedy park
that borders on the river Styx,
in a house of broken bricks
What It’s Not
It’s not the owl but the hooting,
Not the goose but the honking,
Not the wolf but the howling.
It’s less the tree and more the climb,
Less the ball and more the dodge,
Less the pool and more the dive.
It’s not the wool but the weaving,
Not the wood but the working,
Not the wheel but the whirling.
It’s less the steak and more the sear,
Less the shell and more the clam,
Less the toast and more the jam.
It’s not the bell but the jingling,
Not the spice but the sprinkling,
Not the eye but the twinkling.
Oh Christmas Tree
We do not speak of peace or joy or hope
But of height and width and girth
As we walk the farm to find the perfect tree.
And when we do, we lay our silver pieces down
And watch them cut it to the ground.
We take it to our merry little home.
Light it up and dress it full of cheer.
Trimmed with baubles from the past,
We place some presents at its feet
And crown it with a golden star.
As the coming year draws near,
Its boughs begin to droop
And drop their needles on the floor.
The jewelry borrowed is now returned,
We strip the skirt from its feet
And throw it, naked, in the truck.
In the morning when the rooster crows,
We drive it to the parking lot
And toss it on a growing heap—
There to meet its mulchy fate.
Back at home,
We sweep the needles from the floor
And ponder yet again—
Death to birth, birth to death—
A lesson always taught
But hard to ever learn.
Wildflowers
Her nails and knuckles dirty from her work,
She sneaks a peek beyond the fence
And sees them smile and wave and wink at her.
She’s asked around and knows their names—
There’s Chicory with her locks of blue,
Queen Anne crowned with lace,
The fetching Vetch and her purple curls,
The prim and proper Deptford Pink,
The petitely-pretty Blue-Eyed Grass,
And that beguiling blonde
The lovely Buttercup.
She has an urge to jump the fence
Dig them up
And plant them in her plot.
But she knows what older folks will say—
They’re just a bunch of trashy weeds,
You need to keep away.
You’d never want them in the yard.
If you let them in, you’ll never get them out.
Her eyes return to the task at hand.
At an early age, she’s already learned
To do the work that must be done,
To plant, and prune, and feed,
And—if one’s found—to pull a weed.
Lost and Found
He finds it lying on his bed—
An old black jacket, worn before.
The cuffs are frayed
The color faded
The pockets torn.
He slips it on and finds it warm
And though the labeled size is rather small,
It fits him fine.
Thinking that its tattered state would draw
Unwelcome stares from strangers on the street,
He never wears it out.
But as he’s out, he starts to see
Lots of jackets just like his.
He joins the crowd and wears it now,
But saves it for the lonely days
When northern winds assert themselves
And whistle through his heart.
He keeps it close all his days,
And when it’s time for him to go,
He knows for sure—the jacket stays.
Someone else will find it lying on their bed—
An old black jacket, worn before.