green mile

the wry smile
with the bony leg of a cricket
wedged in the corner of your grin

eyes shut tight as you take
another hard swallow of
crunchy exoskeleton

heart racing, thorax squeezed
looking down the abyss of the lizard
through one thousand lenses of your compound eye

simple systems

our stars cross
sharing dust
our trajectories
forever changed

our new shape
gaining mass
spins off
three little moons

watching our rotation
orbits change
eventually breaking
free from gravity

trio of planets
eventually creating
a new cluster
in our space

nothing for sure

the steady cascade of rain
from a faucet left on by
an absent-minded God
rather than the worn gray blanket of clouds

slowly fading the weathered
gray fence to a deep rich burgundy
i could have told you
it would happen

just as when i see the once wind-lodged branch
lifeless - an amputated limb - broken
and know its future will take it
to the brush pile beside the retired shed

As sure as each kernel of corn
will be delivered from the cob
to our year-round resident
squirrel's cheek

The rain's predictability mocks my ability
to know so much...spending my days
searching for answers
except for knowing my future

perhaps the fence, the corn, maybe even the squirrel,
but especially the rain
look at me knowing only one thing for sure
what will become of me

Mix it up

So I originally intended this to be a site exclusively for giving my poetic creative side somewhere to dump. Though I have several poem buds started, they are taking some time to bloom, so while I work through the details...

I have been reading Ted Kooser, Poet Laureate of the US and former Pulitzer Prize winner, most recently. His poetry reminds me of Billy Collins, but in a more matter-of-fact, slightly depressed, and less humorous tone.

Ted Kooser's The Poetry Home Repair Manual is my current read. I hesitate reading any "how to make your poetry better" books because I don't believe there are any formulas needed for expressing yourself if you truly want to define your own voice. However...Ted's advice for reading as much as you can thereby understanding language and how to better communicate to an audience by standing on the shoulders of others is priceless. I agree with his notion that, "we teach ourselves to write the types of poems we like to read". It's the same with music. If I am interested in jazz, I wouldn't go out and pen a heavy metal rock anthem. So I am enjoying his book.

I'm putting the finishing touches on a poem about Zippy, my son's anole. Hopefully by week's end.

super powers

i know if i concentrate hard enough i will
start to see the fan blades move
then make it stop and glance out of the
corner of my eye to make sure it was unseen

i've known i could fly since i played
in sandboxes and jumped off of the split rail fence
the fact that i haven't tried from higher than
a ladder in many years makes no difference

something i can no longer do is become invisible
hiding behind a couch or under my blankets
now with my own children with better abilities than mine
like the power of being able to see invisible parents

my twin brother and i never knocked fists together
and yelled "wonder twin powers - activate"
we already knew the strength of the supernatural bond between us
and the world could not hold us

and our dreams coming true day after day
were enough that there was no need to pretend
or even ask for more
than what we already possess

what are the rules?

follow me home and make me aware
of a place that i dream all alone
people see more through rose colored lenses
than most people find from their throne

my daughter said poetry always should rhyme
the young and their blinders don't see
that open verse ramblings of thirty-something men
can be deep as a yet uncrossed sea

Do metrical patterns like iambic pentameter
Unleash words to the same boring song?
Maybe free verse will break these chains of arrangement
Because concrete acrostic's just wrong

If the Bard were alive i wonder if he
would take note of our lack of prim diction
and write less about death in structured quatrains
and more about spiritual conviction

balloon

suspended between the ceiling and the floor
eliciting squeals and smiles for a few days
tight and reflecting, almost bursting with exuberance
while shiny mylar frogs proclaim "Hoppy Birthday!"

now dragging its green ribbon across the carpet
swirling in circles of air from the floor register
like an old man leaking gas through seams
losing the battle of loft through diffusion

i kicked it this morning
lying in my path, not just physically but as mental clutter
i will kidnap it tonight after the children are in bed
rescuing it from punches and sharp objects

placing it atop black hefty trash bags
frogs still smiling, remembering the joy they once brought
to a now five year old who still remembers
and when morning comes asks where his dying balloon went

Ode to Mr. Wilcox

the way his fingers glide down the fret board
making the slightest whistle like
hearing the troubadour take a breath
between phrasing in his tale of love

we both know he is adept enough
not to make this sound, but he purposefully
strokes the strings of my heart
encased in pearl inlays

the resonance from the yawning hole in the brazilian rosewood
echoes out from partial capos
the baritone voice telling deep stories in perfect
time and pitch mixed with open tunings in cross keys

talking of old affections, addictions, climbing high hills
these are the soundtracks for many lives
an unheralded afficionado unheard of by
most who listen to dumbed-down mass produced drivel

which is more than fine for us who
don't wish to share our diamond
only hoping deserved accolades would
fall like leafy notes from his well traveled strings

i didn't brings the mums in this year

i didn't bring the mums in this year
the weather prognosticator with his seal of approval
clicking in slides of the approaching clipper
warned of impending death with white lines and single digits

i watched them through the glass of the back door
one minute stretching to a faltering sun
the next looking at me with panicked and questioning eyes
wondering if their lives were a colorful show

the shovel i meant to wield to extend their annual lives
now rests against the faded cedar fence
half of the spade hidden beneath the first
sticking, lasting snow of the season

head bowed in mournful respect as i stare
at the wilted lifeless mass in the terra-cotta urn
a monument to good intentions and woeful neglect all because
i didn't bring the mums in this year

breath

the moon casts shadows
of the bars on your crib
across your chest, arms up and out
as i hold my breath to listen to yours

your hair matted with sweat
big grin as you practice superman's moves
and wrestle with the arms that hold you
and listen as you pant for more

she has long since drifted on silken wings
pulled down to recharge by the heavy weight of being a mother
the familiar look of the ceiling at midnight as i hear
the deep cadence from the ebb and flow of your lungs

another dark room awaits where i will sit
and ponder the irregular rasp from a bedside
regretfully cursing having taken for granted
every breath of those i love