Messing with Perfection

i went out to revise the blank white canvas
that was my driveway

without consulting the Artist i picked up the brush
that was my shovel

and i walked line after line across the page removing the paint
that was the snow

the effort to restore the masterpiece brought the sweat
that caused me to go to Lowe's to buy a snowblower
that was on sale.

touch and go

some nights i stroke her neck
and she sings melodies
i have been waiting to hear

but tonight we fight and i grasp hard
trying to strangle a simple chorus
from her gaping mouth

like most females, i bribe her with gifts
like new strings, a fashionable strap
coaxing her into giving me what i want

we need time away from each other
so i am less calloused
she needs me to feel pain to create

my muse waits, begging to be touched
by someone who knows how to massage love
out of wood

winged herald

The simple chirp of wings
drawn one upon another
Like hooks tossed overboard
to dredge the heart for memories

Of sun-dappled leaves awaiting
their swan song in the Grand cycle
Full of death yet used for life
in the next tilt of the axis

The natural metronome of their cadence song tells me that we have reached
October
Where shade and sun fight for territory
to soon be overtaken by the bitter sting of frost

Travelling skies set with moons fit for harvest
while woodsmoke wafts through windows
Soon to be shut
where crickets sing no more.

tuesday afternoon

i sit and listen
train whistle
feel the ground
vibrates like an uneven clothes dryer

sound of combustion engines
engaging, enraged, and revved to hurry up
and wait

if 4:09 ever comes i will think about
the last ten minutes
and ask to have them added when the
end comes