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

power surge

power surge

the mic is wet with my grip
not from the white hot spots
nor the butterfly looking for a landing place
in my hollowed gut

but growing tension of what is about
to be released

they do not know that the house mains,
monitors, amps, aural exciter, and bass bends
are unnecessary for this delivery

my eyes stay shut, the gates holding back the power
that has been welling so deep within
not just before my birth but the spark
wrought at creation

When my mouth opens i could pin them to
the back wall of the building
i imagine them leaning into the hurricane
force of my breath - groping for their seats

Forget about diaphragm, throat, and technique.
This is my inner life
o that i may have the strength to control the release
of a mere three and a half minutes of supernatural light

before i slam shut the door from where it boils
and spin the vault lock while the bolts clink
I have dipped the tips of these notes
in the fire of the Spirit

Aiming to pierce or just scratch
the metal, ice, and wood of these unsuspecting hearts
Poisoning them with an infection
which they will never be cured

golden mist swirls around distant lightening
gathering strength as the verse leads to chorus
the eye of the storm through the bridge
is pierced by waves of choruses

the music fades, my feet are back stage
the fog of unselfconsciousness lifts
as the sun of my ego begins to dawn
and i crumple in disbelief that i survived

this power surge

owed to the poet

i imagine a skinny man
with high-watered pants sitting
in the grass beneath a tree

pencil to mouth thinking
looking, eyes squinted for inspiration
playing with words

changing, rephrasing, cleverly
being a Mary to nature's gifts
for our amusement's sake

while the rest of us toil as Martha
and labor for our pay
to purchase your attempt at understanding

like knowing no heart-ache or misery
and writing an empty shell
of a song about our blues

I salute you for your ability
to find a way to excuse
lack of profession for artistic ambivalence

how truly poetic

feeling garden

like the sunflower at the end of the season
head bowed, crying seeds of tears
into the soil around its feet

the battalion of corn, faces tanned by a summer
standing guard and displaying their holsters
filled with the ammunition for another years struggle

pumpkins never chosen by tiny hands
worn paper thin ready to sink their tokens
into the sediment for another chance at Halloween's lottery

all eyes (and ears) transfixed on me
before i wrench the tiller to life
threatening to unleash this reaper into

another attempt at immortality

red anger

the bag of clues were collected
she stood transfixed
having never been one to start a fight

more for fear of what she would do to the one
that crossed her
than to the consequences of her actions

gripping the basket like the handlebars
of a hog full throttle
but without the wind to cool the roiling sea of her anger

closing her lids to concentrate the growing tempest
calculating a myriad of possible endings
to this focused singularity

She slowly pulled the scarlet hood down to her nape
feigned a smile of smug indifference and
put two barrels of buckshot into the not so big, bad

ears, hands, and teeth of the wolf

just enough

Those three make up the belt
Follow my finger to Polaris
I remember just enough to impress
my children in the inky dark

A card to celebrate our day
My hand reaches for yours
I do just enough to keep
the embers of our fire glowing

Deadline rushing into my present
Late nights are not the exception
I finish just enough to remain
employed to subsidize my dreams

Old sins pay another visit
Plagued with my own guilt
I fall just enough to stay
Cursed by Adam's poor choices

Doors of my heart gladly flung wide
Impassioned plea to live within me
I did just enough to live
in eternal bliss with you

commissioned work

she's constantly moving

creating work for herself, wanting others to create work
complaining about it but secretly relishing every sock
every dish, every spill that is culled from minor artists hands

they are truly masters
able to evoke a masterpiece in the quick gesture of a hand
using a palette of laminate and two percent white as the medium

waving a wand of permanent color and forever
modifying a crisp white shirt
to fulfill the commissioned work

the seemingly involuntary creative period for these artisans
is quickly passing - soon to be replaced
with the neatness of repetitive motor skills

the secret wish of the mother
is that the next generation of artists
sit at the same accidental easel

while i stand in awe of them both

i laugh

i laugh not at the hand that made me
but by the ability to recognize
that i was made

why give me room to speculate?
when blissful ignorance would be less painful
than to know my fate

debate will and freedom all you like
for i have both
an easy choice when you consider

that night is best seen
with a moon illuminating
my searching heart