7.30.2015

Who's Eating Grapes

Sat down
to write a poem
called
I Hate That Guy
but a photo
of Johnny Depp
got me
remembering
how he looks
like you
How
your ring jangles
a bit
between knuckles
Oblique teeth
cleft chin
          your
Who was that guy again?


Occasional Real Toads music prompt: IT’S A SHAME ABOUT RAY

7.29.2015

Ice Fishing in July

Blue
green
marbles
roundelling
skyward mosaic
ever-slickened for eyeballing
wondering if grass aquas
  in stormy weather--

7.17.2015

Cruiser

In awe of your corporeal space
I sit parked in your station wagon
with the faux-wood trim, reciting lines
to your thrust, your roominess.

I can’t bear to pull out, preferring
your sweet little tree in my lungs,
intoning devotion to naugahyde,
wishing after wishing you were here.

It’s no secret I’m smitten.
I could palm your dash all day,
rub your fabric the wrong way just
to feel the ridged pleasure of you

in my hands, breathing
your reply, verse after salted verse.

For Kerry’s prompt to the Real Toads: POETIC VOICE

7.14.2015

Rope

When you think
it’s not possible to cry anymore,
catch your child’s glance.

Bless children
who do not know how to stifle sobs,
and then cry again.

7.08.2015

Roswell

Maybe you were sent
to remind me of my belly
full of bold assertions,
or perhaps you were meant
to paint my dreams
such that I remember what I am.
You are part of what lies
beyond the here,
and now I've found a circle.
Maybe the aliens burnt you in the dirt,
fueling you with enough evidence
that I believe you.

Gentle Readers, today is the anniversary of the Roswell thing, so I give you my perennial-favorite poem. "Roswell" was published in my first book, Responsive Pleading, which can be purchased via Amazon or directly from yours truly.

7.05.2015

Spirit of '15

Pulled over on the highway,
huddled on the berm,
eyes skyward,
reverent--
Distant cheers,
toddler shrieking in Spanish
as fog meets fireworks contrails
in thunderheads
roiling over farmlands
resembling
    the day after--
So many cars criss-cross
cornfields
on sleepy roads,
one wonders where they all came from,
to whom they return--
People who know better.


Flash 55 in the Imaginary Garden