Blog Archives
The Smirking Box
A smirking box landed on my door:
Ha, didn’t think you cared anymore!
Oh, old letters, stuff, rings and things, passe—
So, you’re really telling me to go away?
Another storm warning for our Gulf shore
Nicholas’s turn to Louisiana full explore;
Biblical inches so promised, we’ll get thorough wet,
But ‘tis not Armageddon, at least not yet
Another drained glass with merlot at the store;
Palmolive suds up the dishes to drain galore;
Wishbone Ash chasing golden hair blowing free;
Paris in two weeks, just to see what I can see
Smirking box makes it all the way out to the dumpster
Along with samesuch trash with our inarticulate Trumpster.
The stars out of reach for sad hearts so compressed
Ah, so it’s Noon, I ‘spose I’ll go get dressed
Trade
Spangled Jewesses
Cry the Shoah;
Life was more splendid
In the company of Noah.
Now Muhammad rages—
Bloodies all the pages:
Can’t our child tremble at a first kiss?
Where did we go wrong? What went amiss?
Pagans, heroes, and martyrs,
All greet the dawn;
Who amongst us despairs
At the Spring’s new mowed lawn?
What ersatz supremacy has mastered
Over the Lunar Penumbra?
Colours convex and illuminate,
While toiled souls, lost, crumble.
And tomorrow comes soft;
Plans made, bed made, bread spread marmalade;
The race renewed for best laid plans.
Bainwood for The Quarter is in better trade.
While the rain lingers oer the park
As an old heart passes from light to dark.
Puzzling
Crimson currants scatter across the plate;
The ruin of his proposition dies on his lips—
The longing and the loss go begging, too late,
As two tired hands sag draped across her hips.
While puzzled puzzling puppies whimper without reason—
Is this the sure path to the higher parish ground?
Milady, crossed, throws vexed hurt blames and accusations;
Limped, the poet crawls away to contemplate a grayer sound.
Storm warnings fall, the sun finally peeks out;
The happy and free saxman takes the stage for his solo
Another rainbow dies unlit without a Southern doubt;
Can we sixters renew old loves, is it yet the secret go slow?
Leg raisers, push-ups, and the latest anti-cholesterol drug:
Guys muster what little left they have to play her knight errant.
Girls, wriggle and giggle, and deflate their swains with another shrug;
Boys, bluster and muster, try to achieve the ultimate, yet can’t.
Why is Love so hard to find and put softly in a peaceful space?
Why must Time dry up all dreams along with such a lovely face?
Do You Mean Me?
Are those soft words meant for me?
Is it now safe to settle into tranquility?
Icy rains ahead on roads fog-wrapped
Fleeing a love wherein I was once trapped.
Twelfth Night revelers muster at the Carrollton barn
Their annual trek to recover their childhood yarn:
Hey, throw me something mister!
Hey, don’t look that way at my sister!
Meet me at The Avenue and Seventh
Of course! Bring your cousin Kenneth!
Doubloons, cups, beads, catch the daylight;
Oh baby, kiss me good; sweetie, hug me tight.
And so Hump Day with ashes full arrives
And recriminations cut with dull knives—
I only kissed her once on a day care forgot.
We’re done, that’s it, you’d rather not—
Why is life in the thirties so stupid?
Aren’t we adults, who killed Cupid?
Why do we think ourselves
Into such boxes of darkness,
Into that snare of wrong turns;
To put down hard roots
Into a newer unloved land;
Grasping, weak and missing—
Another lost kite string over the hedge;
Another lost thing we swore to keep;
Living a clueless life over the edge
As now I lay me down to sleep?
Are those soft words meant for me?
Is it now safe to settle into tranquility?
Diseases and ruin now arrive to drag us back home.
My armor was never silver but warehouse chrome.
O, to die in Ashland, intox’ed by her clackety-clack.
Just to home return, but you can never ever go back.
Finally, Rain
Finally, rain,
Met by the delighted cackle of a neighbor’s babe.
Come Inside…Come Inside…Come Inside—
There’s no shelter ‘neath that old lawn astrolabe.
O, the fantastic turns of waves of rain,
While its grumble of thunder shakes our lives.
Hurry Home…Hurry Home…Hurry Home—
To your children, and husbands, and wives.
The trees bend and lift,
To catch every little thrown drop of rain.
Shut the Door…Shut the Door…Shut the door—
Before we soak the atrium again.
Tempest passed,
Yet the gutters riot run full still.
Ca Caw…Ca Caw…Ca Caw—
Calls from the elm at the top of the hill.
Virtual Railfanning
I find myself caught in the mist between maybe and the maybe not,
With this shredded rudder and a jib which fails at its level best.
Is life always so testable? Please let it be multiple choice—
As fat fingers reach for another glass filled to its crest.
Now with passing rains that’ll never leave any trace,
We’re all a part of this same tired joke—
All of us punching the tattered line;
Whispering guffaws our parents wouldn’t have dared spoke.
Randomness lingers without offering any answers;
Hope smugly rises, then fades like a chimera.
There’s a late train passing thru Folkston—
COTU waves warm and deeply into the camera.
Passion calls bravely:
No one ought respond.
Remember the days of Doctor Who
And those wished-for nights with Amy Pond?
The poem yearns for some fulfilling reason;
Something clever, poignant, worthy of being read.
Ha! Good luck with all that—
I’m virtually going back to Ashland VA instead!
Just February Sixth
The another has gone,
With the better returned,
Life curls out and onward—
Karma has forward churned.
Music and the Buddha
Parry for the soul of man.
We’re all about just doing
And becoming the best we can.
May All be happy
To whatever joy they aspire!
No thanks Mr Stewart:
I needn’t be taken any higher.
But today’s someone’s birthday:
Quite readily I wish you Many Happy Returns!
Be mindful of the hearts with which you tumble—
Howsoever cautious, some changes leave burns.
The rain keeps pelting
With a hint of winter bite.
I hope I live ‘til tomorrow.
Y’all, have a great night!