The calm of a frozen white
just barely gone….
when comes again, with warmth,
that buzz in nuisances.
Familiar irritant … diminutive clouds
in sputters and rumblings,
like an old Vespa
down a cobbled lane,
…… as earful, chaos
comes with Spring.
The cherry has burst into pink
and all is noise
‘bout its blossoming.
Unraveled strands off sunbeams
chase thru spreading limbs
gather into rays
as feathered things
awake. Unfurling green
trembles in play to flit and frisk
a tint on varied plumes
their array of chitter…a rapid pluck
to high-strung strings
on violins…. echos…
“The business of words keeps me awake…”
ㅤ ~Anne Sexton
Falling soft, at the back
of an old daydream
forgotten sound of the milkman
whistling, as he often did,
while bottles rattled ㅤan early day, waking.
I loved his son ㅤonce
before war claimed too much of his whole.
Lithium and Thorazine
taking ㅤa little more.
How well I’ve known the orneriness
in truthㅤit rarely sleeps (wasn’t meant to)
learned quieted hungers hingeㅤstubbornly
upon this heartㅤ like parables.
I eat the day ㅤbefore it’s sunlight
mending… always mending.
Sit to write ㅤ as the world burns, somewhere
ear tilted to nearest birdsong. ㅤ…
Free Verse Poetry
The Fast road
took more away from
then ever toward
the biggest trucks over iron-rails
dangle in voids
as distant rain.
She watched it slope
like lazy tail on an ol’ yeller dog
tucking itself along the falling gray.
An evening heat
thick with rhythm of crickets
(& occasional frog)
rode on a Texas-humid/ㅤslow,
in tendrils over her sill
Tempie sprawledㅤall gangly limbs
toes inert but anxious for rain
rested weary Atlas
supporting her open window.
lamped in lunar wan
against the rage by summer
bare feet waiting
wet promise in peal…
He’ll stop playing the radio
prefer the echo of backroads driving home
hotㅤlate summerㅤblue-hour already tumblin’
old friendㅤthe Wagoneer lumbers
tires sucking early dusk air
between warm blacktop and worn tread
its thrumㅤwet purrㅤsinging her into sleep
on the back seat blanketed.
Still rested in the curve of his lip
a spar by ghosts ㅤhe’ll sense
as mustard, sweat & baby oil.
Her wet hairㅤjoin scent with day’s glistened skin.
He’ll want for a goneㅤmourn intoxicating Augusts
grow tiredㅤevening drifting orchidㅤinland
homewardㅤ …where she will wake soon
not knowing who he is.
Windows rolled downㅤfinding comfort
to breeze’s rhythmic brush against…
times even in the grip of trouble
get no less a sunrise than sun is capable
the capable beauty all we have…
Motionlessㅤand surely dead
the sparrow’s feathers neat ㅤclaimed.
Bore cleanㅤas if to sleep somehow
it tucked its tiny feet then self
in between the eye-teeth of a cat
life-lustered black button eyes behind
buttonholes tightly stitched.
Two paws, torso stretched willed presence
proud perch upon my sunny threshold
hunter’s lime effulgent eyes glare
summoning by cat-speak,ㅤL o o o k. …
Poet/Storyteller ~A Conflict of Words in Tussle With a Pen for a Life of Rhyme. Poetry for The Lit Up, The Junction, Resistance Poetry