A Poem Is This

Is this a poemman going away
or just words
flying by like
red-winged birds
the days are light
and old men sight
the openings
and closings

and hold
the prize
like old sold
soiled spoiled
well-worn ties
owned by simple
foreign spies
seeing subways
both ways

You could say
or you could not
put the children
in the slot
and make them
laugh a lot
when you say
you have a snot
that you forgot

If you really love me
really, really love me
won’t you sally
across my fields
tasting my grains
of wheat and corn
and not leave me lonely
shorn and forlorn

This is not a poem
it’s just words
like your love
not love at all
breathing practice
in the hall
toward the stairs
going up
or going down

A forgery is being played
a bright light in the shade
making children giggle
while you snicker
and feel astute
and rather cute
because I lost you
like this poem
a long time ago









A Poem Is This

You Could

Two people on a benchYou could call my name, you could
whisper it from the crest of a nearby mountain
or a rock hard rock call along with the breeze
or in broken infirmaty spell each letter carefully

You could speak my thoughts, you could
hold them up for gentle scrutiny in a desert valley
or a cloud soft cloud scream on a tornado wind
or withhold the spaces within a crooked crevice

You could analyze me, you could
envelop me within the cusp of a lurid knapsack
or an icy cold ice croak of an old zephyr
or tell an old man the tale of an inner peace

The question is: would I listen
would I hear, would I read, would I
feel, would I turn the crystal ball of my
own future and past around and see
the insides and the outsides
You could, but would I

You Could

The Dragonfly Darts Above

DragonflyThe dragonfly darts above
As the rippling stream flows
Though the waters are cool
Somehow they warm
Washing away the dirt and filth
Replacing blood and plasma
With itself
Replacing all it touches
With obstinate joy
Questionable joy
For it is touched with a
Shivering sensible fear
That the stream will crash it
Against a chunk of rock
So there is struggle
Against what seems good
Against what seems
Does the dragonfly know
It is free, yet it is trapped
Attached to the water
Just as a bird’s wing feather
Free from the bird
But floating on air
Or floating on the water
Feeling the push and pull
Thinking it is ecstasy
Where it is control
And it is still not free
Being taken rather than going

The dragonfly offers no rescue
Nor does the shore
Nor do the rocks
Offering their constant
Threat of painful freedom
To save from this terrible delight

I do not want to be
A dragonfly
I do not want to be
A feather
I do not want to be
A stream
But I am

With water below it is
Above, watching waiting?
a bird’s wing feather
riding the swells
feeling the push and pull
knowing this ecstasy cannot
long last.

Will the dragonfly rescue me
Save me from this terrible delight
will the shore come close
That I might scrabble hold
Then lie on the beach

It is the dragonfly I am watching
As I break free not with violence
But with ragged tenderness
Somehow the stream still within

The Dragonfly Darts Above

The Gentle Touch of Fresh Fallen Snow

climbing the stairs carefully
quietly one step at a timefresh snowfall
knowing two stairs would be
sooner, but  screaky noisy

holding back giggles and glee
wanting to shriek in elation
but stealth still held to import
not to startle the bleak darkness

a handful of snow dripping
marking the following trace
hinting the cold wet falling
in measure severe and white

the single swift move disturbs
a raucous bottomless snoring
scattering warmhearted dreams
into abrupt murky daybreak

“Damn you bastard I’m fucking
wet you revolting little son of…
I’ll kill you and drag your sorry
ass out into the snow, you…”

the words clanging the hallway
following the fleeing laughter
through the doorway and back
across the field of fresh fallen snow

The Gentle Touch of Fresh Fallen Snow