Sunday, June 18, 2017

picking rock

I will be dead by eighty-two
I guarantee it
my life insurance expires at
eighty-two so I must
be dead

the world crushes the flower
once bloomed
and too soon picks the blossom
in prospect and hope, in hope of pastels bushed
brushed against a pale canvas
of Monte rain

those who will remain
will understand all my follies
the dog knows who to sleep with
not so all sainted, or
creatures of habit

even as I love being cradled
in the later wisdom of breathing, my glasses
are not quite adjusted for left
or for right, and eighty-three I fear comes
all to quick

should I expire just long of eighty-two
with the wild lily blooming
yet one more year, I do believe it will smell as lovely
as prior, but unlike prior
I will not see it as before

ones loved have what they need
I have gathered the meadow, mustard and all
(though the lily I left it wild)
but this apron is full and heavy and worn and the
laughter sees its shadow in a
summers blaze

Pick rock! Pick rock! until the sky
is red and round and so, so low
follow the rows all dead and unseeded
pile high and higher the stones
watch out for the foot and the shoe that is bare
the cry of late spring (after the thaw)

eighty-two is well enough
I figure the chores will be done, at least for that year
the common will vanish
as the lily comes full
long after the thaw
and the rock has been picked

copyrighted (2017)

for the Poetry Pantry - Poets United 

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

I grew

I grew up in a ring of tobacco smoke
mixed with sweat and Taboo perfume
a father full of "son-of-a-bitch" and Sunday
mass, drinking Grainbelt
and smoking at the base
of the summer oak- it was a long day of farming
and framing  to keep famine in check

I grew up with
a mother who dreamed of escape
sitting, smoking late in the corner darkness,
leaving a map of her plan
meandering the floor in a stark and empty room -

I grew up with spit tunes, guitars, Johnny Cash and
Hank Williams
songs - a fathers dream that drifted further
and further away
with each pack of Camel's, with each baptism
and with each passing year
- it was a man

it was a man
and a broken women, who's dream
remained forever silent between the breaking
of each morning and the ending of each day, while
she kept one eye on the door and
the other on the ashtray
that guarded her L & M's and the
map she buried

copyrighted 2017

posted for Poet's United

Tuesday, May 30, 2017


there was a crack in the door and a crack in me.  something lifted as the bamboo reached towards the ceiling.  and all my days broke loose as if i had no containment, constrictions or certification to be here.  i held your hand empty of thinking or past reflection.  every direction pointed elsewhere as the bamboo turned to listen.  there is stepping and stonewalls,  there were no words, only a shadow of what was and a crack in the door.

the days timing sings
with feathers release secured
joy laughs at the mirror

copyrighted 2017


Saturday, May 27, 2017

dance of the wildflower

the dance of the wildflower
before she dies
before she passes under a sunbaked sky

she moves
and laughs in warm sweet rain
and pulls herself up
in breath of wind
(kind or unkind) she rises

she petals and preens
and wipes her face
she kneels and curtsies to grace
her place - being hill dressed full in
summer green
or along the street of city walk

the wildflower loves
for only loves sake and dances
through life
before she dies

copyrighted (2017)

photo by Kurt K. Gledhill

Poets United Poetry Pantry