Sunday, November 11, 2018

Upside down

My life has turned


I do not know whether to
   Stand up straight

Or f a l l
         Down fetal

     I am bent in

bkmackenzie 2018

Wednesday, June 28, 2017

i love the color red

i love the color red
so i carved out a window small
with a shard and stone, placing
outside the window
a rose red guarded by her thorns

i placed a field of sweet purple clover distant
but not so very far away, and a
road marked by worn gravel and a
line of wooded pine

i walked the field of clover
and the road along the pine
gathering up a memory and wrote
it in a book - so

that i could visit that very window
where the rose had grown
red forever blooming
guarded by her thorns

untouched or knowable
in the window of my wall

copyrighted 2017

Posted for dverse open link 

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