Friday, November 21, 2014

On My Walk

The cows have taken
an attitude concerning
the state of my heart.
I was once content
to walk among them at peace
but lately I've lost
my way and the cows
know it. They turn their great heads
and nip at my dreams
as if they were fine
sprays of green for the taking
that I no longer

October 15, 2010 12:25 PM

Thursday, November 20, 2014

Woman Trouble

Woman Trouble

She was one fine cat
and she found me out from rain
on that windy day -
fixed her eyes on me
and nailed me to the back wall
that way.

The porch light
took her eyes from cool
to some kind of ancient sky
and I could taste game
on her feral breath.

I would have invited her
but she turned away.

‎November ‎20, ‎2014 5:37 PM

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Every Song Must End - A Red Wolf Wordle

A vision of Bodhisattva

Right here you will find a link back to the post entitled Buddhist Bodhisattva Behavior which I accessed for the images. The post consists of a prose poem Namo Lokesvaraya written by a monk named Tog-me.

The site presents a clear translation which probably means it is to some extent not literal. The long poem describes how Bodhisattvas can be recognized by their behavior. These behaviors form a global ideal that reveals a fully evolved and civilized human. It is possible that no one who reads this post of mine will ever see a Bodhisattva. However, it is also ancient tradition that genuine saints wherever they arise out of any tradition may be very hard to recognize unless you too are well along some sacred path. Thus you may pass one by, may have already passed by several without ever knowing it.

As a practical matter, the knowledge is now thousands of years old that public demonstrations and overt manifestations of the sacred skills generally do not help and in most cases hinder the work.

The poem utilizes all of the words found on the Red Wolf Poems blogsite We Wordle 31

Every Song Must End

Bodhisattva life
is not the legerdemain
you guys said it was -
nor pulsing spirit
reflected in past moments
or in present rites
despite the raw dusk
and void that once formed the song
of our grit dying

Hope's tumbled down
those rough scales, the parasites
that chew my liver.

‎November ‎19, ‎2014 9:45 PM

Poet's note: Wiki says: "Most scale insects are parasites of plants, feeding on sap drawn directly from the plant's vascular system." Ref. "those rough scales". Apparently the scales described here are somewhat unusual, or the poet is.

Another vision of Bodhisattva

Red Wolf

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

The Bubble

The Tulip Folly by Jean-Léon Gérôme, painted in 1882

In this scene, a nobleman guards an exceptional bloom as soldiers trample flowerbeds in a vain attempt to stabilize the tulip market by limiting the supply.

Wiki says:
Tulip mania or tulipomania (Dutch names include: tulpenmanie, tulpomanie, tulpenwoede, tulpengekte and bollengekte) was a period in the Dutch Golden Age during which contract prices for bulbs of the recently introduced tulip reached extraordinarily high levels and then suddenly collapsed.

At the peak of tulip mania, in March 1637, some single tulip bulbs sold for more than 10 times the annual income of a skilled craftsman. It is generally considered the first recorded speculative bubble (or economic bubble), although some researchers have noted that the Kipper- und Wipperzeit episode in 1619–22, a Europe-wide chain of debasement of the metal content of coins to fund warfare, featured mania-like similarities to a bubble. The term "tulip mania" is now often used metaphorically to refer to any large economic bubble (when asset prices deviate from intrinsic values).

The Bubble

I invested in
tulips when I came around
last time and lived in
Holland on the north
bank of the town’s main canal.
That was just before
the market smashed bang
on the stones of the basement.

I lost all my seeds…

May 4, 2014 10:53 PM

Written in response to Irene's blog post on May 5, 2014: Tulip Fever

Sunday, November 16, 2014


Jimmy Carter, The Nobel Peace Prize Lecture

This is how I think too. I have thought this way since the sixties. In high school I thought differently and went to West Point after, but I changed. I am stained by the wars my country has fought through my life and through my family before my life too. A war may not be necessary no matter how many politicians try to say it is. And war is always an evil no matter how many politicians and generals say it is not.

However I am skeptical rather than a pacifist. I would fight an invader, for example. Sometimes one must marry what is evil on this planet, accept the stain of it and move on.

But just because I have to engage does not absolve me from evil. Knowing that clarifies things.

Thursday, November 13, 2014

The Postcard

Written by H.P. Lovecraft in 1927

The Postcard

Did it arrive, then?
I sent you my youth, my song
of the summer's way
with the white gold hair
sunshine gave me in those days.
God's bead of grace acts
exactly like sweat
running down my sacred form.
That's why my soft edge
tastes so much like rain.

October 15, 2010 9:31 PM

The poem is of a postcard and so is the image. Of course the subject discussed by Lovecraft et al. is not the poem. I just like having H.P.'s penmanship on my blog.

Oddly, my grandfather on my Mother's side was nicknamed H.P. also. He was a Dutchman named Hartog Philippus, a family name. I have seen a list of ancestors and those two names appear often in this order and in the reverse.

There was an H.P. who was sent to Auschwitz in World War II as well, not my grandfather. That is about the Jewish side of the family of course. The family has Jews and Christians both, with the Jews being the older part of the lineage. An ancestor came to Holland back in the days of the Inquisition, coming from Portugal. My Grandfather did not like the Catholic Church for a very good reason. The Inquisition killed some of us. He hated Nazis even more for the same reason.

I think this poem may be the best poem I have ever written so far.

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

The Shortstop

By Joy R. Absalon-US Presswire

Baltimore Orioles shortstop J.J. Hardy, bottom, is out at second base as Seattle Mariners shortstop Brenda Ryan is able to complete the double-play in the seventh inning during a game at Oriole Park at Camden Yards.

The Shortstop

Show me your signal.
lend me eagle eyes and ears
that I might pull out
fast balls from the curves
and leave popped up fouls behind.
I know you think me
an infield leader
of all local pretensions
and yet I insist
on hanging around.
Shake it off, you say. Sliding
downhill, I say back
to you I have lost
all chance of using my cleats.
I am beyond hope.
Oh I am so sure
I love you yet I can't steal
not even to save
our last out.

November 11, 2014 7:35 PM

Monday, November 10, 2014

Tread Lightly On His Salt - A Red Wolf Poem

Tread Lightly On His Salt

Give him some damn slack!
Don't incinerate the time
and leave the space free
of silver shiners.

He don't tolerate shallow
fools lightly so if
you must insist still
on elaborate lamp stands
for the state candle
he will revoke you
and then perforate his wine
glass so it leaks red
on your next letter
of demands.

Don't drop your stuff
in that cold fireplace
or exasperate
him any further if you
know what's good for you.

‎November ‎10, ‎2014 10:07 AM

This poem was composed utilizing the 13 words on offer at the We Wordle 30 post of Red Wolf Poems.

Red Wolf

Sunday, November 9, 2014

To Right All Wrongs

Image chosen by Tess Kincaid for a writing prompt on this Sunday's Mag 245

I Wanted To Right All Wrongs

The crowd I ran with
would wrap themselves in the flag
and light it on fire, fervor of the dope,
the night - then would suicide
perhaps at crossroads and barriers set
by shine shirted officers
of the mud splashed law.

That crocus had thorns.

They plucked the long stemmed
rose to goad the flight of migratory
birds who flew from disrespect,
calling, calling out
surely chased by her,
by the owl who suddenly
dove below the tree
line to thread the scene
with serious concern for
all those dead and gone -

and me, I still grieve.

‎November 9, ‎2014 4:29 PM

To be fair - I insist that these amusements are usually fictions. I have in this one framed and draped my memory of times that have passed. Those days are a very long way from my concerns of today. I was definitely there. I am definitely now here. Yes. I do still grieve. It's complicated.

The poem was fashioned to include all twelve words found in Brenda Warren's Sunday Whirl Wordle 186.

Saturday, November 8, 2014


I read a poem on one of the sites I haunt searching for ideas. The poem was a self appraisal, though as ever with poets there is no way to figure what self is being appraised. Poets don characters as easily as actors and novelists and short story writers do. I said to myself,
"I can write this one."

So I did. There is humor here if you sit in the poet's seat instead of trying to glean some truth of poor Christopher.

Poor Christopher. He is aging and his friends are dying off and he is stuck in a basement and even the dog mostly ignores him. Poor man, he thinks he's a poet and all he writes is this drivel. Oh my, he thinks he knows God but God laughs and skips along unknowable as ever.

Holy Christ, all his life a quest and him failing as is obvious. Just look where he is at present. It really is obvious. His chief claim, an unbroken string of daily nose picking. Batting 1.000 there. See what I mean? This is absurd. Also it is not true. Well, mainly it is not true. The dog does like me and would not ignore me if we were alone together. It's complicated.

What is true. I do know how to write the poem. I know I am not the only one.


Losing interest.
That's what you tell me is wrong.
I feel it leak out.
It's just like trying
to hold mud with my claw hands
and watching the streaks
of it drizzle down
across my squandered knee joints,
then further down me
as if I'm not there.

So I guess you are again
right as fine silver
rain misting downward
in a light spring breeze early
of a promising

If only I
could feel like a man might feel
instead of a log.

‎November ‎8, ‎2014 10:45 AM

I feel better now.

Friday, November 7, 2014

The Startle

The Startle

Shaken, I hastily
search my memory for signs
of your shadowy
presence. Finding none,
I assume your cleverness
is trumping my training.
The tea stain is compelling.
Who can she be, I muse.
No matter. I will hunt
you down by and by.

‎October ‎15, ‎2010 10:49 PM

Wednesday, November 5, 2014

I May Not Be Much - Three Word Wednesday

Each week on Three Word Wednesday, Thom offers up three words to guide the creative process of those who care to participate in the exercise. The participants write whatever they choose incorporating the three words (or not perhaps, or one or two) and then use Mr. Linky to link back to their creative sites, adding their identification to the list found on the Three Word Wednesday site. Click Here

Thom has been doing this so long that the count has reached 400 weeks. That's well over 7 and a half years. As he wrote, it is also 1200 words at three per week.

This week the words are:
Devastate; Gossamer; Plummet.

I May Not Be Much
But I Am All I Think About

The sun will rise up.
It will devastate the dark
crannies of the night
with implacable light.
This always happens.

spin their gossamer
dew lapped webs between
the tiny green fresh faced twigs.

I see that with my
eagle eyes as I
plummet to the mossy place,
(unerring this time
not like other times)
that place You made for us all.

I like to think You
made it just for me.
I shiver a bit knowing
that is not the truth.

November 5, 2014 3:04 PM

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

The Unsilent Life

The Unsilent Life

I avoid silence
most times by talking myself
aloud though quiet -
as if I had good
advice to add to the things
that cluster and spin
around my fat head.

The speech bubbles float among
the beams. Yes, female
gnats do inquire of
my health in this one moment
as if that mattered.

I wait for late hours
when all are asleep but me
and I no longer
have to look behind
my back for lurking shadows
of all my lovers.

‎November ‎4, ‎2014 4:32 PM

Sunday, November 2, 2014

The Flower Gun - A Magpie Tale

Tess Kincaid offers this as a writing prompt, image credit: Dick Blick Art

Go here for the Magpie Tales site

I have no idea who this Dick Blick is. I can't Google because I am overwhelmingly offered the websites of a major Art Supply Company which carries the Dick Blick name. One of it's big storefronts is local to me in the Portland Area. It is a global internet art supply outlet as well. Perhaps one of these pages is what Tess means.

The Flower Gun

The first time I saw
the flower gun I was curled
in a hole I dug
(we all dug damn holes)
in the hillside soil beneath
the dead stumps of trees.

That guy stood as if
inviolate and so sure
he would remain so.

He pulled and colors
spewed in streamers up the hill
and coated all of it
in a hot second.

Then all those guys jumped right up
shaking it all off
just as best they could
but they fell technicolor
anyway, cartoons
of their former selves.

Me, I stared aghast hoping
they didn't have that
gun too.

‎November 2, ‎2014 7:22 PM

Saturday, November 1, 2014

Student Housing

I Slept In The Dining Room
-----Student Housing-----

It's true. My turn came
and has mostly gone, slipping
out the old iron
gate of the garden
I intended on purpose
to let overgrow.
Someone dug a grave
in the front and stuck sculpture
at the damp bottom
hoping the party
he threw would be quality
for a grade in art.

The grass was higher
than green, reaching past the edge,
the hem of your skirt,
and still dewy fresh,
a college semester spring,
while around the back
and down three stone steps
there was a basement full of dope
belonged to my friend
funding his advanced
(legal) degrees.

‎November 1, ‎2014 4:34 PM

Friday, October 31, 2014

Higher Learning

I am actually telling the truth in this poem. I went direct to science fiction from comic books in second or third grade. I was able to read and comprehend very early and in fact was in trouble in school for being so far ahead. They would often doubt I did my own work. I have had to find ways to fit in my whole life. I am not always good at it. In eighth grade it got serious and I had to deep study the fit in problem, what I was going to do and not do and how I was going to shackle my tendencies to shine without destroying my chances too. I desperately needed to not be noticed and my life was complicated by this process of being a self shackled high B student with my kind of brain.

I ended up calling in sick alot in my own life, learning to use a hot light bulb to generate a fever. This did two tasks, keeping me out of the way of those bastards at school, and also giving me more time for my real education from the authors of science fiction. Science fiction was my baby sitter and teacher, so much so that I would steal the latest stuff since I didn't have money. This was real work and I was good at it. I never got caught. My folks were too busy with complicated lives to check on why I had so many books.

Occasionally some project or class in high school grabbed me hard enough that I couldn't let go. Then I would get the high A I was capable of if I worked without fear of reprisal. I would be banged up by teachers as well as students in those times, like the history teacher who didn't think my college graduate school practicum level term paper on the Battle of Chancellorsville was my own work. Sigh. I was trained up very well in mediocrity. Most everyone hates a smart ass.

That was long ago, but the issues are still with me of course. Just about the moment I think I am in the clear someone like those guys in high school will jump ugly and prove to me once again that I am not free on this planet. I quit reading science fiction for the most part decades ago.

Higher Learning

I love pretending
I'm someone else somewhere else
believing I'm here.
That might feel like zen
but I get it from sci-fi
like everything
else I learned back then,
all those worm holes and light years
ago as my dad's

October 14, 2010 12:49 PM

Thursday, October 30, 2014

Song To The Reaper

Evidently I was feeling my mortality back four years ago...

Song To The Reaper

Oh Lord Death, come here
and sit beside me, tell me
the secret to life
and I will revere
Your Holy Name, let it shine
in my soul, hey yeah.
Oh yeah treat me mean
and chain me to Your cold heart
so I'll hear the tick
of time sucking me
dry as I dance with Your love
meant to turn me to
dust. Oh yeah, hey yeah.

It's not the same here without
my old fantasies.

October 13, 2010 12:18 PM

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

I Drank The Cider

I Drank The Cider

I am not afraid,
no longer afraid of all
the posturing toads
who would be dragons.
In fact, bring me true dragons
and I will bop them,
drop them down and shut
their stinky mouths, sew them shut
with golden sinew.
That's the end of that.

October 12, 2010 2:23 PM

Remarkable. Have had a difficult day in many ways including my feeling good and at the end felt I needed to take the easiest way out posting to my blog. This showed up. It is a poem I wrote over four years ago but it fits my heart right now.

I guess I don't really think Keanu is a stinky dragon but his mouth is about right. Right now for me somebody else is. None of your business who.

Normally I would have posted on a site called Three Word Wednesday. I was not up to writing something new today.

This is happening more and more. I can see I am descending the slope a little over months and years. This is totally normal for older fellahs, which I am.

When I titled this poem, I was thinking of the American slang, "I drank the kool-aid" which of course refers to the Jim Jones debacle at Jonestown where the group suicide cyanide was administered by kool-aid. Hundreds died. This phrase then tries to identify how if others are trying to trick you, you help them by willingly taking the trick in. Or if they are not trying to trick you, then you are an even bigger fool.

The whole scene alludes to one of those "if only...then I would have been better off" deals as well. Keep your fricken mouth shut, Hileman! I will not ever go to the other alternative of censoring myself as I speak, at least not according to someone else's taste. But not speaking is do-able.

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Mud Rolling

Mud Rolling

I know. It's damn hard
to follow those directions,
the ones to grow wings -
especially hard
when you have instincts to roll
in really grand mud.
Good for cooling blood
is what I heard about mud.

No need to miss me.
I am not thinking
of shooting off world
anytime between today
and twenty nineteen.

‎April ‎30, ‎2014 4:10 PM

Written in response to a poem by Irene on her Orange Is A Fruit blog on Wordpress back at the end of April this year.

Monday, October 27, 2014

The Abandoned Axe

I wrote this poem just over four years ago. I have no idea what I was thinking about and I don't remember having a horrible time in October four years ago. It is certainly not what is happening now unless I decide momentarily to throw a snit for some reason not yet in my face. Perhaps the cat will shit in my shoe or something, or has and she is waiting for me to find it so she can gloat. But I doubt it. I think this is a fiction about someone who is not happy, feeling abandoned and not right, twisted, with a dead life and a loss too big to swallow. Shit. Now I'm depressed enough to write it again.

See, that's the part that is true, at least for me. Even though I am not usually depressed, I can go there creatively in an easy manner and wallow around for real while I write and usually just come back. I will then look around at the carnage in an innocent way and say, "What?"

Writing something upbeat that is also genuine is much more difficult. What is remarkable, I don't think I am the only one. And in music it is the same... It is much easier to improvise in the minor keys than the major ones, in the sad music rather than the happy music. Again. I am not the only one. I am not sure why, though I can take several attitudes and opinions about it. I am not the only one again, I think.

It seems to be easier to be sad, to play sad music, to opine about sad things and feel genuine than it is to do the same about happy things and feel genuine. Hmmm.

The Abandoned Axe

I've become trashy
since I put down that cold axe.
I find I want trash
books, fast food. I've quit
work, want to be left alone.
I've left the axe out
in the fall weather
to rust in the rain and mud
broken, abandoned.

I am not right now,
twisted by my thoughts, twisted
at what I once was,
looking at the scars
and ashes where life burned out
and you I could not

October 10, 2010 8:03 PM

Perhaps being genuine and happy and optimistic is more a practice than it is a feeling. I have already become convinced, have been convinced for years that true love is a practice.

Sunday, October 26, 2014


Damn. This hardly ever happens. A day off. I'm supposed to write possibly two poems today to keep up with Magpie Tales and Sunday Whirl. Not this week. Playing hooky on my own creativity calling. Reminds me of this:

Only the eagle is my own head and so is the mouse. Oh ho. Is that what they mean by "drinking weather"?

Saturday, October 25, 2014

The Forest and the Far Far Hills

The Forest and the Far Far Hills

When I finally
found you I knew the singing
I had to do. Too,
I knew the flaming
wood I should place, the circle
to make and how to
open my curled ears
to your tales of some other
world and how you might
take me there one day.

When I found you the forest
started sussurrus
in the far far hills
and that sound travelled to me
voices added along
the way so it roared
at my feet though you did not
notice, so wrapped up
you were in your song.
Your concentration floors me.
My yearning does too.

October 25, 2014 2:52 PM

Friday, October 24, 2014

Stalking The Hermits

Stalking The Hermits

The world has swallowed
the best of me and of you
as we both well know.
It can't be any
other way for us after
all this time on point.

Walking point's been forced
on us, as if we might know
where the gray hermits
lurk, that we might, of
all the others, lure them out.
They are wanted so
we can plant the corn.

October 10, 2010 7:47 PM

Thursday, October 23, 2014



Feel the elixir
ooze on your tongue, down your throat.
Try to hold it there
by your strength of will
alone and don't think sad, mad
or other dark thoughts.
This magic will not
work then, will not grow your wings
for you and your air
will be like cement
slurry and damn it - I can't
get these thoughts to stay
on their own right lines.

(At least this ended rightly
slowing to full stop.)

‎April ‎28, ‎2014 10:33 PM

First appeared as a comment to a poem Irene wrote and posted on her blog Orange Is A Fruit

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

The Request - Three Word Wednesday

Each week Thom offers a three word writing prompt at his site and a Mr. Linky setup to use so that all the participants can find each other. Anyone can participate or else just enjoy the creative work that others do. Perhaps the next world class master wordsmith is among us. Go here.

This week's words:
Defensive; Fertile; Needy.

The Request

Seems like years have passed
since you started your pleading
with me:

Stop all this
defensive blather
you lay down like fertilized
eggs in fertile rows,
expecting full bloom
ripe fungus among needy
matters of habit
strewn backstreet gardens.

I want peace between my teeth.
Would you just shut up?

October 22, 2014 2:13 PM

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

The Fire Mage

The Fire Mage
(The flame, the dirt, the wind, the rain)

I can no longer
hold to how right it is, not
in the face of you.
I took my axe, cut
you right out of the dusty
woodland of summer's
drying tangled maw.

Passion would have turned to flame.

I chopped you free as
I burned it all down
to renew the dead who called
to me in spirit.

October 9, 2010 3:49 PM

Typically we frown on people who set fires. In this day and age, the numbers of people happy to burn it down are far too heavy for the forests of the planet. In other times people would act as part of nature. There are places on the planet today where people practice slash and burn agriculture. There is a cycle they follow when they do it correctly and the result is a renewal of the forest. The forest is stronger for it. Again, these people act as agents for the biosphere, gaining for themselves but also giving to the forest in doing so.

Sunday, October 19, 2014

Breaking Free - Wordle 183

Wordle 183 by Brenda Warren for this week's Sunday Whirl Click on the link, and then click on Mr. Lincky to find the others.

Breaking Free

The witchdoctor said
I'm crazy, not a martyr.
She called my soul out,
saying it should shine
bright white with stranger laughter
making your steel crack,
your childhood shake all
apart - its shadow turn gray -
your diamond dim
and change to drab sand.
I'm not shackled, prisoner
to your freaky whim
any longer, sport.
Just toddle off. Find your seer.
Tell him your secret.

‎October ‎19, ‎2014 1:02 PM

Zombie Mother - A Magpie Tale

Image offered by Tess for this Sunday's Magpie Tale. Click on the link to get access to more delightful work by this week's contributors. Not to say this work here is delightful. Sorry. There's a bad seed in me.

Zombie Mother

We had to add more
rocks as you keep digging out.
If you don't settle
down we will dig you
up and transport you further
up the alps and plant
you under really big
boulders. Even the old oak
we found won't keep you
peaceful and quiet.

Mother, you gave us pain in
real life and now
you claim unfinished
business. We say, so what?
You say, this is what!
It's just so tiresome
and embarassing.

tell us of chasing
you back out the door
with all your bad smells and groans
and ugly faces.
You can't even haunt
right - no better than how you
used to wash dishes.

‎October ‎19, ‎2014 11:46 AM

Saturday, October 18, 2014



Feel the elixir
ooze on your tongue, down your throat.
Try to hold it there
by your strength of will
alone and don't think sad, mad
or other dark thoughts.
This magic will not
work then, will not grow your wings
for you and your air
will be like cement
slurry and damn it - I can't
get these thoughts to stay
on their own right lines.

(At least this ended rightly
slowing to full stop.)

‎April ‎28, ‎2014 10:33 PM

Written after reading Irene's poem eagle flies free and first posted as a comment there.

This poem appears as well as the second in the poetry pair on pages 73 and 74 in the Red Wolf Journal poetry collection Duet which can be downloaded from New Poetry Collections

Friday, October 17, 2014

Cyanide Leaves

This is not my house nor my street. It is just illustrative of the common usage of cherry laurel.

I introduce you to the toxic hazard of the chemical hydrogen cyanide, derived from the leaves of cherry laurel (Prunus laurocerasus). I have had this plant in my yard or near to it the whole time I have been in Oregon and have never considered it dangerous. Hmmm. It is easy to prune if you keep on it but it can grow to tree height if you let it. You can prune it to the ground and bare stumps with impunity. It will grow back. I pruned this stuff for years without a second thought. I have never been caught in a closed container with a bunch of crushed leaves however.

How Poisonous, How Harmful?

Prunus laurocerasus, cherry laurel

Prunus laurocerasus, cherry laurel

The leaves and fruit pips contain cyanolipids that are capable of releasing cyanide and benzaldehyde. The latter has the characteristic almond smell associated with cyanide.

1.5% cyanogenic glycosides are present in the leaves. During maceration, i.e. chewing, this becomes glucose, hydrogen cyanide (prussic acid), and benzaldehyde. Cyanide starves the central nervous system of oxygen and, thus, causes death.

The Prunus laurocerasus has enough of the poison in the leaves to be used by entymologists as a way of killing insect specimens without physical damage. They seal the live insects in a vessel containing the crushed leaves.

Confusing the two laurels and using the leaves of this plant as bay in cooking has resulted in poisoning. If this occurs prompt treatment is essential.

If I paid that kind
of attention, saw into
you as if my eyes
were new chain saw loud
and sharp as axes can be
when cared for like you
cared for me, if I
was willing to work that hard
then I could keep you.

I can hew your wood
and gather your cyanide
leaves into great piles.
I believe like that
but it might be true I can't
even if I try.

October 7, 2010 12:27 PM

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Thursday Evening

Two hours before the time of the poem.

Thursday Evening

The screen glows a soft
light not white or blue but off
gray flickers, chases
my thoughts out the door
so I sit vacant waiting
for someone to say
the next meaningful
thing about this or that sale
or needful product.
I scratch at my nose.
I sneak a peek at your eyes
half open, aslant
as you rest your head
on the courdoroy couch back
despite the dust puffs
whenever someone
moves. My feet still ache after
walking home with you.

‎October ‎16, ‎2014 4:10 PM

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