Wednesday, April 16, 2014

April 16 News: You?

News:  You?

Some changes come
smoothly like a baby’s back
held up with an open hand.  This
one came hidden in the lede.  Aggressive
meanderings bent at the waist,
teaching face to face lessons
to those that live in the spaces
between the words they fear, and lives
we would never choose.

You insist on timing and counts,
and marking successes to hide
failures so you can show
demand and glory.  Finger counts
to rooms misnamed, because vocabulary
is your price, bruises your name.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

April 15 Wright's Book Of Skin Isn't

Wright’s Book Of Skin Isn’t

One example recently, believed to have been bound
in human skin, was falsely accused of such.

My first thought upon hearing, was of a darker
time, when skin was shaped and lamped.

Now experts think Wright was a sheep,
flocking along with fads and flayed.

Books are always made of skin,
and blood and tears and sweat.

Ask any writer and their tables of contents
are written on many body parts.

Some practice on skin - Goethe
and his lover - tapped out the hexameter beat.

Even if it’s not dermographism,
it’s called a body of work for a reason.

Monday, April 14, 2014

April 14 CAT! Poem

CAT! Poem

Uh oh, you’re in trouble, uh oh.
The aloe plant really didn’t need to be
pushed off the bookshelf and onto
the just made bed. You didn’t need to
sneak off to voyeur our birds,
those delicate delicious morsels of cardinal
wing, red breast, and blue pulsing neck.
And we’ve discovered you have other
families, those whose shelves are intact
and their sparrows spared. Yowling mews
and other calls to friends, those feral teens
with whom you keep company will be
the collar on your day, the puss in concrete boots.
Uh oh, you’re in trouble, uh oh…

(Not brought to you by Captain Morgan’s Rum, but the phrase on their tv commercial did spark the idea.)

Sunday, April 13, 2014

April 13 You Used To Be Young

You Used To Be Young

You did, no lines, firm flesh
that gripped your bones like dollars, in ways
that turned my eyes toward those curves.
Gravity hadn’t sunk its claws into your hands;
they used to be strung as tight as diamond
bracelet you coveted.  Your hair did not grey
shine, only gold streak which you owned
as much as your cheekbones.  Those remain
firm, but are sketched with sinking ink lifelines.
The years fold on your face as those crows’ feet
footprint success.  I’d rather call
them laugh lines as I look back in the mirror.

Saturday, April 12, 2014

April 12 Playing With Helium

Playing With Helium

Never before have I tried to lessen
the timbre of my voice.  Successful
I might add, but not noble at all, despite
your reputation as inert.  Not stoic either
yet second lightest of all makes my voice
a squeak of me.  You helium, achieved
that non-goal, rare and not rare.

Friday, April 11, 2014

April 11 Blue Finger

Blue Finger

More than dabbling in paint, the dots
of desire feed the populous
into strength.  Stagnation
results when those who could choose,
refuse to skate desire.
The primary colour of assent
is dipped to the knuckle.

Thursday, April 10, 2014

April 10 A Day Without A Poem

The Day Without A Poem

You would think that turning
a notebook page would bring another
poem, like birds flapping
their wings through the air
over the fertile woods, or water
falling clean over the cleavaged
granite, both motioning
forward down or up, but no
promises are made on a blank
page.  There might be a day
without a poem, but today
is not that day.

Wednesday, April 09, 2014

April 9 Plight


When you bite your lower lip.
to the side, just the edge,
it’s almost a troth.

When you look at me, head down,
through your upper lashes,
you borrow a future oath.

But when you turn and walk away,
your shoulders pinned back, like a butterfly
on a board, I revoke them both.

Tuesday, April 08, 2014

April 8 Learning A New Sport

Learning A New Sport – First Thoughts

I’ll never play.  But gaze can be
energizing with scrums and grips,
leaps I’d never choose.  I lurk
around the edges, viewing through glass
at distances I would.

The grass is green, covered with naked
chokes and tackles.  The tape
is better than the helmets.  My shallow
admissions cascade around
the field, better than with padding.

Monday, April 07, 2014

April 7 My Father's Mother Tattoo

My Father’s Mother Tattoo

You would flex your strong arm
and the wreathed banner waved in love,
the letters undulated in a small boy’s
voice.  We hung
off that arm, and you would lift us
so high off the ground. The faded red
heart pumped with each movement
you made, something hers hadn’t
done since you were our age.