Beast surfacing, the geyser blows
sea-spume that sudden, broaching, slows
to blue, then falls, no prim fountain
or ticking clock, Leviathan counting
decades at formal intervals.
On benches over rising thermals
that reach to roast us, faithful, waiting,
we cheer the act of hesitation
before the final curtain -- though, see,
the trick's just heat, just gravity.
Almost enough, I hear you say --
this tidal flame, this awe-filled day,
as mists dissolve and quick steam clears
and cools and sinks, for years, years.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 3:58 PM UTC
An auction just last month -- no sale, I guess,
for now a square of white on your window says:
"Building Condemned, Order of the City..."
A salable family place, and there's the pity --
your roof and sills square, the clapboards straight,
the windows shining -- but an enemy of the state,
apparently, too good to live. So, bang --
you're dead! No one loves you, home. Go hang.
A house needs people in it! But your soul's gone,
your family fled, flat broke, or simply broken.
What a waste -- and one on every street, forlorn,
contrite, like jilted brides that none will visit.
Still, you're left here, waiting. Who is it
loves you now? And not one word is spoken.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 10:28 PM UTC
Love's a loaded craps game, played
by ****** people, lads who dream
a sweet and willing cavalcade
of perfect mates who can't exist
(though in the yahoo's mind they must,
or how would any man get kssed
or be excused the wolfish lust
of ****** people, cads who dream?)
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 9:42 PM UTC
Her job's detecting errors God has made
Designing Summer Street: this busted curb,
These tattered feathers, wrappers, dented cans.
Forever stopping, stooping, in pale charade
Of chores her mother's set her to, deferred
By rapt attention to detail, she scans
Detritus, bark, branches, torn wings of seeds,
Thin husks that stalked or shaded summer's grass --
Then sighs brief prayers for lives she never knew.
Her older brother hauls dead leaves and feeds
The hose its coil, then snipes at her, who'd pass
Her hours in gawking, still so much to do...
She scrapes the lawn a bit, a guiltless thief
Who leans to pocket gold: one perfect leaf.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 12:26 PM UTC
What hunger drives us out and back
and walking, walking, free of men,
unquenched enough to taste the lack
that set us going out and back again?
From Riverside you turn on Spring
to stalk a night that will not end,
leaf-hurt, gray grieving thing
in darkness spent -- out and back again.
Alone, a million miles from dawn,
small wonder guiltless ghosts pretend
that hunger guides all exiles gone
out and back -- out and back, my friend.
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 1:52 PM UTC
1
Congratulations
on your maturation:
now our lust's "love,"
not infatuation.
2
Romantic "deficits,"
confiscatorial "trends" --
**** your "benefits" --
where's my dividends?
3
I tried to really kiss you,
not co-impregnate a tissue.
4
I must confess
I love that dress --
more or less!
5
-- I'd die for you (you said)
-- I'd mumble you in bed.
6
you me us me
us-me-you you-me-us-you-me-you
us-me-us-meyouyou-us-youyouyou
youyou-us-me-youyouyouyouyouyouyou!
you-me-us-us-me-me-me --
us
7
Three coins in the fountain?
Who in hell's been counting?
8
Nod, smile; I'm playing along
while they're "playing our song."
9
Monogamy
demands its peephole:
*Maybe we should see
other people.*
10
"The last time I saw her
she'd hired a lawyer."
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 2:03 AM UTC
This world's a story
filled with stones: those five
smooth ones; some temple
tumbling to; a mountain's
stubborn bones. Take this one,
pocked, rounded, smoothed,
rocked by currents sure
they'd find the way. Blue
(or vaguely gray), flecked gold
no miners mine, or can,
diminished thing from David's
bolder day, it chooses you.
Palmed in your closing hand,
it's good, the heft of it, live weight
to tell a tale that's true.
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 3:31 PM UTC
Ford and man aim stiffly toward the frame,
Ranch Wagon north, my father somewhere south --
But who can picture either one of them?
I see that car, I guess, my acrid youth,
Flash of chrome, fogged screen -- and, when we moved,
That cat we hit, flopped from its crushed skull
On the road behind. My father said it proved
All dodges cancel out; All Ahead on Full,
He said, and don't look back. How did he know
We'd lose the road, and swerve from off the plan
When crooked routes misled, or that we'd throw
His maps away? *Just do the best you can,
That's all I ask.* The camera clicks... time's torn...
I'm seven, eight... last sister's just been born...
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 1:27 PM UTC
I wonder what she thinks they'll learn tonight
From two blocks off, from lonesome hoot, mad shriek
And metal moan, this blinking ruby eye?
Transport, I guess, a ticket out from bleak
Existences: this boy, this girl, their Mom,
Three sidewalk engineers who've claimed worn seats
To marvel once again where wheels come from,
Who catch trains up in nets of city streets.
"This one's so long!" the young girl shouts. "You're right!"
Mom points through blast and blur. "Just look at all
Those tanker cars!" Her son, in fevered thrall,
Counts loud and hops, to keep his tally true.
I wonder what she thinks she's shared tonight,
The kids in bed, train gone? Though I'd watched too.
Oct 21, 2011
Oct 21, 2011 at 11:59 PM UTC
-- Wish You Were Here -- standard postcard greeting
-- Poems aren't postcards to send home -- Anne Sexton
Dear friends, dear friends at home, resent
No pagan rite nor chance event
We've failed to photograph for you
With technicolor flair in the true
Late Tourist Style. Be satisfied
You're there, not here in Circe's herd
Or dodging stones some Giant's hurled
Or fending Triton's tempest blasts
Or lashed, like me, to a shattered mast
As tempting taunts roll down the tide.
When night winds grind the wheel of sleep
Consider Cyclops, counting sheep;
When home-fires cool, just think of us
Attending smokes more perilous!
Home-bound friends, be notified:
This holiday's a Trojan Horse.
The wine's gone bad. The weather's worse.
So mark our fates by this palsied hand:
*Have sacrificed most every man.
Now homeward-bound. Still terrified.*
Sep 10, 2011
Sep 10, 2011 at 5:47 PM UTC