UPS, FEDEX, et al.
ubiquitous in this 12th month
manic motored,
four wheeled, dropping their loads
on stoops and porches
under watchful eye of door cams,
and eager Prime-aholics
who give little thought
to Bezos' bilious billions
an Amazon addict am I as well
cyber pampered, too indolent
to wander the aisles of Macy's, Walmart
wait...I see the brown behemoth
slowing by my drive; I must not tarry
in my armchair
up, up, a package will arrive
in milliseconds, surely grander
than gold, frankincense, and myrrh!
Dec 12, 2024
Dec 12, 2024 at 7:16 PM UTC
tall prairie grasses
wind whipped, without lament
bison bones,
now soul wedded with soil
wagon wheel ruts
petrified with time, tracks
followed like words on the page
no scent of the sojourners' saga
remains
for mongrel dogs that hunt
or 21st century two legged creatures
who cruise control across mouthless lands
that once spoke of promise
Nov 24, 2024
Nov 24, 2024 at 10:34 PM UTC
LET
THERE
BE
LIGHT
a
fierce
sun ******
vapors
into
a
thunderous
sky
which
wept
sixty
sextillion
tears
creating
a
riddled
calibration:
the river
time
we
came
cells
devouring
cells
metastasizing
into
life
first
cruel crawlers
then
stealthy stalkers
wicked walkers
and
finally
THE
terrible talkers
blasphemers
bending
time
asking
WHY
it
flows
?
we
are
they
who
have
no
shore
on
which
to
moor
on the river,
time
Oct 24, 2024
Oct 24, 2024 at 6:11 PM UTC
what did he miss most?
the whip of wind on his face
the unbridled buck of life between his legs
the scent of the saddle
the lathered beast?
the fast pass of the satchel
to the next eager rider, the covenant
he carried in the saddle bags; the one he made
with the Almighty to keep him safe
from the red devils?
a new century dawned, two score
years since the hot rides were quick
made obsolete by the iron horse, the poles
and lines that brought Morse's magic,
ticking time electric
what did he miss most?
perhaps the deep, unperturbed sleep
after the ride--slumber filled with liquid dreams,
gifts bestowed by a condign contentment
from his brutish labor
**1901, in memory of the Pony Express, 1860-1861
Oct 22, 2024
Oct 22, 2024 at 1:38 PM UTC
On the Nature of Writing—A Simple Rhyme
I write for me, not for thee
I write for me, in order to see
the things to which I might otherwise be blind
to rummage among ruins to see what I may find
I write not to create mystery,
nor to unravel history
not to fill my pockets with gold
or even have words for others to behold
because I write for me
when words scar a clean white page
like some tiny creatures released from a cage
I pause long enough to explore
why I opened their door
they were not asleep but only hiding
and when I allowed their silent gliding
I had to follow their puzzling trail
like they led to some great holy grail
And when I saw they did not end
but they like I could only pretend
I paused long enough to breathe
and finally to conceive
I write for me, and not for thee
so even if I don’t understand
the nature of this literary land
the words still keep walking
and my eyes keep stalking
the path I take for me,
but not for thee
Oct 20, 2024
Oct 20, 2024 at 1:49 PM UTC
I make tracks
evidence someone was HERE
until they disappear, with wind's sweep, or rain's moody fall
in elements' absence, time alone will suffice, and not play nice, with my tracks
fade to black they will,
still, I'll stomp my feet, producing prints,
eyes closed to their
ephemeral reign
Oct 15, 2024
Oct 15, 2024 at 9:30 PM UTC
Teresa climbs on the bus
before the sun, if she has
the fare
to get there, where she
makes the bread; she's been at this
two of her nineteen years
yet she has fears, they will
come for her--green card or not;
though they like her rolls
she kneads the big ***** pulls,
pinches, a sculpting of dough, a laying
of trays, one after another
then, from the Iglesias,
they come, decked in their finery
though she does not see
she only hears the litany
of language she can't comprehend,
a clanging of trays, laughter
the urging of the jefe to work
faster, bake the bread; the communion
wafers did not fill them
now they are here, breaking fast,
forgetting the words they just heard
the songs they sang
Teresa does not complain; she
is glad to feed the worshipers, though
they will never know her name
nor will they stop for
her in the pouring rain,
the blistering sun
Teresa never wavers
next Sabbath will be the same:
dawn, the dough, the oven
it is the work--her hands
which make the bread others break,
the grace granted to serve
holy, holy, holy...
Oct 12, 2024
Oct 12, 2024 at 12:55 PM UTC
I wanna have lunch with Poe,
at Burger King,
because I'm sure he would appreciate how ghoulish that King in their commercial is
I don't want him to recite verse
while we fill our medium cups with corn syrup nectar--a giant leap
down from laudanum
I do want to ask about the Cask of Amontillado and being walled in slowly, for eternity
for to me that is creepier than all the crimson cream in the Masque of the Red Death
I want to know if he likes the fries--will he dare to dip them in scarlet paste we call catsup
mostly I want to know if he remembers the alley where he was found,
not yet a legend, consumed by consumption and delirium in equal measure
and if there were rodents privileged to hear his last whispered words--or even a gasp
I am buying, Ed, so grab that Whopper with both bony paws and tell me terrible tales, evermore
Oct 6, 2024
Oct 6, 2024 at 12:19 PM UTC
fishing the river is for old men,
solitary figures who saw their original sin
and now see darkness closing in
for old men, who watch
the leaves pass on soft singing waters
to them, it matters not if they make it to the black sea,
tarry a while on a quiet bank,
or sink into the silt
for old men, who dream while awake
whose eyes no longer flutter but squint
in the sun’s naked white journey
from shore to shore
when their line becomes taut, they know now
a slow dance will ensue, not a battle in a war
they once felt compelled to fight--raging, raging against the night,
for the fish and fisherman know,
when the conversation ends, the line
will again be loose, drifting on currents,
bound for the certainty
of uncertainty
fishing the river is for old men
I am haunted by waters
** I am haunted by waters is the last line from Norman Maclean's story, A River Runs Through It, and the movie of the same title.
Oct 1, 2024
Oct 1, 2024 at 1:26 AM UTC
one in a hundred million
swimmers reaches the egg,
seeds fare only little better it seems,
save one which landed in just the right warm cow droppings
in my pasture, took root, fought its way through two wars,
too many dread droughts to count, a fire
that took a third my herd and a hired hand,
the passing of my wife, and some numbered portion
of my life
under a harvest moon, black armed and brittle,
it still stands, stardust reincarnated times infinity
more than once I took axe to field, but
its execution was always stayed
now the tool's too heavy to swing; the blade blunted by time
and this night, I can see the tree's shifting shadows on silver ground, receding silently in lunar light, preparing for a dawn it will greet, with or without me
Sep 10, 2024
Sep 10, 2024 at 12:40 PM UTC