4d r
broken, the glassy
surface survives

all life beneath
dances, dives

creates mad,
restless waves

the banks contain
my skin remains.
  4d r
red wine beads at my brow
I wait to wince

poppies dance out in the yard
in the little warmth from seasons since

her feet trail away
the broken magnum at mine

head, heat, blaring haze
scythes at the atlas of my spine

scorn and disgrace
raw and insipid

the sun turns its face
lends whatever light to the wicked

she said she'd put the fear of god in me
but god is not what I fear

not what oppresses my feet
nor the ache of my best years

he does not hang from her tongue
like the prize of her spiced rum

any vestige of will; any spirit, any trace
for any iota of refrain

quashed, quelled
concealed and contained

another fickle whine
another fleeting wish

any mistake I've made is mine
and hers are carried on the wind

she speaks like the end;
the war, and then what's won

no more sour a tend
than to the wounds of what's been done

the world armed to defend;
her foes a heavy sword against a throng so young

infantile infantry
ripened from infancy

what a weapon are my sons

what a kindness she's coughed up
you never are who you think you are for very long –
at least, in my experience.
a bus ticket and a brain
  Jul 8 r
Sukanya Sinha Roy
Suddenly it is so quiet here
The house was quieter before, but now it echoes

Still have so many things to do
Ought to get the washing in from the clothesline

There are bits and pieces of your life
floating around my screen, like lanterns in the sky

The space between us is sacred
Will turn off the lights, I think,and mute the television
  Jul 7 r
younger than me
sweeter than I could ever be

what is more lonesome
than the youth
that drags its own wings through the dirt?
what else would I have done?

I've watched hope spring
time and time again
cling its moist roots
to arid land


as infertile a wild;
some auspice offered
to skin softer than mine

what I'd lost
before they'd begun to gain
bucks buried in the halogen
of the world ahead

and what small sorrow it crows for yet
like a father's shaking hands
before I knew what trembling was

or what such a shaken man begets

or life along the highway line
another cry carried on the air
threatened like road-wandering swine
a frightened feral

what is more uncaring
than childhood fancy –
what is more forgetful of me?

how abrupt has it been
and then to end in collision
flame spiraling, firing off its hot spittle –
the youngest of the few

never quite young enough
"my children left on a cold night
my husband said it's how things go
like rabbits blinded by the light
kids want a better place to grow"
  Jun 15 r

I push through the thicket
to the patch of land
where the air is thick
with burnt pine and turmeric
to where the moon sets
spry on the water

I take my legs
and offer them to the strait
my plunge
into the euripus

what use are they
if not to walk
to the nape of hope's neck?

well, then
it is this
I am whelmed
carried off by the cold swell
of adam's ale

then, somewhere
along the river
and its rushing stupor

I hear singing
a voice that rings like clinkstone
and the ecclesiast begins to pull me
a quiet accompaniment
careful quiet, in the night –
such is thievery

subtle, without much grief
take me

for whatever gold I am
whatever glimmer that I could give
burnished of whatever sin
"lost in thought;
he gets caught up in nonstop monologue,
immersed in waking dreams"
r Jun 6
I used to keep a bell jar
full of old fine fishing line
arrowheads, gold coins
and stuff not easy to find

like cherry cured shine from
my mountains of Tennessee

buried in a lunch bucket
twelve paces from the coop
waiting for the moon
who took his own sweet time

slower than a long night
listening to the same hoot
of the same old hoot owl
in the same old dying tree

knowing it was the end
of my days on the Creek
me, I could see it coming
like a dead star's light

from so long ago
I couldn’t possibly know
which old road I’d follow

so holler at me my
friends, my loves
from time to time
wherever you be

whenever your heart strings
are feeling a need
to tell this spirit of mine
your sorrows, your joys
or wishes for
better tomorrows

and I will from somewhere
be there with open arms
and ears and a heart

sewn tight with that jar
of invisible string
that binds our lives together
forever and longer than that
light from a dead star still
burning on shining so bright.
Keep on rocking in a free world, my friends.  

And james, you old coot, yes you,  put back on that black beret that looked so cool and get your ass back here to write HP some lines of your fine poetry.
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