Within stirs a persistent bane

birthed while on her mother’s knee,
endorsed with fiery warnings
loudly proclaimed from weekly pulpit.

Now her bones grate
against the cushion
while the rhythmic cadence
of rocking chair
runners on hardwood
breaks the dim silence


as past misdoings reverberate

on the back walls of her mind.

Disquietude prompts obsessions
she endeavors to prove invalid.
Her desire to flee

from reminders of falsehoods

and fake passions

nags her endlessly

like unforgivable sins

haunt a cloistered sister.
Neither pleas nor prayers

quell her remorseful ruminations.

Bad luck
decorates her branches

flashing on and off
like 
strings of lights
on a christmas tree.

Misfortune glows

as if fueled
by noonday sun

under cloudless sky.

Each day
she longs

for someone
who might notice,

turn some switch,

dim the lights,
pull a plug,
and
 diminish her pain.

No hero lurks nearby
on prancing steed.

Don’t filaments fray,

bulbs burn out

and fail to ignite

one more time?

Today she listens to her body --
complexity churning beneath her skin
traces of passion bounding in her veins
as surging waves along the seashore

She guides her hands creating something
of this moment -- leaves indelible marks
to delight a student of nature

Her *******
are soft on the outside
roaring within

Today her body
grow older
moves slower
She watches
her bones rise
slowly
to meet the day

No bouncing flesh
comes with her
to face this day's
challenges
She plays
the experience card
to stay alive
one more day

I

Hospital chlorine, splash of lavendar
mix with baby powder as she guards her newborn.

His fingers brush the fur on her collar,
while he helps her with the car door.

Wisps of spring
breeze through her auburn hair.

He captures her grace
soft as a red fox.

II

Shorter steps carry them
to and from their Taurus.

Hand-me-down walkers and bassinets
feel the weight of their grandchildren.

Welcome Guests stitched in black and red
greets overnighters in the nursery.

Seventy years old in her black shawl,
his hand cups her elbow, "Steady dear, steady."

Eastern towhee flits along garden edge
picking here and there
its movements assumed to be  
intentional to casual observers
who imagine a search for food
or a gathering of sprigs for a nest.

Last night was a mystery;
a kiss, then a hug followed by a tirade
seemingly without a purpose.  
Was there intent to hurt,
to inflict an invisible ****
deep inside her chest?

Cowbirds leave their eggs in towhee nests
expecting the towhee to hatch them.
The cowbird knows its purpose.

Unlike the bird, he seems unaware
that consequences ride
on the back of his behaviors
like mites cling to a wing.

He wanted to assert himself
to make clear his desires.
He didn't intend to wound her heart.

Nature's contributions cascade along the steep trail.

Numerous white patches and yellow splotches

set on a blanket of green

amid immense coverings

so blue that it seems parts of the sky have fallen.  

Pinks protrude like boulders in a creek

while reds try to hide around rocks and crevasses.

Faded petals,

past announcements of spring

now reside alongside signs of birth,

buds seeking an identity.

Arrays of mature blossoms parade full and ripe

along a path of short lives and slow deaths.

Fallen relics, grey and mossy

display across the emerald carpet,

a memory of another time.

Some afternoons are sublime
beyond scripting
splendid blue colors the sky
and my lover's lips
taste like dripping honey

Some nights I hear the mantle
clock tick and music sounds
sweeter than it has since
those nights in New Orleans

Some mornings are like those artists paint
of sunshine shimmering on the water
my darling's presence seems
like a celebration without
the need of a parade

Some days are unique
love is easily earned
I can sit near my beloved
and watch love grow

Tornados excite, attract
become a vortex for life
A swirl of busy days
sleepless nights
and nagging headaches --
voices from the head
spread the guilt --
plenty to go around

Our grandparents strew the seeds
our parents cultivate the crop
feeding us the fruit
We taste and devour, seldom does
ripe yield rot on the vine

Cherish moments when energy
pumps from wells
special drinks to ****** us
after our passions, our goals
Cherish moments when
we forge ahead
free from remorse

Hesitant to step close to empathy,
he is unwilling to face fear's barren landscape
veiled with affective danger.  

Struggling, tempted to jump into affectations
lurking within the knowledge
that life is now.

What justifies talk of one's soul,
or eternity, or lament
when the moment is here,
rich and full around us.

If one dwells long enough
fragility advances.  Is fading towards
expiration a blessing?  Or, is preference
a lightning bolt ride to the hereafter
without the faculty to write a goodbye?

Reflect death's terror, it's trepidation
and stay with the present  final moment to be won.

What plays most on his mind
is her mulish way and
how her stubborn words roll
off her scarlet tongue --
She's intractable.

When forehead crevasses interrupt her
softness like a fog cast over
the morning meadow,
only love can  
subdue her argument.
She's intractable.  

There is a mountain of
dissent to scale for him
to touch her tenderly.
Her noisy defiance
remains endearing to those
untouched by her resilience.
To others, she's intractable.

There is just enough morning sunlight
filtering through the english laurel
for aging eyes to capture the purple tint
of carnations blooming
in the front of the rocks
jutting toward the porch

Night-time had been colorless
in the midst of a celebration
announced by a sign signaling
an event in the main ballroom

With a loud voice
a long-named minister
toyed with religion
and flirted with comedy
before the silverware
clanged against the china

Boredom captured the moment
in the middle of the clatter and chatter
Even stunning silks and satins
around bodacious behinds
failed to entertain

Now perhaps the oldest in the crowd
he carefully quenches each desire
to know the delicacies of the evening
with the efforts of survival.  He was slowly
dying in the madness of the crowd

There are poems hidden in the limbs of the willow
Lines of rhyme flowing from the music of the wren
Sonnets sitting like angels atop clouds resting on hilltops
Waiting to instill those with pen and ink to script lyrics to enlighten
There are triolets among the petals of coneflowers, pink, red and yellow

For poems are the breath of our life, the sustenance of the soul
Wars recalled in verse, memories intended to calm
Songs of poetry sing messages cascading from the heart
When gods, or monsters, or disease destroy the planet
The last words, lines forming an elegy, will drift from the debris

She cupped my cheek
with the warm fingers of
her right hand
as her palm rested
on the jaw of my desire.

My body warmed slow
down to the toes
wanting to step into
the mansion of her passion.

I love you,
the words dropped
from her lips
like silver beads of
rain on the pasture
of my heart.

Swivel chair swings side-to-side
like a wind chime twisting in March's gusts.
Thoughts of the past fade in and out
reminiscent of film in a faulty projector.

Much is forgotten.
Denial of certain behaviors
shuns responsibility as whole
pages are wiped from his memory scroll.

Each night images play before him.
******, like a needle on a balloon,
burst thoughts of contentment
and feelings of tranquility.

How does one mute
static from past sins ,
to accept
the salve of forgiveness?

no silence
by the water,
flies buzz, mockingbirds
try for a Grammy
airplanes roar
land, leave
touch tarmac like
sparrows gather
crumbs beneath
the feet of tourist
who dine on patios

no silence,
by the water
no holes in the water
only holes in the sky as
contrails churn up
nature's cycle
no silence
buzz, sing, roar
no end

Do spiders ever
paint themselves into corners?
Humans often do.

Cats are said to be able
to see in the dark.**
Most of us as we age, stumble
when our feet, somewhat numb
set sail slow toward
midnight's bathroom call
bouncing like boats
against strong headwinds.

Unlike a teen boy whose sharp eyes
quickly pierce darkness, I am unable
to gather flecks of sight
in deepest night.
My eyes, like my feet
find some way to fight through
years of wear and abuse to
function enough to reach
my perch of relief.

Soon the midnight treks
will become so arduous
no sexton nor settings
will keep the strengthening winds
from blowing me
to whatever shore fate
has cast for me.

Dishes clang loud against the sink
Metal spoons bang white ceramic 
   Anger defies lifelong contract
Sacred and sealed with tears and tact
   Adhesive is this stone of hurt
Lumped solidly within her throat 
   No easy atonement comes forth
Nor minor distraction does soothe   
   Her rant gathers no audience
No recall of what stoked this fire

There's red on Nandina,
berries blazing among
morning's mist

Years ago you were
a sprig, shiny green
hiding below the white spruce

Once,  nearly
pulled along with other
less worthy underbrush

Like the car that braked on
time, like the strike of lightening
that missed the cabin

Survival can show
bright, radiant
veil of flaws

Gone, times of trial
evasions of destruction
hidden behind the glare

I sit in a cramped pose
filter out  laughter in the hall
notice my breath flowing
in, out….
pain in my ankles
aches up my legs
**** cheeks basking
like turtles on a rock
still, in waiting, infrequent
head peaks out of my shell
as I anticipate
revelations in my bones
and insights which will cast aside
fears of imaginary illness
fade real disasters
hanging from my ceiling
into fantasies  
destined to
scare the sweat out of me
and make me whole.

Fooled by love,
rather fooled by life
a maze to walk
seldom traversed
without the inevitable blank wall
tormenting befuddled mind.

Love is real.

Life is a hazy non-reality.

Trust the heart

for melodious, rhythmic beats

signal that 
life is now
not some distant goal.

Love is around,
within awareness

find it

among sky, among trees

within *****, within 
wombs. 


Will you be worthy of love?
Rather will love be worthy of you?

Autumn slips

across the Dakota plain

rolling southeastward

like a slinky shadow.
Coming and going
in September

around State Fair time.

Dakota autumn seems 
shorter
than the fair itself.
Tree leaves hastily turn shades

and drop in a matter of days.

Summer and winter overlap

like two hands clasped together.
Fingers of winter
poke into autumn’s space.

Summer's digits
carry the name, Indian Summer

rather than proudly wearing 

the banner of a warm autumn day.
School children don heavier jackets

and crack thin ice on puddles
from the fall’s first frosts.
Farmers rush to finish
corn and bean harvests

in the midst of 
early October snow.

In Dakota, fall ends early.

Standing before her
on one foot,
as though surveying
a Renoir,
he is overwhelmed by splashes
of red from her nails,
her lips.
Shifting to level
he is entranced
by her blue, twinkling eyes,

His gaze is one of awe.
Uncritical he hears
her hair sweep
across her shoulder,
as rustling wind blown
across West Texas
fields of barley.

Her words
cool his bare toes
as though dipped in
Box Elder creek’ s flow through
rocks, eddies and fallen limbs.

Her moves
have the grace of cirrus skies,
he thinks
this is my picnic spot,
my settling spot
fit to build a cabin.

Then he knows,
love is here.

Falling leaves confused
With a darting hummingbird,
Time to change my clocks

Flickering blast forth
"It is broken.  It needs fixing"
We know, we broke it

What do you do all day

said the spider to the fly

Fly one said, I play

Fly two said, "Mostly I fly"

What do you do all day

said the lady to the guy

Guy one said "I pray?

Guy two said, "I while the day away"

Beneath shade from tall poplars stand
markers: rows staggered hand-in-hand.

Rock slabs like soldiers on review
symbolic nameplates capture dew.

Planted deep, mounted in red-clay;
lean to and fro like mimes at play.

Weathered by icy winter frost
and torrid heat near sacred ghost,

echoes resound of beginnings
while dust sifts across the endings.

Stark among the lush of youth

tall, unashamed

no leaves twirl downward

no fertile blanket of rot

to feed saplings

fresh with green sprigs.

Many seasons

they have tasted your sustenance.

Do they regard your wisdom

whispered in the mountain breeze?

Do they believe tales told of

life on the hill,

of cycles of torrents, droughts,

penetrating frosts and mountains

of drifted snow?

Do they devour the lore

falling among the leaves?

Watch this weathered being,
lean, hiding toughness beneath
a pale denim shirt marked with
oil stains near the collar and bare threads
across the elbow.  Blue eyes
peering from below sweat-stained straw brim
reflect the afternoon sun.

Consider words through
wind chapped lips "that's good enough"
to announce job completed, for now.
Simple words destined to ring
loud as though from a pulpit.
Clear remarks, a catchphrase,
to temper any drive toward excellence
or the disease of perfectionism.

Notice the softness of the voice,
amid rut of the sow
and cluck of the hen,
unintended philosophy that
drifts though eastward wind
spoken to convey
the end of a daily task.

Tears linger on eyelids

without the energy

to stream down her cheek.

A dry cry is all she can muster.



A deep sigh

ripples folds in her blouse.

An unused brush filled with

dandruff flakes and uprooted hair

rests on the end-table next to her.



Calls unanswered, or worse,

echoes of beep, beep, beep.

She dials to talk to someone

about everything and nothing.



A televangelist flings his robed arms toward heaven.

and shouts from the small screen that

forgiveness is the answer.

If only she knew who to forgive.



Layers of emotion, distorted

like radio static on a stormy night

dance with images of guilt

and thoughts of dismay.



A dry cry is all she can muster.

Any eye casted toward
the corner of the yard
noticed how this spot,
wild and overgrown
was  like
foliage of the forest.

To her the spot was
evidence of rebellion
for it was real,
not patterned
or contrived like their days
had grown

The rugged corner drew her
to childhood memories,
smells, and signs
of the unspoiled countryside
of a time before she
became tame and docile

How could he destroy
this one rebel plot?
How could he bulldoze
the one rough-hewn patch
like he had purged
all  unpretentious blood
from her heart?

There was a firmness
in her voice,  conviction
swimming through every line
across her withered face,
"I hope I go to bed tonight and not wake up."

Life for her now filled with hallucinations,
the fabric of prescriptions, intended to
calm and relieve, nonetheless resulting in
dreaded dreams or day-long semi-comas.
"I hope I go to bed tonight and not wake up."

Steps now few
taken with arms straining against
aluminum bars capped with rubber tips
and a stranger watching,
waiting to help her sit, wipe and
retrace her shuffle to
the high wheeled chair by the window.
"I hope I go to bed tonight and not wake up."

Her world, a waiting world
filled with shawls, quilted blankets
bland food, and echoing medicine schedules.
Her room, a blaring television set with
a remote that calls up one channel
that plays the day away.
"I hope I go to bed tonight and not wake up."

Any brighter and
streams in the ditches
would look like Cuyahoga River
across Cleveland during the 1960's

There is no fire, only flies
who make bright their bellies
and flash for show like the perverts
in metropolitan inner city parks

Enticed to the flies, like moths
to the ceiling globes,
we gather jars and lids
with air holes hammered hard

No walking as we streak
along gravel roads built after WWII
when rationing was lifted
and road speeds jumped

Flies caught one by one
are smashed on white tees,
luminous signals for drivers
alert to the folly of our play

Our madness endures
until Ball  jars become
dim lanterns of joy for us and jail
for the bugs doomed


to die before daybreak
until swept from the garage
floor as we plot our assault
on airborne glimmers along
tonight's roadsides

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/julie-r-enszer/are-too-many-people-writib5560772.html

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Question.  How do you make a link "hot" on this site.

Read this link and send me a reply if you like.

There are poems hidden in the limbs of the willow
Lines of rhyme flow from the music of the wren
Sonnets sit like angels atop clouds resting on hillsides
Waiting to instill those with pen and ink to script lyrics to enlighten
Triolets grow among pink, red and yellow petals of coneflowers

Poetry is the breath of our life, the sustenance of the soul
Wars recalled in verse, memories intended to calm, release the pain
Songs of poetry sing messages cascading from the heart
When gods, or monsters, or disease destroy the planet
The last words, lines forming an elegy, will drift from the debris

Come fill the void beside my heart
Wide as the river valley spreads
Still as hillside without wren's song
Make full this space where you belong

Who will sit down beside my tree
Enjoy the shade of my misery
Communicate what turns their world
Help my pain fade to ecstasy

Come fill the void beside my heart
Vacuity so deep and wide
Become the clouds containing joy
Please sit beside my lonesome tree

Water it while you water me

I wonder
how our great creator
built a vessel
strong enough
to contain my soul?

My soul fights each day
against my skin with jolts
violent as a young bird
seeking exit from a cage.

My unfettered soul,
free from me, would
bounce among clouds,
roll through deserts,
climb volcanic ridges
and migrate with birds in flight.

Curious instincts would guide
my vital force inside and out
like honey bees
scouring zinnias in full bloom.

I wonder, should I release my spirit today?

Laureates argue
amid gross indifference

Inflamed emotions
spur debate

What is rare
above all important

Called forth
on special occasions

Words, phrases, lines
stanza, tone, meter

Art in form
passion spilled in rhyme

Alive in valleys
under the radar

Husky voice, once soothing and gracious,
crackles tales over lines built by Ma Bell.
Reportedly bluebirds
flit among dusty silk arrangements
to bask in afternoon sunshine
among the Dakota Farmer magazines
littered on the antique end table.

Imaginary camels prance
in the snowy field across the road,
ungracefully swing their long necks
and await their performance
in the annual Christmas display
beside the local Lutheran Church

Hallucinations of old friends,
long dead, entertain and comfort her
from the frayed and tattered
tweed couch alongside her
plaid overstuffed rocking chair.
Farewell entertainment,
seen through coated grey lens
as her body prepares
for eternal residence
in the beyond.

A sigh signals some sort of disclosure.
– glancing over his eyeglass frames
at the slow downward tilt of her chest
her gingham blouse rises again
as she inhales energy for her words,
words intended to clarify or confuse,
he does not know.
His own exhale and a frowning brow
signal that he is listening-
to judge whether her statement
is real or fancy.
Her words a mercury for her mood
no gauge left as he guesses
seeking to understand her,
to crawl through her veins like a virus,
to know her every desire,
every expectation, even every fear.
He is adrift in his own flaws,
unable to grasp precisely her feelings, her expressions.
His distrust is great whether of himself or of her.
Salt honesty with caprice and tasty fare is spoiled.
Gripping the arm of his chair,
muscles straining to lurch forward,
he escapes toward the door
leaving her words
to fill the hollow behind him.
Tomorrow he may choose valor,
today the fear of authenticity scares him to his den.

She swells
from her anger
until blue rivers
flow down her legs
as distinct
as though traced
by a tattoo artist.
He toils, resisting
temptations to apply
the balm that soothes
her soul, she boils
from residue
that falls
on her trail
as they walk together
through her daze.
Resentments sweep
across their fertile minds
caught among this labyrinth
of dreams, desires and fears.
They weather persistent
torrential storms  
pelting their being.

She fascinates men
like a fused corolla whorl
attracts birds and bees

His mouth puckers to the side,
his brow furrows when aware
an assumption crawls around
in the wormwood of his mind.
  
Every  misconception,
unrecognized at first
swells within, until
his error bolts forth
like lighting on the prairie
breaks the swelter of
a summer day.

Meditations sooth his disquiet ,
perplexed by her perfection
he searches for scars in blossoms,
and defects in tree leaves.  His mouth
grows dry as he mumbles
"there is no perfection."
If he finds a flaw
upon her cheek,
or a birthmark
on her shoulder
will his love fade?

Eyes staring ahead,
his mind in a trance,
he ruminates phrases
" stay open," "remain tolerant"  
wait for flowers to bloom,
rains to come and
her to remain
incomprehensible.

Together amid greenery and blossoms
they stand shoulder to shoulder, narrow eyed
and fixated upon bursts of golden daylily.

More than spring mingles in the mist
more than heat flows between them
mystery envelops them

There was the first time she held a clock
a miniature spring operated swiss piece
forbidden, still she opened the back

Movement, synchronized with sound, churned
tick, tick, tock, tock, steady clicks
worked the hands notch after notch

Would she let what was between them
work without her fingers, incited by catlike curiosity,
prying open the back of him

Stare at his insides, his tick, tick, tock, tock
until she sees him as a machine
turning until the spring unwinds?

To disguise our sin of greed
We debate philosophies
And justify our economies

Our sins cannot be covered
By shouting explanations

If I sit next to a painting of a lady
with black hair and bare arms with long brown gloves
will I become inspired and spread
my toast with sweat from my work.

Chandeliers block every creative thought,
perhaps I might sneak them out of my ears
and onto a keyboard, or tip my head
so ideas sprawl across my bedsheets.

Nearby machines answer automatic triggers,
make noises lulling me to doze
and dream of my next line
"clouds turn color while wind blows from nowhere."

Paintings of ladies without their legs crossed
invite me to fantasize what I might have become
had I stayed in South Dakota among the corn
and herds of black angus cattle.

I cried myself to sleep last night filled
with sadness and fear over books rotting on
shelves of unoccupied libraries
with empty chairs and dusty tables.

My bald-headed best friend
read this poem five times,
failed to laugh or even smile
and said, "you are no Patricia Lockwood."

Unfulfilled

There is life among the three.  Two
now brilliantly white.  Winter is hard.
Survival happens, unlike the front-yard bush.
Cold did execute leaves and branches.  Survival
keeps all three away from trucks and men with blades
destine to transport to heaven or hell
where survival is eternal.

One older unwiser, grounded along
the fence, survives with blossoms rare.
Verdant, fated to disregard, hides
among the choice beauties.  Summer will be long
alive without show.  Like a middle child amid genious.

“Except for needs I can pack everything I have 
into my old black sea-bag.”  * *

"I wish I had written that line,
I said loud enough for him to hear."

He shuffled around in his stool
and raised his cup to get  
hit with a refill.

Frustration wiggle I call it,
you know like when your dad
couldn’t let you struggle with a puzzle.

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot
announced his irritation
"Where have you been,
swimming shallow side?"

"I stated swatting away needs
like mosquitoes on sweat
when I was seven."

He peered past his coffee,
furrowed his brow
and rubbed his tongue
over his lower lip.

"Whiskey Tango Foxtrot,
why do you keep saying that, I asked"

"Guess you’ve never been in the military.
College man I reckin,
fancy degrees
and you don't know Alpha Zulu?"

From Alpha Zulu by Gary Lilley

No sickle bar churns
repetitiously clanging two notes
while grasshoppers and field mice
scurry to survive the blade

Now yellow bulldozers with humongous tires
roar like thunder in a rainstorm and
scrape away black loam leaving
clay as red as fresh beets

There is no funeral for the hay meadow
that is dead and put to rest
without a tombstone

Aging arms splotched with purple and red
signs of tangling with jagged dead branches
among white pines along the back of the yard
reach for a copy of Ted Kooser's Flying at Night.
Pages flip for a stop here and there
to read Sunset, Carp and Spring Plowing
Envy swells inside him with the realization
that he will never write such fine poems
which prompt memories of childhood adventures
living rural among tiger lilies blooming in meadows,
newborn calves teetering toward first steps,
and freshly spread manure capturing the scent of fall air.
His fingers still grimy from early morning planting
place Kooser's volume carefully beside his empty coffee cup
content that he is blessed to have discovered it
that day hiding next to classic tomes by Shakespeare and Whitman.
He rises to tackle digging potholes for double begonias
to decorate his yard and and to dream of pages unread.