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.

I sit here and wonder
how does my good luck grow
soft and slowly around me?

I don't recall planting
a luck seed in the moist dirt
of a slip *** weathered with age.

My siblings feel battle fallout
from Zeus and Hades
hurling nearby bolts of catastrophe.

Mishap, misadventure, and calamity
do you lurk around the next bend
as I tread on a fair weather journey?

Life is unfair.
Brother and sister meek, what do you
inherit, the earth or misfortune?

I sit here and wonder
how does my good luck grow
soft and slowly around me?

Reflect, reflect, reflect
Trust yourself and trust your client
Accept those you counsel
If you don't know what to say, smile
Finish on time
Don't talk too much
Show your joy
Hide your judgments
Try to work yourself out of a job
Love yourself
Clarify, clarify, clarify
Stomp out erroneous thinking
Keep Kleenex handy

A strange way of touching
Without contact
Opening a new way of being
With no turning back

There was authenticity
Warmth flowed
Though the day was rainy
Still the faces glowed

This moment did bleed importance
Meaning was there
Within a trance
Built on screams of care

Thoughts were known
Before spoken
Forever shown
In memories unbroken

Some mornings
smiles seem wider
your lover's hands
seems softer and hold you longer

Some afternoons are sublime,
beyond scripting
with skies
of unending blue

Some nights  
clocks tick louder
move slower
like life will go on and on

Some moments
are charged with electricity,
love flows down the circuits.
one becomes weak in the knees

Sometimes you get
close to others
and know enough
to sit and watch love grow

The orange fire of morning sky
blazes through birthing branches
green with sprigs of spring.  

Wrens announce their intentions
to live this day as a breeze from the west
kicks buds of oak-leaf  hydrangeas toward the sky.

A grey bank of clouds fights to claim territory.
Soft pit pats, pit pat across patios, sidewalks and roof-top shingles
forewarn the burst arriving against the earth.  

Rain, beloved by some
disfavored by others,
becomes relentless.

Bolts, sharp and direct,
provoke clouds to participate
in the deluge.

Rain, beloved by some
disfavored by others,
shifts gears to softness.

Rain, beloved by some
disfavored by others,
owns the day.

Like the oak leaf hydrangea bud in May,
like the squirrels infest backyard  bird feeders ,
and like the train whistle echoes in the hollow
rolling through white pines and serviceberry branches,
her trust, in the shape of soft smiles and morning kisses,
permeates his every breath .

I settle near the Camellia  
as good fortune  
surrounds me.  

I wonder
how does  luck grow
leisurely around me?

I can't  recall pushing
a  lucky seed into moist dirt
of  a weathered slip ***.

Many friends and siblings feel
battle fallout as Zeus and Hades
hurl bolts of catastrophe at them.

Life is unfair.
Meek brothers and sisters will you
inherit the earth or misfortune?

Mishap, misadventure and calamity
do you lurk around the next bend
of my fair weather journey?


.

Fingers wrap around
cracked plastic steering wheel
of the forty-eight Ford
while curved glass bottles
of *** and coke
perch on the crest
of the dashboard.

I cup her left breast,
explore for
another short-lived feel
as my breath wrestles
with the scent of
lavender beneath her ear.

Tingles and beads of sweat
inter-mingle damp
on my collar.
My lips labor
toward her cheek
methodically
like a grandfather
ascending a steep stairway.

Her nylon-protected thigh
burns against my gabardines
kicking static electricity
off of sagging seat covers.

I fumble with the catch
of her bra against her back.

Parked here to spoon
feels better than
playing amateur baseball.
No audience
watches me
drop the ball
or toil to get
to second base.

Bent over, pen in hand
carefully squeezing between
thumb and forefinger

Looking up to scrolled
white on black cards,
a's and b's

Performance at chalkboard
do so carefully
each stoke and space

Turn the handle slowly, steady
hold the yellow number two
firmly in the sharpener

Practice capitals
slow movement with slight pressure
leave space between words

Circle, circle, fill the page
loops, curls
wave upon wave across the lines

Write your name
no printing allowed
this will be your identity

The wait
massages my soul
as I become still.
My breathing
finds a cadence
like a monk in meditation.  

In my dream
you pose for me
as your tongue
licks nectar
from petunia buds.  

I conjure
florescent shades
unlike those
any artist
can splash
on canvas.  

The wait for you
is as near to heaven
as I fathom
I will get
while here on earth.

I want a day with a morning mist
that burns off
as the sun finds its way
through the thin trunks of Loblolly pines
along the river.

I want to *****
over logs and through bogs
and find my way around the bend
among whatever crawls, digs and hunts
along the river.

I want to feel like the first person
to sink my heels into untrammeled riverbank
and discover what raccoon and ****** know;
there is promise here
along the river.

I want to blaze a ****** path
and hear cracks, snaps, and squishes play a song
with each step of my boot
along the river.

I want to see what is
beyond the bend  
along the river.

In the fog of war
Decisions are made in haste

In the dew of night
Misinformation prevails

In the heat of noon
Soldiers await their orders

In the day’s tumult
Dead bodies drape the landscape

In the daze of war
Mistakes are often concealed

After the war’s fog
May the truth be ascertained

In the dew of peace

Fingers do a resolute tap, tap
on leather sofa arm.
Eyes shift upwards as
she enunciates each word
“I should have screamed
more.”

No longer does she live
like furniture
in a summer home,
hidden and covered
except when needed.

Newborn screams pierce
her coverings
and erupt, signaling
an end to her pretense.

Weary of repairing
other’s battered armor,
she hammers out
her own dents.