"almanac" poems
Better that every fiber crack
and fury make head,
blood drenching vivid
couch, carpet, floor
and the snake-figured almanac
vouching you are
a million green counties from here,
than to sit mute, twitching so
under prickling stars,
with stare, with curse
blackening the time
goodbyes were said, trains let go,
and I, great magnanimous fool, thus wrenched from
my one kingdom.
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I know some lonely Houses off the Road
A Robber’d like the look of—
Wooden barred,
And Windows hanging low,
Inviting to—
A Portico,
Where two could creep—
One—hand the Tools—
The other peep—
To make sure All’s Asleep—
Old fashioned eyes—
Not easy to surprise!
How orderly the Kitchen’d look, by night,
With just a Clock—
But they could gag the Tick—
And Mice won’t bark—
And so the Walls—don’t tell—
None—will—
A pair of Spectacles ajar just stir—
An Almanac’s aware—
Was it the Mat—winked,
Or a Nervous Star?
The Moon—slides down the stair,
To see who’s there!
There’s plunder—where—
Tankard, or Spoon—
Earring—or Stone—
A Watch—Some Ancient Brooch
To match the Grandmama—
Staid sleeping—there—
Day—rattles—too
Stealth’s—slow—
The Sun has got as far
As the third Sycamore—
Screams Chanticleer
“Who’s there”?
And Echoes—Trains away,
Sneer—”Where”!
While the old Couple, just astir,
Fancy the Sunrise—left the door ajar!
3k
a late harvest in Brigadoon
plucked from good earth
by strong hands
hauling
uphill, until
a gentle
slope
rewards
a stiff
back; easing
a grateful
burden
that levitates
famine
[ bushels ]
now
ziggarats
in a root
cellar
a Sumerian skyline
of parsnips and rhubarb
with fennel minarets
where Gilgamesh slept
in a pantry of pagan loot
underneath a corner room
at the very back
of a round
house.
where four seasons bunk with an almanac
mason jars of pickled beets
breathing their own blood
hanging gardens from the ceiling
of the Underworld
like fliers of missing children
on telephone poles
i go outside and wander off
you stay home
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 2:02 AM UTC
All the days are graying and I'm fraying like the sweater my grandfather gave me.
It still smells of cigars and old west, I'm ever quested and pressed with emotion.
I've become a faded flower fated to the pages of an old almanac in the back of the library.
Scents of worn novellas standing solitary on shelves and fragrant wisps of wisteria.
Alone to settle and mettle with dust and dialogues full of empty follies and triumphs.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 11:21 AM UTC
This King’s Road
My rose petal garden
As I pick myself up from my roots.
I shake and shiver,
Jitter and jive my way through
This living almanac of fate:
Some Velvet Morning in my cup
Of coffee,
Some luck,
And a mission to create.
May 9, 2023
May 9, 2023 at 6:40 PM UTC
I've never heard a downpour stomp so loud
as the moisture above us incites rampage
droppin' bombs from celestial once neutral clouds.
the gods stamp their feet while the godesses pout;
eternal beings acting young for their age.
I've never heard a downpour stomp so loud.
With tents full of water and glasses full of stout,
my overdue almanac cries out to the mage
droppin' bombs from celestial once neutral clouds.
the drizzle it dropped but the encore soaked the crowd
the mud grew new flowers as hands mopped the stage.
I've never heard a downpour cheer so loud.
Drenched to the bone and wanderin' about
our level of wetness cannot be guaged,
droppin bombs from celestial once neutral clouds.
No refuge for masses sprawled under the spout;
bad acid, good music, free love makes us stay.
I've never heard a downpour stomp so loud
droppin' bombs from the celestial once neutral clouds.
Jun 30, 2012
Jun 30, 2012 at 11:35 AM UTC
September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.
She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,
It's time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac
on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.
It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.
But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.
Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.
-Elizabeth Bishop
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC
Sleeping in the palm of unformed,
time,
reading the almanac,
of the coldness of,
moon,
the first section is,
an achromatic afternoon,
the setting sun,
arranged the gloaming,
in the last line of,
a familiar paragraph,
the footprints,
awake at the end of,
the avenue,
the page turned,
stamped with deep,
soliloquy,
and it’s said that,
the illustrations on the cover,
are the unfinished snow of,
last year.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 3:48 AM UTC
I golfed with Byron yesterday. And no, he didn't "kick my *** as promised. It's always an edifying round with Byron. On the links he looks more like Dorf than Frodo. Sometimes I glimpse the top of his head when he's in the rough, or see a cloud of sand, like the Roadrunner hitting the ground after the inevitable fall. Our conversation (his conversation) gamuts from his re-constructed porch to life on Mars. He'd like to build a porch on Mars. He is an Everyman almanac. His back swing is like a tilting windmill, and I, his Sancho, suggesting which club to use. In fairness, he makes some remarkable shots. Here are some I've heard:
"To pinch one off, inhale, then cough." This sums up Byron's intestinal fortitude. He takes heavy doses of codeine and morphine for his back.
"Don't swab your ears with asparagus spears." This is the extent of Byron's relationship with veggies. He's more a plant man.
"During *** if she wiggles her toes, she's still wearing ***** hose." Byron gives a full belly laugh at the double entendre.
"If you pick your nose choose the best plastic surgeon." Yeah, I know. Cute. Byron himself sports a double car garage.
"Men who manscape must **** or go ape." Pure irony for Byron. Nothing sharper than the bearded axe approaches his iron.
"Ladies, when you quin manicure, design it with a touch of ***** That's Byron. Discrete, gentle and quizzical.
"If you ********** get to the point. Don't hesitate." Byron would never admit to such self-indulgence.
It was a gorgeous golf day. Byron seems to make the sun shine a little brighter. He promises, next time, he'll kick my ***
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
The sun sets gentle as it is painted
and painted over,
a portrait of sliding sky.
in gradients too slow for
notice the painter erase the day's melodies
brooding all the
while the sky finishes its fall
onto the rising night.
He is a quiet man, all
calloused hands, stained forearms,
more accustomed to solitude than
the daylight of scrutiny.
With the precision of an almanac,
the painter finishes, canvas cleaned
of its light and
sliding quiet beneath his blanket of tattered stars,
the man waits
in hope, that tender lunacy,
to find the lady who resides in the corners of his dreams.
He longs to touch her outside his mind's eye,
but all too soon he is asleep
and she is nowhere to be found.
His breathing evens out and
rising unconscious from the bed,
he shuffles towards the canvas.
Sitting picturesque before the easel,
he eases the woman into existence,
champagne beneath his brush.
She never stays longs, though,
leaving with the drop
of her mimosa glass,
bleeding orange onto background and body;
he rushes to catch her oils as she
drips between his fingers.
The painter sighs deep
and begins to cover his work.
Every night his heart breaks
as he paints and paints her over.
When he finally wakes,
dropping the shredded sky from his frame,
he finds the canvas inexplicably different
than how it was left.
It will be forever, it seems,
until their two shadows will be allowed to meet,
concrete as a realist's ache
for resolution.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
the often
predisposed
waiting times
bear more answers
than any time
spent thinking
too hard
about things,
and why
they are
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 11:44 PM UTC
i can slowly trace the changes-
the moment she picked up an almanac
and put structure around the future
she was a dead woman
now
assume she is you
her ideas threaded like dreamcatchers
embellished with feathers, beads
that sag their delicate threads
assume she is given bait
that she counts magpies
their cloud white throats a portent
that does not sit well around her neck
assume she will live her life
as these things expect
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 7:52 AM UTC
I agape of all finished afterthought, some allude to almanac's packed of alms, some totaled, sold and bought!!
Altruism,pigism, ambiguous to ambitions own an'nals,
Some take fairies to ride, some get high getting annulled on thine way out!!!
Antagonisms councils costumed to personify perverse college boys,
They all wear ties,
Doest thou prepare to die?
Doth thou succumb to heavy metal noise? Subterfuges narrate concert speakers of noose tied voids!!!
Precious,
Precious flamboyant memorizer,
Hath thou memorized to thy fullest privelage?
Art thou the born leader thou claims to be?
Or art thou the slave of thine flattery made village?
This forlorn spirit is burdened down to be free,
To be free of all devils,
All doubts and all deed!!!
Where is ones donational vocational school grads love?
Is it hidden within lockers of broken hearted hunnies?
Doth thy stomach overflow with butterfly fluids?
While many rob you of lovers money,
Dizzy funnies!!!
Hand holders of descendants grumpy mishappers,
Where is love when one seeks so hard for it????!
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 8:40 PM UTC
moon beams read all the stories to the children at night as they
went to bed, not sleepy
the Underjordiske were everywhere they could cause a fray, always
acting out and creepy
and lost people from far away have stories to tell
but eyes, echo against safe canyon walls, they are lost too,
And the Earth gives a beautiful sigh out my window, and the branches and leaves say "again, do it again, do"
I let my self drift on the Columbia River, an inner tube swollen with the air from the smelter on the steep banks of that place called home
and here the clear and cold night snaps me out of my reverie
for just a moment, I see the gloaming
the dream, I had as a child climbing mountains all,
ones that scratched the belly of the sky
from there I would see all the longboats there that ever floated
on any ocean or any bay with sails on mast high, flags to fly
and the bright lit ones would be the funeral pyres
lighting the way to the Rainbow Bridge,
"Odin, Ve, can you hear me?"
big dreams that don't fit in small houses and needles
from the street won't pick locks but pierce lives, lost souls of the sea
and my past is a lover that lets me sleep at the foot
of her bed, curled up on a cushion of Dogwood flowers,
every morning to wake up in a different alley and walk just long
enough to see that I am lost, powerless
but i fear that this is savagely wrong
and there is no music in here to sooth the beast
standing so close to border of reality that I
hear all the illegal crossings scream, West to East
and Belugas gently drop
into the deep part of the
of the River Fraser where I wait, they leave
me her letter and take the bait
and she said "she didn't think
I would mind if she found someone
else, as the distance and time was further
than she first thought", and the tears...
filled that flow since, and through time
Empty
at my feet helmets, two, both an ancient one, a new
one, i light the letter divided in half light the paper on fire
and
my great great great grandfather says as he
turns away saying "there is no shade in the shadow of the cross"
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 2:44 AM UTC
the sill is cold
as is the morning.
i billow in a distant wind.
i will paint the picture for you:
i am old, a drone, a drag,
bruised calf, bent back
mind regret-clad
witt my head an almanac
heavier than iron, still, frozen
on the windowsill.
far beneath me, concrete sleeps.
uninterrupted, ageless, gray
i fear to wake it, how it rests
quiet, still, so still, so still.
Apr 26, 2012
Apr 26, 2012 at 12:56 PM UTC
Seething anger has burned down the barn
Where iniquity wove its amber curtains
On vintage looms of deceit and falsehood
Skylarks can’t nest there anymore
And the creek is poorer for it
The harvester is grounded and
The scythe lies in the ashes and the brambles.
The Almanac forecasted heavy rain
But the wind instead blew from the East
And was impossible to batten down
Now things once wet are very dry and cracking
There’s naught to load and take to market
Where tears won’t buy the milk and butter
And there’s no one left to bake the bread
Hurry up those stumbling feet
Wishing won’t create a cow
And you don’t own a pasture
Or a salt lick anyway
The only thing that you have left
Is an igneous tomorrow and incendiary dreams
.. ljm ..
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 1:39 AM UTC
I was pulled from the comfort
of sleep and warmth by my
father's voice from the floor
below. "Double-time girl,
we're going to be late!"
I hurried down the stairs
of our home to slip into
winter boots and zip up
my puffy winter coat.
In the garage, my dad was
already in his gray van.
I opened the passenger door,
climbed up over the rusted
rims and plopped into the
seat next to him. The cold
raced to reach my body. I
buried my bare hands in my
sleeves and prayed my wet hair
wouldn't freeze into icicles. I
could feel the stitches of the
leather pressing through my jeans.
Even they were cold.
My father's figure sat hunched in
the seat next to me. He gripped
the steering wheel with black
gloves. Staring forward,
he considered big things:
chemical structs and his
wife's lingering debt.
A familiar melody began to
waft out of the radio. Oops.
That meant that I had made
us late to school...again.
At 7:35 each morning
Garrison Keillor's voice
spoke on something my
parent's called the Writer's
Almanac. I listened with
fascination to his voice,
which seemed to promise
each listener an afternoon
backstroke through the
milky way and the strength
to land, with grace, on Earth's
hard ground.
Out my window,
I watched the early-morning
breadwinners rushing to buy
their fuel: gasoline
and coffee. I wondered
if I could ever be good
enough, worth enough to be
mentioned by Keillor.
What could I do? What
would make me special?
Should I write poetry?
The episode came to a
well-known, comfortable
close: "Be well, do good
work, and keep in touch."
I hoped to do just that.
My dad's sudden voice
brought me back to his
shaky van. ****
He too had been
wondering.
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
Farm house windows have been boarded up , dilapidated outbuildings , abandoned water well , farm tractor , implements rusted over . Kudzu has blanketed the garden spot , farm bell lies on the ground , silo in need of paint , repairs ..Clover dominates a fertile pasture , once home for many abundant harvest ! Corn , soy bean and sorghum , sweet potato and collards .. Oak trees , well over a hundred years old with twenty years of unchecked leaf debris beneath them . Apple , pear and peach trees are barren .. A once sturdy white picket fence now unkempt , frail with rusted barbed wire and nails .. The afternoon train still comes through each afternoon . I can imagine that very train taking the harvest produced by this old farm to market . Macon , Augusta or Albany ? A planter is taking a break beneath a Pecan tree with a bucket of cold well water and a ladle , plug of tobacco , and a daydream or two ! The afternoon train delivers the news of the world , a Farmers almanac , Sears and Roebuck catalogue , corn cake for the rabbit dogs , hog feed from a mill in Columbus , thread and quilt patches for Mother . Off it goes , cloud of steam rising above the mighty engine , the whistle echoing across cotton fields for many a mile ! The link between city and farm , before electricity , telegraph or telephone . The old Georgia my great grandparents knew . Fruitful Summer harvest , painfully cold Winters laboring , scratching out a meager living and at times barely surviving ! I can still hear the crack of leather , braying of mule , firewood being stacked , horses , cattle and the rooster breaking the silence of night , sunrise announcing the new day to a hard working family plus every hamlet along the way ! .
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 9:49 AM UTC
I need to backpack again
not to get away
but to go in – deeply
to sightline’s ample expanse
that builds with one’s willingness to look
in light that blankets itself across the breathing canvas
that differs in concept and perception
more than in different months and minds
but as an elevated mirage
these inaccessible peaks and valleys of the rockies
have trails few travel this time of year
at altitudes that invite only a few birds and critters
and serious mountaineers making their preparations for their
“conquering of the seven summits”
I would gladly join either group, if there are openings
but would also be quite content with
my earbuds in my pocket
the chilled alpine winds through my wool beanie
trekking slowly over rock, ice and snow
I need to backpack again
to see the shades that would present themselves
to reflect in all reflection
to breathe slower
breathing out toxins and anxieties
that have been allowed to enter my humdrum, my rhythm
effecting and infecting my organs
to allow my lungs unfettered access
to all the fresh altitude it would like
to blind my eyes on the snow-capped cloudless afternoons
where tea and coffee are most pleasant
where a sand county almanac can be read
where my muscles gain power, endurance, fortitude
where thoughts of loved ones fondly skew themselves
where I am neither king nor extra
but a small dragon – limitations and capacities equally known
where emotion and temperament need not invent themselves
in the electron exchange within, but arriving from the west
I can see it all, I start to desire it all
from the front door of my office
it’s calling now, I need to go
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 9:28 AM UTC
Pain may dwell, grief may last tonight
Pangs recall moments of past tonight
Lovers go blind this night, it is Union
No religion preaches to fast tonight
Then tear this flower—Leave me alone
Dear Love—your anger is vast tonight
"Curse" yelled the Agha—says 'almanac'
This is what made me aghast tonight
Mirza—accept your defeat—Love is lost
Separation—havoc is forecast tonight
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 4:14 AM UTC
I need to backpack again
not to get away
but to go in
immersion!
into the elements
like sliding gently into a hot spring pool
I will go!
going in – deeply
to sightline’s ample expanse
where I am NOT a small fish
but a star, in my corner of the darkness
a sun – that builds with one’s willingness to see it’s place in the universe
a light that blankets itself across the breathing canvas
that is perceived and conceived
more than in different months and minds
but as an elevated mirage
I need to backpack again
beyond accessible peaks and valleys of the rockies
to shared trails rarely travel during winter seasons
only inhabited by a few birds and critters
and mountaineers preparing for their
“conquering of the seven summits”
I would gladly join either group, if invitations were sent
but would also be quite content now
to leave the earbuds in my pocket
to feel, to hear the prickling of the chilled alpine winds
through fibers in my wool beanie
even as I traverse slowly over rock, ice and snow
I need to backpack again
to scope out shades that would present themselves, and say hello
to reflect in all thy reflection
to breathe slower – and slower – and slower
breathing out toxins and anxieties
inadvertently allowed to enter my humdrum, my rhythm
effecting and infecting even my organs
the fresh altitude air now needs unfettered access to my lungs
and the snow-capped cloudless afternoons
give permission to much desired snow-blindness
coffee and tea take on new meaning as well
and each sentence of a sand county almanac can be read
and my muscles will gain power, endurance, fortitude
and thoughts of loved ones will fondly skew themselves
and I will be neither king nor extra
but a small dragon – with limitations and capacities equally known
emotion and temperament need not invent themselves here
not from the electron exchange within, but arriving from the west
I can see it all, I start to desire it all
from the front door of my office
it’s calling now, and I need to go
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 6:46 PM UTC
Mother Earth decided
To have a yard sale
From the sands on her beach
With all of its sea shells
Including all the forest green
And mountain tops as well
Even all the in-betweens
Along with everything else
Selling all her waters
The entire lot
Ponds, lakes, and winding streams
What's clean and what's not
Even comes with the fish
All ready to be caught
Puddles go for 50 cents
If that's all you've got
Feel's she's getting way too old
To take care of it all
From the largest that there is
To the smallest of the smalls
With the creatures that can walk
And those that slither and crawl
Trying her best to get full price
Before she has to discount it all
She'll pay the price for adds up front
Advertising in the almanac
Get it in early enough
So she's not stuck in the back
Make it all day Fri
And half a day on Sat
With a chance to buy it all
Wherever you are at
As Mother Earth delegently
Sets up her yard sale
All must go as you can see
Take it home for yourself
Once it's all sold and gone
She has yet to figure out
Just knows that she desperatly needs
Some time alone to herself
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 8:14 AM UTC