"consults" poems
the child of the child of my woman,
cries in the night,
rooming next door,
down the hall
and
he is
all children that cry in the night,
but he is
more mine
by right of quantity
numerous are the kisses lavished,
this biannual visit upon,
his four year old
oversized head,
(so full of 'bains')
his undersized,
protuberanced belly body,
a combo making him
no longer baby,
nor a grownup,
both states,
he denies accurately,
maturely in a wobbly voice
of utter certainty,
but lacking the adjectives
of what lies between,
he debates his state thoughtfully,
until distracted by other
more pressing matters of state
he is boy, little but vociferous,
quiet, pensive, his head a weapon
of...confusion and certainty that
being four years old,
he must perforce be
permanently
in skeptical awe of the world
this is the best position ever,
he has ascertained,
to filter and behold anything,
whatever newness arrives,
which is constant,
streaming and unending
until new is
fully digested, analyzed, and classified,
as if he were
a zoologist in
a wild and untamed land
only certain of what he knows
with perfect certainty,
he consults with me still,
"you kidding?"
such a sophisticated analytic interrogatory,
wise in the ways of grownups,
who, prone to deceive gleefully
his very
suspecting mind,
so much so,
they must be challenged and
rebuffed all too frequently
he cries in the night,
normal tears of discomfort,
physical or mental,
I cannot tell,
for his father
his parental hearing
more practiced, refined,
has preceded me,
such,
as it should be,
and I am dispatched back
to my 3:00am bed,
left only to ink
contemplative ruminations
on the state and nation
of being four...
and sixty,
and still uncertain, even more
than the little boy
of wizened age of annualized four,
the child of the child of my woman,
on
what is real, what is kidding,
in a quest unending
to better ascertain,
the state of my own being
and the transitory nature of
everything
all of what is thought certain,
falls aside,
under the withering,
unwavering,
critique of
"you kidding?"
and in this we are
more kin
than if our blood was
physically shared
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 4:24 AM UTC
1628
A Drunkard cannot meet a Cork
Without a Revery—
And so encountering a Fly
This January Day
Jamaicas of Remembrance stir
That send me reeling in—
The moderate drinker of Delight
Does not deserve the spring—
Of juleps, part are the Jug
And more are in the joy—
Your connoisseur in Liquours
Consults the Bumble Bee—
4.3k
Daddy belongs to
an exclusive club,
out beyond
the rules of atmospheric
pressure.
On our precocious little fingers
we count,
on tracer paper
Mommy checks our figures.
Being she was never clever
with math,
she consults with the slide rule.
No crystal ball needed,
we all know where Daddy's been:
at the apogee of his ride,
hanging out in zero orbit,
checking
on his own figures.
He must be
lonely up there, fishing off the dock of a satellite,
until the moment he reels one in.
He does his best philandering
once we've shuffled off to school
and Mommy's found her solace
underneath
the hairdryer.
She's stopped looking up
at night
to observe the starry heavens.
They only made her cry,
which, in turn, made us cry— for her.
One time we heard Mommy tell Daddy
she knew all about his long division
and how he misused
his slipstick.
With the cruel turn of a smile
he reminded her
her math is routinely
wrong.
"Usually...but not always,"
Mommy whispers in her sleep.
Tomorrow is lift off again
for Daddy,
hunting exponentials
from
heavenly bodies.
For us,
the ones left behind in the wake
of his rocket trail,
it's
addition by subtraction.
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 11:46 PM UTC
On campus--at the very top of the new
eagle pole--a raven struts, one fleck of blood
stuck to his beak from morning carrion, bright
black eyes the same primeval color
as those on the pole. This ode to nature,
this prayer, this harmony of adzeman’s skill,
tradition, inspiration, and sacred task—I’ll
admire it later—was carved by folks who knew
from childhood each crest and its nature.
Mostly from the clan, and of course blood
relatives, they memorized each color
of each crest, how to mix together bright
pigments from this root, that bulb--right
amounts of everything, reagent to skill
to alchemy--required to make each color
sing. The importance of ritual to renew.
Significance of Nature, consequence of blood.
Black iron raven in landscaped nature
patch consults his brother. “Our nature
is belligerent, our destiny to chase bright,
shiny objects and live off the blood-
sticky leavings of another’s ****
Don’t you think we should blaze a new
path for ourselves?” Replies the other, “The color
of your coat is lighter than the color
of your mood today.”All around them Nature
labors. “Brother, we don’t need a new
direction. Our future, as always, is bright.
We’re the keepers of knowledge. Our skill
at irony keeps us relevant. As long as blood
is red They will need us.” He ***** on the blood
red head of the top crest. A streak the color
of snow bounces down the faces. “If you ask, I’ll
reply,” he cackles, which makes Nature
grin. A fuzzy red vole begins to climb right
up the front of the pole, as I realize how new
it is, how fresh the pine. When I think of the blood
shed by men for money I am struck dumb. Right here--the only color
green you ever need--Nature. I’d as soon carve as ****
11/3/10
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 1:15 PM UTC
one word. one thing
shows up on my face.
everybody knows it is a
keepsake:
*keep away from me today,
for fks sake!*
certain peculiarmornings
wake with a cross on forehead.
days when you certain,
everything worth saying
has been written, sung,
not a **** thing left to
contribute, except whining.
no way to purge, the compulsion
welling up, coursing down.
this overwhelms, my outlet store,
permanent closed, sign says
don’t ya know it’s a recession.
a one man recession.
no government intervention
gonna come my way.
the notion that I’ll never just
once more, feel the thrill of a
first love, a new born progeny,
woman, baby, poem, no diff,
wrecks me badly, worried sun consults
my animal friends, what’s to be done?
knowing the answer to my curse is,
not one wiling to courage to curettage
the lining of my decrepitude,
the end then, of no more next time.
though there is a first here. ever.
first time, every stanza writ,
closed off, finally ended, with a flourish,
a puncture of a period.
~~~~~~~~
postscript:
the closing scheduled for now,
have to change the name, says York,
it’s the common law, I’m legal bound,
gonna sign the documents as
no more love poetry.
919am Wed Jul 22 2020
Jul 26, 2020
Jul 26, 2020 at 7:56 AM UTC
holding everybody in arms
of a bowl to catch
what we cry.
Turning the saltwater into oceans,
mirrors still enough that we
can see, watch ourselves try.
And for those who like waves she
pulls at the tides,
rough hands smoothing the sand,
and when she thinks she can't
get it right she consults the moon,
watching and learning till she's
ready to teach.
And for those of us who don't
like the beach,
she holds her hands out to us
with palms up, lifting the salt
away and the water up,
sending our tears
purified
to the sky to rain down on us,
fresh and quiet
every one.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 11:22 PM UTC
Whoe'ver the still examines, must define
The wond'rous shifts of the immortal Time;
To kindly witness, the graybeard's silent gaze
From youth to age, from guidebook to learned ways.
Divided only by the fixed life stage,
The youth consults, and the elderly explain.
Slow the transition when the hours date,
From mighty Boy's knees to old aching gait.
While for the Old Man's loss the Young Boy gains,
Old Men comfort and Young Boys wisdom attains.
Here Boy listens to the old learned ways,
There in silent gaze wistful hungry boyhood stays.
Mem'ries and rememb'ring give time for time,
And young knees below, and old above climb.
While simple youngster shake the leg of old,
Experienced veteran like prophet hold,
Eager minds and submission mix their servile roles,
Lads and Late in waiting for their parole.
Smiles and sighs, proverbs and plays life abound,
And form a life-cycle that goes round and round.
Nov 23, 2021
Nov 23, 2021 at 4:50 PM UTC
A bruised commitment of
Frustration
Sweetly sung through lips
Of deception
As my heart melted my mind drifted
As love held me it crushed my
Sanity
Leaves me in bundles that confuse me
How sweet the taste consults
Me
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC
Trying to keep my cool
but you played me a **** fool
got my **** hopes up
even though I knew you would flop
you do it every time
but every time I expect different results
knowing deep inside
my first instinct consults
"Don't get your hopes up" It says
but nonetheless here I am.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
Your hypocrisy- wings
Your bureaucracy- wings
Your insults- wings
Your consults- wings
Your expectations-wings
Your impatience-wings
Your resignations-wings
Your demands-wings
Your commands-wings
Your arrogance-wings
Your disinheritance-wings
Your apathy-wings
Your cruelty-wings
Your duality-wings
Bye, bye! Fly high, high away
Mar 30, 2019
Mar 30, 2019 at 11:07 AM UTC