"corncob" poems
Come on over and sit right down
The storyteller has come to town.
So many stories I have acquired and that's a fact....I keep them hidden in my knapsack in a book that's white and black.
This a story about you.......It was a day just like this .....a total stranger came to offer you A gift.
It was wrapped in the most beautiful paper one has ever seen. The workmanship was awesome.....some would say prestine.
He leaned on his cane .....due to a bad leg. He hurt it one night wrestling until the early morn......he also received a gift like a mother who cuddles her newborn.
So ....as he leaned upon the cane and lit his corncob pipe ....and blew smoke in the air. The extravagant gift was placed on the chair.
He said "This gift that is contained in this box is something that everyone wants." " You have have been chosen to receive this gift." "You don't have to take it.....you can give it to another.....if you chose. Although....it wouldn't be wise to make such a move."
The gift is still sitting in that chair......should I open it or leave it there?
A potential to change my life and end the strife I face on a daily basis. This isn't a deserted scene where you will see a thirst quenching oasis.
My basis for this story is about choices.....you have so many voices guiding your every thought......sometimes we chose wisely......and other times not so much.
These are the occasions when we lose touch or sight between right or wrong......the consequences for that wrong selection.......will have me singing a sad song.
If I chose wisely the day will be a lot easier to travel...not a perfect ride.....but I will arrive with all my bags in tow.
Chose wisely ........
So....he gathered his belongings and blew a smoke ring in the air.......and hobbled off into the distance. He hummed a jovial tune and yelled back that he would return soon.
The Storyteller...........
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 4:41 PM UTC
Two rows of towering oaks
Line the water.
Stronger than concrete,
Their trunks spiral up,
Supporting a labyrinth of limbs.
After the Spring’s renaissance,
Thousands of leaves wave
In the salty, summer breeze,
Protecting the cool park below.
Ripe with age, he walks beneath,
Never venturing out.
Across the asphalt, down the sidewalk,
He tastes sweet sea's salt
As he forgets to breathe.
Gray fluttering strumpets, those winged rats,
Fighting for what’s left as he follows stale crumbs,
His from yesterday. Once, twice around,
Through the middle, the garden’s heart,
The white gazebo, the painful memories.
He climbs the stairs, pausing every few steps.
Grinning at the top, he lights the corncob.
The moment fades quickly and deliberately
Into the next like frames of a movie.
He sits across from me, I get a look.
Deep eyes, hidden behind aviators;
A rough grey beard;
His father’s green jacket.
“Son,” he says,
A small plume of smoke rising from his lips,
“I’ve walked this park before,”
His tired eyes shut,
“And I remember more shade.”
His eyes open for the last time.
Slowly rising, he fades away.
I taste the sweet sea's salt,
And I forget to breathe.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 11:21 PM UTC
purveyors of manufactured
kitsch
reminiscent of
plaster wall pool hall pastime bulls
eye
plastered
America’s
got stars
stripes
corncob pipes in
straight
lines and circles within circles
within
I’s
Jasper laid himself down on the plains of canvas in
perpetual concentrics
perpetuating eccentric eclectic economics of
subcutaneous pricetag politics.
bull’s
eyes on the prize of a new American dream
a dream deferred and defined
in straight and curved
lines.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 9:41 PM UTC
moist eyes fall upon the limp figurine
of a jewel encrusted snowman with a corncob knife.
i dream walk through the ether of our dislocated soul.
i comb the beach of our lost island
and build a raft from our bones
and a lock of your eyelashes,
flashing in the wink above -
your high cheeks
in the moon glamour of your perfect skin.
we smile untethering the harness
from our rogue star
we sally forth across the empty streets of Hell's burg. on the outskirts
of an astral cataract...
a laughing gloom with night's teeth tearing at the hem
of your lace robes and my nakedness.
with moist eyes drooling saltine gems
like dewdrops dripping from the lip of a cracked goblet of frozen fire.
our eyes that fall upon the void, weeping from the answer to a foolish prayer,
answered by a jealous god. our testament is dust and deep Love.
we have no other sky above, as is the custom of deep space...
we drift with our horses, across the nether bridge of our uncertainties....
and there
we part ways.
you go where the sun
has slain the moon.
i go where the moon's never been. and sleep in droves.
holding your hand like a grain of hope
and your heart like a golden
shadow
too heavy to lift
from the
unknown
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 3:49 PM UTC
Corncob dolls forgotten on the porch of a double shotgun cottage
Little child broken from the rays of the sun
God shone too lively and loves too bright
Every swish of the fan and harsh rejoinder
An equal remembrance. Tattered heart.
They will sell your story to the highest bidder
Just to keep their phone bill from trickling. They
will sell out. Sell the light, even. When doctors and
kings are praised, there's a whole lotta short sale.
Bike spokes aren't the only rungs on the ladder: they
also pierce the eyes. You, though have had to hide
the purple bruises. You made the grade.
Your own.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
nudes
from the circus
of harm
grab
the evolved
handle
of my father’s
apocalypse
and though
I call it easy
what I’ve gone
on the doll ****
I can’t help
but bride
up
a storm
giving oral
to a corncob
from fixation’s
honeymoon
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 2:33 AM UTC
Absent albert once so glad
Absent albert now so sad
Absent albert sits now silent, silent, silent
Stares, he does...
At the empty space
He once shared
With the one who now walks amongst the clouds
His chair, his hat, his corncob pipe
Now sit collecting dust
He stares blankly
Sighing not crying
Being strong
As his beloved would have wanted
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 9:42 PM UTC
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some poems from available collections:
[cripplings ]
touch is a sign of weakness. my father opens his mouth after speaking. meanwhile, miracle, it occurs to me in separate car accidents that bringing me to my son in god is less an undertaking than that of arming the man who transports a stopwatch to a cemetery. do we live the lives of those experimenting? beauty is not alone. suppose it knows.
~
[notes for stimuli]
I start my sentences
like this:
the thing is.
thing is
my son
like yours
is dying. thing is
I was told
by god
to be a man.
I love you all.
I love
but start a fight
with someone
I’ve never met
over what
a *******
poverty
no one
talks to
not
in years.
one must apple boldly in a cornfield of rust.
baby clotheshorse
eats baby
litmus.
taste
keeps my tongue
in the dark.
~
[fasting vision]
to punish my brother
for no reason
I told him
I could see
his stomach’s
shadow
but because
my visions
never
work
I vomited
what my sister
ate
~
[sylvan vision]
nudes
from the circus
of harm
grab
the evolved
handle
of my father’s
apocalypse
and though
I call it easy
what I’ve gone
on the doll ****
I can’t help
but bride
up
a storm
giving oral
to a corncob
from fixation’s
honeymoon
~
[daughteresque]
what would she ask
sadness
that old blindfold
from the future
how did you
get old, how
did my father
eat
and eat
at the same
time
perhaps
you’ve seen it
the mask
that took
my face
~
[forty]
because I wanted the poem
to feel
as rare
as my father’s
anger, and because
a pigeon
is
what it eats, and because
mad with bread
the oven
my brother
buried
took a snapshot
of our dog
bigfoot
sleeping
in hell, and because
my son is not a pattern
his body
can resume: the alien was impressed
but my mother
god love her
was bored
~
[BURNINGS]
~reanimation
it is nothing
compared
to the sobbing
of worms
~outhouse
the bathtub is full of ****
it wants to be
an egg
~frogsong
depression
decorates
a bird
~miracle
a bunk-bed for sister’s hair
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 9:07 AM UTC
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my newest self published work is [MOON tattoo]
~
and, poems:
~
[opening line from a year with mother]
it crawled out of me and knew your birthday
~
[horseface]
you strike me as an invasive listener. I love your body. loving mine doesn’t mean I’m not okay wearing too many clothes. does this make me look alone? like, crucifix-on-the-dashboard alone? my mother fell for my father because he couldn’t find a finger to write with. horror movies lift me from poverty into a long period of healing followed by a jump scare. earlier, before you bled into a corncob, my brain had you as a spider spinning an infant. if it pleases god, I’d like to go somewhere time hasn’t been.
~
[early work]
the babies my father held.
the hell, the world’s
largest.
the parts of the house
that caught fire
in two
moving
vans. the bully
mother poisoned
in the dreamy
media
of religious
thought. the daring
suicide, the doubled
god.
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 9:21 AM UTC
you strike me as an invasive listener. I love your body. loving mine doesn’t mean I’m not okay wearing too many clothes. does this make me look alone? like, crucifix-on-the-dashboard alone? my mother fell for my father because he couldn’t find a finger to write with. horror movies lift me from poverty into a long period of healing followed by a jump scare. earlier, before you bled into a corncob, my brain had you as a spider spinning an infant. if it pleases god, I’d like to go somewhere time hasn’t been.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC