"hopper" poems
& now I know we share Oscar Peterson in common
I want to love you all the more,
till the world ends
Let our beloved rain fall
Let our days howl of our Ginsberg
Plath, Eliot & Dylan
& others, more obscure
Let us buy that Edward Hopper
we both love
& let us sleep in your car
out on the Yorkshire Moors
You're the milk in my coffee
Let me be the billboard
you advertize our love on
lets be breathless metaphors
of each other
the quotation marks
around each others words
high on the ******* of stars
& always read
each others poems
drag each other to open mics
& drink too much
let's make Cupid jealous
of the fiery arrows
we use to stab
one another
if it doesn't work out
& make the Angels
jealous of our heaven
if it does
lets be a restless breeze
that blows
through the world
& stirs each leaf
with our words
lets just be us
fellow hermit
fellow poet
Soulmate
that's
the word
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 8:31 PM UTC
Its in these waters, when I was merely a Parr
Or as you might refer to me as a fry,
This wise but young Brook Trout cruised the slow water with my kinfolk fry.
Moving to and fro hiding among the biome vegetation
The sunlight supported my living space and warmed my growth rings.
I dart in and out of the oxygenated seams which help me flourish.
Some days, I had to use stealth to outwit the pine marten and warblers,
I shadowed the cattail and watched them fill their bellies with those around me.
But I felt fate had a purpose for me to be something special.
And When the time was right, I'd propel myself above the water into the night air.
The large circle of orange light filled my eyes and the night sky was filled with luminary.
I imagined what it must be like to live outside this riffle domain.
This morning, through my refractory vision I spot some floating objects,
And through an inherited sensory recall I can see these are hatching green Drakes.
I immediately shoot to the surface and fill my stomach, then swim back to the undercut for cover.
As the years pass by and maturity abounds, I find my self settling in behind a large boulder
Right at the tail out of the back eddy, providing me with an ample food supply.
And it's here I prefer to live my life in the slow current, content and peaceful.
And one day as I swam into the current seam, I spotted what appeared to be,
A different looking bug with yellow belly, so I make my move.
He's not moving much so I decide to raise my head above the water line and sip.
As I grab the hopper I start to slide back behind the boulder,
When I feel a pinch, as if someone try's to pull me towards the surface
I fight with all my might but this force proves to be stronger than I.
It's now I realize a human reels me towards the shore line, and I'm fearful.
This one called a human, grabs my tail and places his hand on my under belly.
Pulling me from my home, he dislodges the hook from my mouth. I gasp for oxygen.
He looks me over from nose to tail, smiles and says how beautiful I am.
He looks me in the eye And says " This was a wonderful fight my friend, enjoy the rest of your life,
He places me back in water, gently reviving me and finally lets me swim away.
I dare to turn and look back at him for a moment and as he continues to watch me,
I hear him say " I fish, knowing everyday on this stream is a gift."
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 3:59 PM UTC
I sleep with my glasses,
so, I can see in my dreams
the moment you left me,
it's all part of the scene.
So, the jockeys, they need me.
I know they will bleed me.
And it's 2 dollars on the
6 horse to show.
The buzzards and seagulls,
they know what you've done.
You said, come on boy,
let's go have some fun.
But that look in your eyes
was full of goodbyes
and now, I'm all but done.
I'm full of regrets
but, it's just one more bet.
And it's 2 dollars on the
6 horse to show.
The clowns and the hookers
got nothing for me.
They took all my money,
oh boy can't you see?
There's just one more bet,
and I'm full of regrets.
and it's 2 dollars on the
6 horse to show.
Bukowski and Hopper
look down on me smiling.
They've been out to sea.
They've been past the islands.
I'm tired of running
and I'm tired of standing still.
Another pill won't do it
and it's time for me to go.
And it's 2 dollars on the
6 horse to show.
You took all my money
on a day that was sunny
and you know them old clowns,
they really aren't funny.
So, I head to the track
to win it all back,
and it's 2 dollars on the
6 horse to show.
Aug 23, 2023
Aug 23, 2023 at 7:32 PM UTC
(an ekphrastic poem based on the painting Nighthawks by Edward Hopper)
Four
solemn faces,
doused in gold,
like moths to flame,
seek warmth from the cold.
Darkness leers, but harsh light shields
these lonely creatures from their feelings untold.
One
diner desolate,
a waiter old,
and three weary visitors
are portrayed. The scene unfolds.
Most eat under the sunlight, unlike
these nighthawks who flocked from their households.
Some
loneliness darkens
hearts like blindfolds;
nighthawks’ hearts aren’t exceptions.
The woman red and bold,
the man in shadows, and another
man with a cigarette in his hold
are
isolated together.
They are controlled
and defined by solitude.
They don’t belong. No mold
fits them. They only have a
diner, each other, and lonesome souls unconsoled.
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 1:33 AM UTC
I'm slow to the boil and takes a lot to **** me off.
WARNING: Stop reading if you dislike vents.
A truth we all know but WONT discuss IS race relations in America *****
How did it come to all this open bigotry and so many stupid racist comments?
****** shame that my race still don't get that ALL people are created equal.
Maybe other regions get it but not my area with it's tons of racists.
In my area people believe all blacks lie, steal, cheat, live in ghettos,
black is the wrong race and white is always right and superior. BULL!!!
I will never be ignorant and speak ignorance like I hear in my area
"Ship them back to Africa their homeland!"
Wake up! Africa is everybody's motherland!!!
My dander is up because stupid racist bogus flagged a video of a friend.
Not bad enough they call venues so the lady can't get a local gig or they
posted bogus mugshots of convicts on Craigslist faking it was her.....
ATTENTION people from Northern Michigan: YOU PEOPLE NEED TO
RETHINK WHAT YOU THINK AND SAY ABOUT MINORITIES!!!
****** she's proving she doesn't need Northern Michigan to get her music heard?
Calling venue to get her fired and lose jobs didn't stop her from singing.
You can't flag this and to remove like you did on Craigslist.
I stopped posting on Craigslist after all the **** talk about my friend.
She got targeted by ignorant racist assuming ALL black women are like the
Kerry Washington's character on Scandal. Betty's not a bed hopper and
she doesn't ***** around with married men. I can't speak for Kerry Washington.
Betty doesn't speak ghetto talk as my area calls it and she's not like the stereotypes
racist paint all blacks to be. Blew their minds that Betty's a hell of a lot smarter than
them and she's not lazy, ignorant or the N word they love calling blacks.
Fed up with the racism in my area, Northern Michigan and the nation.
****** because anonymous ignorant went to Youtube and flagged my friend
Betty Ponder's new G-rated video for inappropriate content and got it removed.
Inappropriate content my ***
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
…thus riding on a memory-bicycle those people who used to go to pick up dry straws, grasses, twigs from the daily-wage of the squirrels are neither the husband of any wood nor the wife of any wood-apple … at the best they may be one page full of must-dos regarding keep-fit practice of one’s health…
around the grazing field of the night-gowns
in course of a long-journey by train one has to cross
so many grass-hopper-points
one-piece of life is this
in its daily hopping to pick up the pebbles of
which is the amplification of what
the bodies of all prose and poems are touched with
by the sunshine… by the wind… by the rain…by the water
it-may-be-for-you afternoon
is running
running
is the people after the office-break
running are the broken people
the sullen public
due to late-running of train
before the darkness sets in
on bare branches of the tree
clusters of crows
are running
forward steps of the return-home people
are running
many invitations has been remained
unattended … accumulating…
accumulating…
so much anger… many secret pains… tears…
the life is running
in the rows of the flying birds
the life is running
in the meat-houses…
in the shopping-malls…
in the churches…
in the wheat-fields…
running … running … running…
salad poetry and salsa-dance
are also running…
in the letters of the alphabet…
in the swarm of mosquitoes…
from William Shakespeare
to Rabindranath Thakur
the sky is running …
the air…
the sunlight…
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 6:47 AM UTC
C'EST PRESQU'AU BOUT DU MONDE..."
( IT WAS ALMOST TO THE END OF THE WORLD )
She believed that
deep deep inside her
the flame of a femme fatale
burned brightly.
Could imagine herself stepping out of
some classic Film Noir.
Cultivated herself
to look like Marie Windsor
opposite the dangerously gorgeous
John Garfield.
But her life it seemed had her
stepping into an Edward Hopper.
The isolation and the paint
still wet.
The lonely lady
glimpsed in an hotel window
from a passing train
autumnal rain.
Still she acted always as if
she was in her own movie l
walking around her tiny flat
naked
except for red stilettos
red earrings...red lipstick.
Making up her own snappy lines
to some imaginary leading man.
"Are you decent?"
"Yes""
"But you're....you're naked!"
"You only asked if I was decent!"
The mirror laughed
catching the reflection of who
she could have been
given half the chance.
She never
stood a chance.
She threw a cigarette up in the air
caught it between her lips
her one and only
party trick.
Lit or unlit.
Searching for middle C
on a battered piano
her mind off key
abandoning it
the piano's yellow smile.
She watched the sunlight
carve a block of time
out of the dividing wall.
fading the wallpaper roses.
The bed that was always
empty...always unmade.
She danced to Weill's
Youkali Tango.
Put it on again...again.
Scratching an already scratched record.
The needle gathering fluff.
The porcelain milkmaid...dust.
She disliked the way sweat
gathered under her *******
They were always a little too large.
Hated men staring so hard.
Ahhhh the faded romance
a sunset heart attack.
Couldn't have wrote
herself a better script.
Staggering in her dance
gasping that all too unsubstantial
air as if trying to
catch time
the presentpastfuture
falling out of her hand.
The wooden acorn
of the tattered blind
tapping against
the ***** window pane.
Neon going green.
Then red.
Now blue.
And then green again.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 3:16 PM UTC
The Village was nearly swallowed by darkness,
Until I stumbled upon a fresh fluorescent light,
Emitting an eerie glow out of a subtle all-night diner.
Suddenly, eyeballs projected a noir-style movie.
This unique heaven lit a cemented pathway,
Which led toward nowhere but American desolation.
Exploration of blank stores was not an option;
A disconnected joint across the open street was obvious.
The cornered beacon called to me as if dreams lived,
Though the seamless wedge of glass deflected observation,
Onto the viewer I represented, isolated from the anonymous.
Lungs were not interested in Phillies, only graveyard shift.
The scene held four strangers shut in spacious congregation.
The figures filled in the white void with physical presence,
While each owl was remotely lost in their own thoughts.
Was it the tragedy that occurred at Pearl Harbor,
Possibly the hopelessness World War II offered?
Could it have been the disappearance of happy innocence in ’42?
Hopper alone can probably discover a whole to the loss of words.
Somehow the constructed simplicity was overwhelming:
When late night minds meet morosity yet still produces beauty.
Subjected into one, the loneliness of a large city can exist too.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
To my friend from Down Under
I was driving down the road and what did I see
But a grasshopper with his pants on fire
With a snake hot on his tail he was moving his feet
That grasshopper with his pants on fire
Hopping high as he could go
A moving fast and ducking low
That grasshopper with his pants on fire
Well the snake was closing in and his race was soon to end
With that grasshopper with his pants on fire
The hopper tightened up his hopping
The snake knew there was no stopping
That grasshopper with his pants on fire
He’s got long legs for a reason
He's the toast of the season
Silly grasshopper with his pants on fire
All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby Feb. 16, 2017
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 10:04 AM UTC
There’s a shiny tree, in a shiny island, upon the shiny sea,
That looks upon the horizon with smiling leaves,
Creatures dwell there strange and weird,
Some with a moustache and some with a beard!
Some with green eyes, some with lots of lice,
Some foolish and some smart,
But two of them, pure of heart!
One is a butterfly with wings so bright,
yellow at day and blue at night,
she does not fly, just dances and skates,
coz her wings can’t hold so much weight!
She loves to eat and talk and laugh,
and care about her friends on her own behalf!
The other is a Grasshopper, that hops and hops,
every single day, till his heart nearly pops,
he is wise and strong, with a solid frame,
he knows it all, he knows all the same,
that everything has a end, and most of it is just a game
Both these creatures are really good friends,
Sometimes they eat on the butterfly’s demand,
And sometimes they hop on the hopper’s command
But never they fight and never abscond,
If one is in trouble, the other appears,
To help and to fill their hearts with cheers
The butterfly trips, when she loses fear and knows no bounds,
And turns into a bird, free and singing with lovely sounds,
But her brains reduce to mere a lump of clay,
And hopper has to guard her, lest she flies away
And the hopper, is not without a weakness, just like our princess,
He loses control over his heart and mind, sometimes obsessed and sometimes possessed!
The butterfly tells him to take it easy and not get so dizzy,
Hopping is not a business, it is just a silly recess!
The story has just begun and this is a prelude,
Wait and see what happens of the butterfly chick and the grasshopper dude!
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 1:07 PM UTC
The adolescent Currawong
not exactly stumbling or tripping
is parrot-like as a junior, a
hopper and stepper in
the art of stalking and hunting
In a series of quick-steps and bounces
she moves sideways, most emphatic as
a survival enthusiast
She gazes, investigates and gathers the curios,
insects, rich dark worms
one gesture at a time
She is vigilant and persistent
through the dust
the soil, the grass
with instinct and practise
through her teachers
she thrives
MChallis © 2015
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 8:47 PM UTC
The other night, I swore I gazed into the past. I saw a kid who was selfish. Not caring, never stressin. Never knowin I saw a teen, who didn't fit. Didn't make the cut, who never made anything grass hopper complex? Then I saw a man, whose hurt.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 10:15 AM UTC
706
Life, and Death, and Giants—
Such as These—are still—
Minor—Apparatus—Hopper of the Mill—
Beetle at the Candle—
Or a Fife’s Fame—
Maintain—by Accident that they proclaim—
1.4k
An Abandoned School
Young dreams, now scattered fragments on the floor:
A little handle into a corner flung
The disc of sizes never again to fit
A number two pencil into place for a trim
Nor will the made-in-Chicago hopper
Ever again save for the classroom prankster
Sweet-smelling slitherings of cedar shavings
To fling about while Teacher’s at the board.
A new Ticonderoga ****** into
The spinning Scylla and Charybdis blades
Was tested by steel, the dross savaged away,
By turning the handle and grinding away,
And from this grim ordeal emerged The Point,
The perfect point, the adventurous lead…
It’s not really lead, stupid, it’s graphite;
That’s what Teacher said. Don’t you know anything?
Girls are stupid. They play with dolls and stuff.
I’ve got a real cap pistol. I’ll draw it.
You want to see? Look! No, wait, that’s not right;
It’s better this way…Ma’am? Uh…integers?
Arithmetic is stupid. Science is fun.
I’ve got most of the Audubon bird stamps
And I liked it when we cut up the frogs
Old people are so mean. I’ll never be old.
A leaking pipe drips the minutes away
Outside a broken window summer sings
Its songs of freedom as it always has
The desks are gone, the electricity is off
The air smells of education and decay
The classroom now is littered with the past:
A broken crayon, a construction-paper heart,
A silence longing for children’s voices.
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 8:04 PM UTC
Freedom was,
that field of grass, tall and verdant,
undulating rapturously,
hand in hand-
with wind's sinuous dance.
The grass hopper ruled it all,
his mind, knew limits, not once, in his life,
he was a wild horse, in the jungle of grass,
**but a great regret he had,
gnawing his heart,
like malicious cancer cells
that would eat away all his grace,
he tried and tried
but never could whistle,
not even a haunting note,
like a nightingale.**
His consort would
try to soothe him, with words
"How you make me swoon,
with your soulful croon!"
his eyes would turn bloodshot,
she would then back off,
feeling left out, not able to share pain.
*" Grass hoppers
are left with no hopes-
they are a cheated lot,
left to rot"*
he audaciously believed,
his face remained always, cadaverously grim.
A boy and a girl, who ran away together,
reached there, to escape the torturous world
tasting freedom for the first time,
stood watching the grass hopper-
with admiring eyes,
and hope brimming in their hearts,
they were so charmed by
the green freedom he seemed to enjoy!
Here, the wind swept grasslands,
looking up to the heavens,
were a world apart,
even the muck didn't look crude!
**"Look at that grasshopper,
bless him, how carefree, he is
I wish I could be like him"
She wistfully said.**
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 11:00 AM UTC
Roddy's Rooster, man! you couldn't
oust her
Standing up there on his dunghill fair
Announcing to the whole world, to All
everywhere
My **** He's the greatest doodle doer
O! that Roddy's Rooster.
He don't need no booster, does
Roddy's Rooster
He'd even go after the goose sir
Don't you fouster with this Rooster
You'd only lose sir
Now vamoose sir.
Very dapper and quite the scrapper
Patrolling his perimeter
Strutting around the farmyard pound
Invariably, henhouse bound
If you were to meet him
It'd be "Put up your dukes sir
Me! I'm Roddy's Rooster".
With his tail feathers all fluffed up
Like a feather duster
And his chest all puffed out
Quite the Dandy and always randy
What a Suitor that Roddy's Rooster
And O! what a Wooer, that wooey
doodler.
I I
He came a cropper though one day
When he fell in the Hopper
Now he's a good deal shorter
And not half as cocky as before,
Now he sits on his wall lamenting his
fall
Thinking of the days when he used to
have a ball
Has Lady Luck that Grand Old Duck
deserted him I wonder.
Sad to see, now he's a bit gammy
More Bandy than Dandy
He still South's in the Summer
But has doubts in the Winter,
Now he likes to crow his woes and
lows away
Climbing up onto his dunghill, he
greets the day
But now in a high shrill falsetto
voice
He sings in a whole different way
" I've been round the Ringer but I'm
still quite a Dinger
**** a Doodley Doo"
Now... now he's a ****** Blues singer!
O! that Roddy's Rooster.
Roddy's Rooster Yeeaahh!
Mar 17, 2020
Mar 17, 2020 at 10:29 AM UTC
You can sing it to the tune
Of I Shot The Devil,
But I totally did it
Strictly on the level.
No, I didn’t know it when,
For another night of ***
He asked me to his den
Under the spell of some hex.
It was like he was to me
The hottest guy ever seen.
He was built like a star
His hair had a fine sheen.
Body and face were fine;
Toned and masculine.
I’d never seen him before
Though I had often been.
He used his elocution
And handy circumlocution
Better than a Rosicrucian
Sentenced to an institution.
He could twist the moment
Out of a frenzied foment
Then to a crazy torment
With muted arcane comments.
We met in a bath house
On Melrose, West L.A.
And somehow that night
Things seemed to go my way.
He gave me the eye
And I returned it in full.
I am fairly certain that
We both felt the pull.
It was all about debauchery
And he was calling the shots
Making me see I got stupid
Whenever I got that hot.
I let my **** do the thinking
And he seemed glad to show
That I would flirt with danger
And then, not even know.
He used his elocution
And handy circumlocution
Better than a Rosicrucian
Sentenced to an institution.
He could twist the moment
Out of a frenzied foment
Then to a crazy torment
With muted arcane comments.
So, I went back for seconds
At Hedda Hopper’s apartment
Across from Mae West’s place
Fueled with no armament
To protect me from what
Would turn out to be, for me
The scariest ****** encounter
In my busy, young history.
We were doing the deed again
But this time things had changed.
His appearance began to alter
Into something scary and strange.
His canine teeth grew longer
And his body turned fiery red.
I quickly dressed and left that place
And stumbled back home to my bed.
He used his elocution
And handy circumlocution
Better than a Rosicrucian
Sentenced to an institution.
He could twist the moment
Out of a frenzied foment
Then to a crazy torment
With muted arcane comments.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 1:45 AM UTC
Must you go to the New World
forbidden fruit, thrilling
nerve-racking, dreaded exam
Looming where the sun goes
a spell you need to break
trailer-trash meets the Long Carabine
Making love to Laura Inglis Wilder
Shock and Awe meets John Muir
Martin Luther and Chicken George
All clapper board and Hopper-esque
while James Taylor sings Mockingbird
with Carly Simon
Your fingers trace that coastline
those place-names where perhaps
you will stand and wonder
At what people can do
because it is all there
in the New World
A new world to replace
the one you already have
should you ever finish with it
Feb 24, 2011
Feb 24, 2011 at 1:02 PM UTC
Numbles is a fictitious place, a state of mind.
I go there from time to time
in search of rhyme and reason
When required
Here in Numbles The calliope plays non stop
words fall from the hopper neatly written out,
written neatly on white plastic ***** the size of owl's eggs.
They roll down the chute and line up
in rational sentences of pure opaque poetry.
Unabashed and shameless a bit cocky eh wot.
An I dont give a dam a style like the
party girl who just hit her liquor limit
She has one shoe in her hand and her purse
in the other Tipsy?
I used to get budded, drop a 33 LP
diamond needle with a brush,
Wax was a choice over tape or disc
just a better eargasmic experience.
Numbles here I come.
Reverse engineering the things I'd been hearing
Oz .The sun shone in neon streams and the
gusting breezes tasted like cool peppermint schnapps
The cops wore broad pinstripes and penny loafers.
A storybook ending every time
The pieces of the poem puzzles
cake walked with spated shoes .
like homing pigeons on the wing
to roost and coo, they knew.
Numbles is the place where
the sky was ever-blue.
I still day trip to that magical place
sans herbalsupplimentation.
or distilledfermentation.
Sleepdeprivation gets me to the towns square
All my old friends are there
still.
.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 3:01 AM UTC
*A lonely scene
By Edward Hopper
Bright light and
Clear glass..
Our perspective is
Outside in..
We see enclosed
In darkened frame
Lingering characters
Seated alone in
Clarity and precision
Cold and forlorn..
It's the polarity
Light and shadow
Before they find
The connection
of These...*
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 10:18 PM UTC
Skippy hopper
One leg bopper
The wife's my shopper
Food for grasshoppers!
I will eat like a Piggie
Today when I eat some Piggie
Gonna have to digalig biggie
A hole
For the piggie
Bones
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 8:44 AM UTC
His eyes blue green
His body Roddy
His hands distinctive
Arms strongest than pillars of marble
His hair reddish blonde
His manners unforgettable
His smile stunning
His private vessel redish too
His feet huge
His Adam leaf just right
His ancestry Irish
His heart pure gold
His soul my own
His twin soul twin flame
my very own
His voice strong masculine deep.
Soprano.
His passion wet a stallion perfectly shaped all rapture is
My voice his soprano pride
My thighs his madness
His anger his silence I fall in love.
His true loving heart my own.
His physic athletic muscular HE- MAN type body
His hight 5'8
His wealth my own
His jewels my children
His diamonds my tears my tears his diamonds his Rubies his poems.
His sonnet 75 his treasures buried for me to know his love is true
His heartbreak my own
His goals my own
His first love is me
His love making supernovae
My smile his 20 million hurried loot worth fame and great fortune.
My Knight my all
My sheikh my king of hearts
My body his pleasure his desire
My hair dark ashy moon glow over cedar- brown
My eyes vitreous reflecting colors of nature, starry looking eyes
My voice his soprano pride
My thighs his madness
My DNA his own
My height 5'4
My feet 8-1/2-9
My heart of gold his own.
My talent his own
My joy and happiness
my own
My song his delight his lyric rights
My first love him patpat
My love.
Our marriage license sleeps.
Our book; We are the authors
of our own lives and destiny..
What Dreams may come
Gone with the wind
Message in a bottle.
E. T. Phone home.
Scarlett letter A
Countless written memories.
.
Favorite places stargazing under the stars.
Boat rides waves rocking our love away.
Lover is PatRk imaginary ancient
True love.My E T.
Knight yes one King of hearts RD-present here soon.
~~~
By: Karijinbba, all rights.
Dec 25, 2023
Dec 25, 2023 at 7:09 AM UTC
im a jumper
im a thumper
im a bear
im a pear
im a hopper
im a stomper
im a eater
im a steamer
but i am not a screamer
im not a cryer
nor a laugher
not a surgeon
not a garbage man
but i am me
and thats all that matters
me
Dec 4, 2010
Dec 4, 2010 at 10:09 PM UTC
***to tell you
you are terrific lately
Just because
you are all over
the map
of all creation
your prowess
is not discounted
here
forgive
conditional bones
you would have
no defensiveness
if you could put
your whole live's
goals, plans
ambitions, desires
into a single day
However there is
just this here now
one
and each of such dailies
and who can sniff each
as just another flower
upon the scent
of paradise
is the hourglass set
just the once
drifting time
unforeseen
or can forgiveness be
found through the occasional
dispensation somehow garnered
re-topping the hopper***
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
(after Edward Hopper’s Cape Cod Evening)
The light is everything;
it saturates the locust grove,
inundating
uncut grass,
negating
shadows,
conjoining husband
and wife in oblivion.
Melancholy blinks
in the black eye
of a whippoorwill.
Who catches the notes
of its song?
Only the dog.
Dusk, patient
as a chrysalis.
They can’t hear
the transmutation
yet, but they will.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 1:17 PM UTC