"unbuttered" poems
On the box of Midwest Butter,
in the verdant dairy pastures,
sat the smiling Indian maiden,
daughter of her tribe, the maiden.
Holding forth a golden offering;
from the box her yellow treasure
for the yet unbuttered buyer.
Gently her sweet knees protruded
from her humble beaded buckskin,
from her beaded buckskin garment
each supported by a letter;
full twin globes upon an altar.
As mammalians, when they’re nursing
seek the rounded gifts of nature
while their hands, abreast and lifted
grasping, find the source of plenty,
swallow fast that milky manna
swallow down that flowing liquid
with a smile upon their features,
so my soul rejoiced to meet her
in the grasslands of a daydream
in the pastures of my daydream,
holding forth divine recurrence:
gift within a gift forever
churning, and imploding inwards
infinite, receding backwards
into endless Indian maidens
spreading myth upon my table
on my toast upon my table
till her tribe returns in glory…
(etc, etc... with apologies to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:32 PM UTC
Mornings born on a
bowl of confidence,
or grain-flavored pellets
that stick to the back of my conscience.
The day will end with a decision,
a jury and court weighing the outcome.
Easily influenced by the surroundings,
silk and cotton drapes,
one for the table and the other for
obstructing neighbor’s view.
“Why is he not married? Is he even religious?”
It’s funny how their opinion wavers
on a wafer in a building
made of the same materials as this
kitchen. Did I leave the stove on
on accident or intentionally to burn in Hell?
I never thought it was true
that we poke fun at the
things we fear most. I haven’t poked
or prodded in my lifetime,
but my neighbors sure do.
“No, Mrs. Smith, I embrace this loneliness.”
It’s almost as if they think I run
a ***** house, or
have the most questionable of sexualities.
I am as plain and inconclusive
as the toast I burnt – dry and unbuttered;
it goes down unconvincingly.
I will sit in this chair, hiding from the houses,
eating my dry meals
in the morning, under the beaming lights,
possibly reviewing this day
in tomorrow’s morning.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC