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JB Claywell Apr 20
I held the smallest fragments
of what had once been my dear friend
in my hand.
Never had I held the cremated remains
of another human being.
I found it to be rather benign, physically.
Mentally though,
I imagined that I found it distasteful,
but not really all that much.
My mind softened the scenario further.
I imagined that I was holding in my palm,
what was once my poet-friend’s thumb.
Now, I had this ethereal thumb
to further, fashionably so,
guide my own pens or pencils across pages
yet to be written,
upon verses as yet unknown.
I took great solace in that thought.

David William Thomas’ thumbprint
is on these pages,
smearing,
ever so gently,
the ink that lays across the face
of this simple piece
of my own soul.

We spiraled what remained of our kindred
across the open spaces
of a modest Missouri wood
as the moon rose above;
the woodpeckers,
the coyotes heedless of our intrusion.

Gates locked against us,
we circumvented their blockade
in the names of sage-smoke and brotherhood,
of mentors and men bent on Buddhist
benevolent remembrance.

We set fire to kindling,
remembered our fallen friend
in a way that he,
above all others,
would have appreciated the most.

In a place called Sunbridge,
a path of passage to a greater plane of being,
poets held sway over all but nature.

Our altars were The Earth,
our robes,
vestments of denim, canvas, and leather
were holy.

Even the invading Conservation Agent
deserved less than the truth,
because he was inherently ignorant
to this event’s significance
in our collective lives at the time.

So,
lies and half-truths were served;
we escaped unscathed.

The lilacs knew,
but remained silent.

Only the tiger spoke.  

*
-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications 2019
For David.
Once more.
Your nature is rather expressive
It creates dialogue in chirping happiness
Of birds climbing trees
But seemingly, doesn't lie in the height of apricot trees
In fallacies of piety
Like climbing from the apple flowers
To the suckling bees nestling in the flavor
Of the honey that comes from the *******
Of your breast that taste like apple and honey
As the petals of an aeolian wasp
Follow the areolar cusp
Hungering was part of the motivation
It was primal instinct of the ecstatic elation
So what about the leaves that turn brown
A Gilded crescent moon
Brings tawny owls in the night
Who can tread upon
But still see them leaves
Auric alchemy covering your ******
Like I can navigate your entire patina
Bodied with my left hand
Cupping your breast with the righteousness of writing
Now I'm ambidextrous
Teasing you with the tension
Of impressionism in my sensual seminar
Promising to pluck those flowers
I keep them in colored waters
So there's coruscating change
Within the cleft of the *******
Somehow I've found that to be trenchant theft
Of your virginity
There's more bliss in these pecks of mine
Except like woodpeckers pecking the bare-backs of fir trees
Inasmuch the resin falling
Keeping the Apollinaire's oil lamp of sin
Much alive
Earnestly timed
And the poetry reasonably alive
Romantically
A thought of fire in a rustic cage
Like Pandora's box
In the Coming of Age, mysteriously
There's more bliss in these perks of mine
Unlike aphrodisiacs in the sea
The Cupid's bow keeps
The aquiline philtrums intertwined
In pilfering perfection
Even in the decorum of our moaning
In the face of the coitus and chorus
The suspicion of Venus
Doesn't keep out the lust
Of the allegory
That included symbolic Folly
But Folly was just a face
Realizing the purpose of her
Was just exploring pleasure
Emanating with your caressing climate
To leave no leaves unturned
When it came to my gruntled grunts
Then came the ******
Unoccluded and unencumbered
Of every language, pulchritude placid
"Love flows away
As life itself is slow"-Le Pont Mirabeau, Guillaume Apollinaire
Mary Gay Kearns Dec 2018
So well, let the clowns come on
Dusty in their fancy clothes
Take the time to give to friends
And the orchestra digress.

For love rolls out the barrels
Children gather in the park
The famous climb ladders
And woodpeckers eat grass.

This world is uneven
strutting ancient band
Lost forever in Autumn
Leaves golden brown.

In the arms of Madonna’s
Is the future queen
And what you are is
Not what you get.

Love Mary
Ralph Akintan Dec 2018
The price l paid
Ozzed out hope in me.
This price l paid
Bailed me out of the pangs of woes.


Toiling days and nights
Drilling rocks like woodpeckers.
They hoped against hope
But l hoped not for nothingness.
Sweat dripping from the pores of laborious tasks.
Marching on droplet by droplet like Trojans of old.

Now the price l paid
Sprouted goodness in me.
Embraced supplications granted peace.
Traversed paths led to success.
Peregrinated road turned wailing to hosanna chants.
The sea l navigated draped me with toga of glory.
This price l paid
Bruce Levine Mar 29
A woodpecker in a tree
Talking to you and me
Bobbing its head
In search of daily bread

Wouldn’t it fun to be
A woodpecker in a tree?
Bobbing away
Throughout every day

Hopping from tree to tree
Tapping tunes for you and me
I wonder what’s its name
Maybe he’s just playing a game

Another woodpecker in a tree
Just happens to be
Talking to you
I wonder what you’ll do

Two woodpeckers in a tree
Happy as they can be
Each bobbing their head
Maybe they’ll be wed

Baby woodpecker in a tree
Mom, Dad and you make three
Happy all the day
I love to watch you play

3/29/19

www.brucelevine.com
The farmer was bending over furrowed land
When the sandy, serpentine trail claimed me.
There was an embrace of irregularities,
A nonchalant dismissal of symmetries.
Imagined perfection had no business being there.
Jagged rocks thrusted, asserted themselves.
There were muddy patches and caked brown leaves.
A few brown leaves crackled on dignified trees.
Broken boughs, fallen pine needles, pine cones,
The coarse bark, the pine trees, crooked and ******,
The hiker, slightly turned, peeing up ahead,
Other types of trees leaning, almost mischievously,
As though by some imagined door, overhearing
A secret or confession of someone they loved -
All received the warmth and affection of March.
Amidst such affection, I sometimes heard
The distant call of a train, the cacophony
Of dogs, the twitter or piercing note of a bird,
Someone thumping down a brow of wooden stairs,
Talking on his cell phone of mundane affairs.
There was no disturbance, but a silence
Cradling March light, a sweet acceptance,
A space, delighted, seeming profoundly amused
At its own various playful expressions,
Not labeling one as higher or lower.
I passed a hillock with straight and crooked tombstones,
Turned, and reached a little secluded spot,
Where small birds - not woodpeckers - were pecking
At dark naked boughs, jaunty, sometimes hopping upward,
Sometimes swinging downward, alighting on other trees.
They continued their business closer and closer
To me, or busy play, whatever it was.
They pecked away on the same tree, moving away
From each other on nearly level, opposite boughs
Until they became eyes of a beautiful, strange face
With dark webs or veins by which the clear sky
Smiled a quiet, mischievous, welcoming smile.
I stayed awhile and the twilight awoke -
Old thoughts would return as surely as night;
Confusion would burn, and that was all right -
And I made my way back, growing hungry.
This poem is included in my book "I Have Been Moved", which is available on Amazon for as little as 14 dollars (paperback).
The way that the day cuts the night from the sky
making it into one huge apple pie,
summer mornings are the why of it,

City noise,
where Jackhammers sound like woodpeckers
and sirens like..
well
sirens like the cops are coming,

someone let the sun out and it come out
running.

I'm already done in and it's only four o-clock

— The End —