Who does go walking upon sand
Only to glance behind
And look at indents step for step
To count one pair left.
Then to have the gall to question
Their insubstantial friend
Where he was in times of strife and
Only with you during fine life.
And because the answer makes them feel
That hope is theirs and real
As long as they and faith hold hands
Leaving footprints in the sand.
The light is brief—
Nesting finches in the tree above see the kiss
That will disappear before their very eyes.
When the boom, when the boom, when the boom…
Nesting birds see the kiss,
A snapshot illuminated by the storm.
While the boom, the boom, the boom
Fades like Echo into the darkness.
Illuminated by the storm.
Caught in the mind with a flash of lightning.
Echoes in the darkness
Mimic the passionate palpitations of their hearts.
What is caught in the flash of lighting
Fades into the dark with a raindrop,
And the passionate palpitations of their hearts.
Ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump.
Fades into the dark with the pattering of rain,
Disappears before their very eyes,
In time with the ba-thump, ba-thump.
And light. Brief light.
Memory acts the male
Leads
Sets the pace
Remembers the steps
Keeps the dance in line.
But imagination
She is no simpering chit.
No, she is a pleasant partner.
She is the sex that is the tango
The sultry form
And the lithe movements.
Memory may lead
But imagination tells him how.
Didn’t it seem
Once Upon a Time
that the snow fell
on the regular.
As if parents ordered it up
for good boys and girls
acknowledging
not all gifts should cost?
I cannot recall
exactly the waking
but one happened
without white cheer.
That was the day
the onslaught
of adult knowledge
took base in my chest.
No longer bells rang
over crisp serenity.
No longer I played
and ignored cold nagging.
No longer I rose
anticipating.
No longer blanketed
from adult dread.
And now it’s too late
to burrow back under
to think that snow falling
would return the tint.
Now I feel the dollars
fail to buy feeling
and no Santa comes
for doing adult chores.
No longer rewarded
for being a human.
No longer applauded
for doing the simple.
No longer forgiven
for lapses ‘gainst others.
No longer safe
under white cover.
Now I drive through
slush gray and lumpy
that came too late
for the season.
Snow threatens my peace
and drags at my tires
so I veer and careen
away from my rut.
Instead of glistening
youthful idealism
I must find joy
inside somewhere.
I simply hope
that the simple child
built up enough
strength for us both.
I thought I could write a poem about the parallel I feel is building between the holiday season and the state of the weather. Maybe I will still. But at least I can reblog in an attempt to be merry.
Hello fellow souls on this Christmas Eve! I am sitting here, listening to 16 different versions of the same song with my family and I thought I would par down the selection for all and sundry. Here is the definitive list of my favorite versions of Christmas songs.
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It is liquor for the common and the high
Consumed en masse or a shot at a time.
Sometimes it is best fresh
Other times well ages.
Causes a burning
Then a sense of comfort.
Poetry has a distinct smell you come to love.
It should get you drunk quickly
But may leave you different the morning after.
It inspires you to risk the walk of shame
The chance of meeting a soul mate.
Make questionable decisions
Release your inhibitions
Strip yourself bare
And allow the world to criticize
Or hold you a hero.
Yes.
Poetry is both life distilled
And the distillery of life.
The bubbling spring of a train of thought.
From water to hangover
A student to Plan B.
Poetry is poetry.
Going down
Coming up
Swishing in a glass
Spilt on me
By that ridiculous couple.
Or taking the edge off
One of life’s nasty morning afters.
I had a notion. And then the stunning dandelions danced round and round as they sang songs of worlds yet to be discovered. They sang to the sun, so high above. It was yellow and they were yellow, but it was of a much more majestic hue and, therefore, was worshipped as a god by the people. The same people decapitated the dandelions.
The strongest returned and aged gray to bring the same people luck. Their dancing slowed and their singing turned into a requiem that they sung to the moon, who now shared their complexion.
Then the winter came and beat the dandelions with its genocidal will. Only the silent stars mourned the loss of the music that they loved despite misconstruing the lyrics. They insist upon complexity in everything, even the quietest song of the tiniest flower.
I had a notion. All the people were stars and they were silent and cold. They looked down and felt nothing for the dying because they had never really listened. Why would a star listen to a weed?
Nobody heard the contorted corpse
Or saw him as he was falling
He was much disinclined to try to fly
And not free but falling.
Fool, he put stock in satire
And now he’s dead.
He was no newly formed giant but scared man.
Oh, no, not again
(A large sigh blossomed)
He had been fatalistic all his life
And not free but falling.
They cry as they’re crushed.
Squish, squish. Squiiish
out their blood, their gore.
The floor runs red.
Toes get stained royal.
Heels grind deep nectar.
Enthralling murder
destroys my inhibitions
and crushes my qualms.
I drink their blood
and their spirits calm
my frenzied passions.
I sober up,
wipe away death,
and plan my next encounter.
My pride and joy
This land sweet sown
Sprouts of healthy green.
The hours I spent
And toiled with hand
To make the plot you see.
I dug with trowel
And shovel sans gloves,
So the dirt would merge with me,
A few inches down
To scratch a home
For each hopeful little seed.
Flooding each site
With life through water
And from it the bugs flee.
Now to reward my work
Stalks spring up from bed
As if no more to sleep.
And as if I dreamed
My green thumb up
Because I fail to believe,
I rip them out
To check for roots
And meet them with glee.
No longer doubting
How benevolent
Life can be.
The Proud Dandelion 