Posts tagged ‘minnesota’

July 3, 2015

new july

such sounds were reserved, ones that would wake you.
laying there in the morning, full day ahead. touching snooze

to gather more sleep, to gather better dreams. a door opens
and a dog begs for attention. little things like the early light,

the sound of soft feet on hardwood, a car coming, then escaping.
such sounds were reserved for you. wake to unfamiliar familiar.

same as always, touch a button. the coffee maker bubbles,
crickets still sing, birds chirping aloud, coming through

a cracked window in a dim room with the shades drawn.
sounds of a day that were reserved, open morning new july.

July 1, 2015

Everything

Everywhere I go
and everyone I know
are parts of me
and the places between,
from summer sun,
to winter snow;
from the top of bluffs
to the valleys below,
they are carried with me
as everything I know.
They are parts of me,
parts of a whole.

June 26, 2015

How I write poetry

Could they hear me at the desk oozing prose onto the page,
clipping hard at the keys for grammar,
few words and blank space,
giving my all just for free writing?

Had they known my walk through the pre-day skyway,
the negative eighty degree cooler I passed—I am like that: cool and old.

Had they been blinded by a window’s reflection
or kissed their love before exiting a truck?

Could they feel the concentration,
the poise,
the inspiration,
of each line, in each book
held in heavy hand?

White came black, black came red—what you read this heap (?),
red turned pale, then yellow, then green—the fear, coming out of me.

This was it,
the beginning of the end,
and I had just opened Word
to give my fingers a stretch.

How coffee, how Grape-Nuts, how banana,
how milk, how ab workouts and a tepid shower
had been the muse to it all.

My body in the morning, my morning.
They hadn’t known.

Or at least that’s what I thought.

June 25, 2015

The places we’ve seen (have seen us)

Motion reflected between where you are and where you will be;

Void for a shadow where you were, ever lying in wait to reconvene.

June 24, 2015

Adjusted Advantage

The world can seem so small
when assessed from the confines
of a one bedroom apartment.
A space tight, sticky, stuffy,
and near unbearably drab.
For a person to go outside and look,
to see all there is to see—to expand the expanse,
to imagine what one might attain
in the span of a lifetime,
at the change of a thought,
on the prospect of a whim, at the drop of a dime.
A perspective can be released
from its rigid boxy cage to stretch sore wings
and to grasp the once unthinkable,
for merely a chance thought,
and for adjusted sight, mercy!

June 23, 2015

Fixed Mesh

Barefooted feet sounded aloud the carpeted hallway,
Where people passed in sunlight of a side window view;
Forms drew on, each bearing a different meaning—each,
New reason passed by, as all parts came meshed true.

June 22, 2015

St. Anthony Waste

Sour leather bands synched
in a veiled humidity,
swam this Midwestern oven,
doggy paddle for fluid strokes.
Rolled windows on St. Anthony
caught a trash truck soup
of faintly fanned aroma sweet
under parted clouds;
cloy cutting, putrid, pungent,
unforgettably at the tip of your tongue,
in the holes of your nose.
Fumes came from plastic bags ripped
and cardboard boxes smashed
telling of domestic unimagineables,
making way to the forefront,
aggressively introduced,
and not leaving soon.
Remnants pressing,
pushing through the city;
parts of me, parts of you—
the powers of summer heat sparked
a sickening knotted perfume,
lingering in the air,
in these communities tight knit.

June 19, 2015

A Moment Mid-Commute

Slowing my advance
the smell of fresh dew
on bending grass,
deeply rich, as pubic loin,
naturally beaded,
morning fruit,
coming up into me.

Passing chance is a pedestrian
at another drink,
to sup, to taste—to figure:
the luck.

Beyond what affords
the wires and cords,
the libations of vibrations—in pocket and lapel;
consorts of sorts:
eyes to see to tell,
caught in a room, in a shell.

Here it is running between sharp teeth,
between punch in and punch out,
the texture expands on the tip of tense tongue,
to drown the drain
in the welcome back of a dry desert throat,
where we once spoke.

Yesterday’s sun had taken all proof
of what there was to own:
the house, the car, the student loans, the mobile phone.

Every drop of hydration
was taken from placement.

And then that orb went away
with the dying day,
to blackest night,
to come back and drop what it lacked,
to give what it had taken away.

These globules,
these droplets of life,
here on fine grass, stay,
for all to gleam as they pass.

Seeing yard for a blade.
Seeing hours for a wait.
Bearing witness to its presence,
to this small existence, to little menace.

Taken its smell,
dew on these forms,
forms on this ball,
lit up by yellow orb,
spinning, rolling, coming down,
into finite points,
magnified and reflected,
encapsulating each particle universal,
directly into you.

A most minute sense,
and worldly.

To think,
it was almost unbearable
to enter that building
on this day.

June 18, 2015

If Adjectives were People

If adjectives were people
would we misuse them so freely?
Would we tarnish or compromise
their meaning, because we feel it so fit?

A day seldom goes by without hearing “amazing”
or “awesome” or some other elaborate word
that no one truly understands,
because we want to sound smart,
because impressive is good.

I imagine a day when adjectives are personified, incarnate,
they will come back irate,
pissed off at us for our word choices,
and they will take what is theirs.

Without pause or hesitation
they will call us all illiterates and fools,
imbeciles and morons,
they will promptly walk away,
with all ways to accurately describe.

We will then think on how we had it so well,
with no way to say exactly what we have to tell…

And then, inevitably, someone will say, “incredible”.

June 16, 2015

Remember?

In the cistern of my mind
live water’s beckon thought;
is it the past or a dream—
the difference, I can’t tell.

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