Posts tagged ‘Prosody’

May 29, 2015

A Ride to Work with Late Masters

Sweet smell of morning
and leavings of last night’s rain
were scattered about,
sluiced on glass and ground,
left abandoned for drying.

A naked wrist called to remember Warhol.

The wild storm came and went,
as 4am was time, as day break was birthed,
as the tired feeling that reels one to a cold shower expires,
as eyes to a mirror interrogation, to face this—
was deep and strong.

Hands never moved on the melting clocks, where ants carried away.

Haring said, “I am becoming much more aware of movement.
The importance of movement is intensified
when a painting becomes a performance.
The performance (the act of painting)
becomes as important as the resulting painting.”

In order to become whole energy burst through,
coming down pieces, it restored movement.

Where stiff blades of grass begged of overcast—end this holocaust,
“Just drop, fall already!”

And it happened, moving in a storm-window screen
as a runaway train through a dark tunnel,
as a maladroit thief in the night—confused at access, loud.

And that was the waking siren emboldened,
no firetruck’s scream, no squad car whoop, no alarm bells ringing.

Dali enjoyed watching Gala with other lovers, they came.

This sound predated them all,
and it was just pressure and water and air and now.

I caught the leftovers in a rearview mirror flared reflection
at a stop light turned red; the droplets cascaded down
at the truck’s growly acceleration.

Soppy beads rocked in zigzags about the exterior of a blackened rusted frame.

Sun caught on the cloy smell of dying lilacs—sweet,
chain coffee in the console—weak,
and exhaust from a boxy bus that was slipping by noisily—disgust,

motivation to kill, the latter cacophony in soft mushroomed cartilage.

The formers caught porous nose at the same time.

We were all traveling in the storm’s wake to get somewhere,
and some of us were living unnoticed.

May 14, 2015

Have Your Day

The day you have
is of your design.

January 25, 2015

Naive

Fickle love’s passing fate,
Seen a wretched cold world;
Sweet birdsong of the wind,
And a blouse lay unfurled.

December 25, 2014

Unpacking the Snow

First alarms sounded of a white snowy morning. Heavy and wet, flakes covered the ground as those in the river were covered by water, never to come home again. Fast late last year turns to right now present; and years, and sorted experience before. It came out like a pocket knife to test, to screw, to cut once, deep. It was the kind sharpened to a fine edge. Dead bones rested below, and in the back of one’s mind. People came and went; flesh loosened, darkened, slackened, and dusted with age back to dirt. Blades of toy windmills caught the grey air, while leaves fell zigzag to the browned December ground. We just ran by. Air brakes of a semi sounded off far on a distant highway, for those who traveled about the countryside, between the bluffs, near the riverbed; all to hear, all to unite in this one thought, some time, some date, in one mind. Ubiquitous green trees once loomed watching over this tiny town, Apple Capital, providing breath, under thick blankets of sepia cloud; brisk and cool in winter light, it moved through valleys touching rock, touching sand, touching faces, creating must and dew, on bark, and Fall’s fodder, on all who caught a glimpse. Each little speck floated soundless, seeming endlessly to the darkened pavement, as eyes took to more than they could unpack.

November 14, 2014

Theatre Our Selves

What play to our mirrors
Coming to for our peers
Gains a perfect little show
Moved to smiles and tears.

We cannot drop this act
Because of love- the fact:
That we are truly ourselves
Only inside of our house.

November 12, 2014

Connect to St. Paul

Follow steam as it floats
On our daily commute,
Orange eastern horizon,
Thoughts of warm soup.

Eyes locked on the bus
Swaying back and forth,
Come along on this ride,
Again, feeling so north.

Travelling tainted ways,
Thinking of pins and pine,
Bundled people walking-
Beyond the glass, outside.

Seasons to be discussed,
Roads to pass as we go,
Men in boots and gloves
Shovel hard at the snow.

Now these sitters travel
Careful as what to pack,
Each to make way here,
In hopes to make it back.

What more could we ask?
What more could we ask?

October 21, 2014

The North Shore

Drift wood lie on the ground bent
Fixed there in midday sun ease,
Exhausted on mind’s fickle intent
Hard resting, come at fast release

Visible footprints mark this stroll,
Paths we meet coming toward,
Gambling dice we take a roll
Wagering what value we can afford

Making way we wander ’round
Pleasantly procured- what sight we sought;
Relishing that which we have found,
Making play with thoughts wrought

Likewise we stand the surrounding wilderness we stare,
Taking inside us breath, becoming alive through fresh air.

August 21, 2014

There was a flood about us

Lightening danced across the sky in clouded seclusion; a million flash bulbs illuminated, ten thousand bowling ball strikes.

Cut uneven as broken glass still stuck together.
Gods must be gaming.
Cats run and hide.

Every silence a moment lapsed in hesitation for coming sound.
Alarm bells clamored loud, infrequently ringing.
This may pass before the commute.

Awoken by raindrop’s tapping,
as events plagued
pale-blue morning light
set in ruin.

There was a flood about us,
contrasted by the altitude.

August 4, 2014

Fond Memories

Stand in a pale room funeral home.
Dim yellow dances striped walls.
Close fake ferns and fresh-cut flowers.
Not into gleamed opaque casket.
My father sits, near his stepfather lay.
A soda can rests on stained wooden edge.
Here bright reflections of unnatural dye.
We have to pick him up, so heavy- and out.
Grab hand on cold pallbearer’s hold.
Navy Cadillac hearse backs to still box.
Pull with strained arms, struggle to balance.
Measure more densely than expected, hot day.
Hung-over and dried out, stiff- filled chemicals.
We get in the van and head to the American Legion.

Disbelief.

Family and a buffet line inside
We sit close and speak soft
A pastor comes up to talk
He says he is with god
I go and get seconds
Completely lost

My grandmother does not understand.

July 22, 2014

a writer engaged…

Engaging keys to dance on the screen
a sticky banged-out sort of language,
eyes flicker-flash as they register,
each finely enacted word is painted.

Sentences used decidedly, discrete-
far beyond just average meaning,
right below the incomprehensible
reading brings light day dreaming.

Realism in lines, dots, and white blank space;
page-art, satire even written in haste,
excessive save excite, readers we do invite,
the slashes and dashes become grammar’s delight.

Ah, to scribe
Ah, what for?
Ah, to be a part.
Ah, what more?

Thoughts just come, one by one;
even when lacking to grasp,
some are produced with purpose-
others just come from the ass.

It is easy to complain, but so much harder to compliment.
It is easy to say we make, but so much harder to create content.

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