August 12, 2015
Shades of the trees toward western skies rest a cool shadow
on a once brilliant face,
where the lacquer for paint
Smack of fuzzed tennis balls hurled in the wind,
zipping with bugs in
a St. Paul end-summer August warm.
Reflections and shadows hung on until it was time
to go back home—
just after supper and just before
candlelight vigils and auto headlamps scans rushed
into closed windows and about vacant streets.
the world come to close another day,
morning would be the same except reverse
on those tired night dweller’s eyes.
A can was crushed and we biked back
to SE through mosquitoes.
June 25, 2015
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 18, 2015
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 10, 2015
Ears of creation
Heard close on actions promised,
But what of the hands?
May 21, 2015
a waxen yellow glow on the Nicollet Avenue scene below,
as above heavens danced and sparked white
as now onlookers stood and watched.
The hum of vehicular masses turned to a city of cratered paths,
while people were lit as props, good and evil,
coming and going about their static business.
This nature in society, framed, isolated—what we have;
metal grasps of synthetic hands
coming to and shaping us,
to make up our wake up, to shake up our trust.
Bleeding oil, exhausting fumes,
killing cows, and loud preaching fools;
we exist as a populous,
with meaningful purpose, and American sentimentalism.
Illuminated here by streetlamp’s waxen yellow glow, on Nicollet,
under heavens about to open wet,
mingling with ghosts of our yesterday,
with whole cultures of churches and states to thank.