Posts tagged ‘Midwest Poetry’

September 12, 2017

pleasant cricket sounds

as beautiful
and pleasant
as cricket’s may sound,
sometimes
they sound like
a broken in car
a few blocks down,
or my alarm clock
after hitting hard
the snooze
button, … so it’s
not so beautiful
or pleasant
or a treasure to take in,
you hear me?
but sometimes.

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April 14, 2015

We Think

I thought,
You thought,
I thought,
You thought…

March 21, 2015

Out of Dodge, 52 South to La Crescent

There are pieces to account for
while getting out of Dodge,
on a Friday eve, away from the city—
on the mind of those,

sat in an aged black truck on edgy burnt-out energy;
a person can purchase a mass of pink-violet
spectacle taking over western skies,

glorious sunset in tired eyes,
painting cloaked-clouds,
heavy dark, invoking peering pupils.

That giant burning orb,
light-years away,
is sinking into a foreland field,

browned is a Minnesota plain’s silhouette to come,
spotted with tail-lights
and oncoming forgotten brights;

before cars snaked out of the city
on veined webs of pavement,
onto highway 35,

which roller-coastered up and down,
thru and around,

wheels traversed crude potholes
and bad drivers—ones inciting rage,
to 52 South, to less ego.

And in the cockpit:
a cracked window,
a rear-view gaze,
changing bootlegged CDs,
and easy conversation.

The journey goes:
follow the lines to-,
follow the lights to-,
follow the signs to-,

each less visible moment passing,
each shadowed monument dusted;
stop here, stop there, no stops at all…
Make time.
Make tracks.
Make it back.

under shrouded moon above,
each sparsely laden gas station,
each pre-ghost town affixed—

to Rochester, by Rushford,
past Winona and Houston,
fast 73mph, thru Nodine—

establishments wax a dimly lit yellow,
down a long hill stretch to 14 61,

along hulks of vibrant-by-day bluffs,
past looming Lock and Dam No 7,

along the sounding Mississippi,
waters show streetlamps caught in the flow, luminescent,

and we go into town,
La Crescent, past the Hub
to Apple Village Liquors,
then to home.

There,
a warm room,
my smiling family,
and hugs await.

Pieces of what’s become
getting out of Dodge.

***

A good aspect of the city
can be getting out of it.

March 13, 2015

Prelude to Spring Break 2015

As early March had come in biting and the best were kept inside,
a span of two weeks had passed slowly and sleep had become elusive.

Professors watched second hands tick and gave out faux tests;
these symbolic life quizzes—it’s who makes it who matters.

Desks became confines as concentration went out open windows,
to welcome hands of mild weathered-breeze and new-season sun.

People—tired students, red-eyed lecturers, they didn’t exist;
regular situations became stimuli for a stagnant comatose: why?

No answers formed, except that three days later a person could be a week away,
anywhere—abroad, nothing to do, only to read titles and books which please.

Yet we all sat watching that clock, it moved slower despite us;
now, it would have to stay indoors and assess classrooms of empty chairs.

Scholars and administration would hopefully be in Spring air, taking it in,
with a cold beer in hand and tender sunrays on their back;

minds would exist as empty—blank slates, to pen a tale—an experience,
with no thoughts of what was left sitting behind, with not a hint of rigor.

March 10, 2015

Busy Twin Cities

Tall, the buildings do look down on me,
in their all too mirrored reflections;
content in ways, their eyes do gaze,
busy city brought to my attention.

February 16, 2015

When does Spring return?

The city bus hums to me
As I wind through wet streets.

A stoplight shouts “wait”!
From a four-corner crossing.

White flakes fall heavy, thick—
Clouding a straight-line view.

We walk along the way wondering:
When does spring return?

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 30, 2014

Essen-tial

On this afternoon
Food is of essential;
As Essen is of -to eat
In German Language.

September 2, 2014

An Ode to This Is Just To Say

I have drunk
the beers
that were in
the fridge

and which
you were definitely
saving
for Sunday

Forgive me
they were refreshing
so strong
and so cold

***
in homage of, and inspired by: This Is Just To Say, William Carlos Williams, 1883 – 1963

August 19, 2014

St. Paul in the Fall

St. Paul in the fall,

whilst leaves change and thin.

 

Whilst festivities and fairs

under tents, bearing food, creep in.

 

Whilst trees bend

with robust forceful wind.

 

A time to reflect the mess we’re within;

past and coming years, one which end and begin.

 

Peers and loved ones we’ve lost,

at grand experience’ cost. 

 

Standing growing moving,

shedding one layer at a time

 

A tan peals and pales,

A secret is revealed.

 

Skin and bone become frail,

light years fast pass the snail. 

 

A north shore lake-effect patience,

Months under sun we’ve waited.

 

Suffering rain snow and gale,

Minnesota weather: what it entails. 

 

In and amongst everything;

though a singular unit, alone as one.

 

Walking fresh cold press coffee in hand,

scanning distant verdant lands.

 

On this walk towards autumn- new times and old friends,

alternatives we enact; to the ever changing plans.

 

Remember the voices we will never hear again.

Remember the times with loved ones we spend.

 

Perplexed by this simple yet inspiring life,

St. Paul in the fall feels cool, close, fast approaching, and right.