Posts tagged ‘spring’

February 25, 2017

you go!

tear the plastic
off
the windows
to your life!

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April 27, 2016

spring once again, absent our others

o’ fecund smell of
dew so ubiquitous,
when spring
happens beyond
our door frames,

and light shines thru
as at grandma’s
on sunday afternoons
years ago routinely,

as was morning broken
in a few stained pews,
i thought hard about
god and death
and how it didn’t
really matter:

dad would have
felt the same, i know,
to ask him that question,
one day not like this,
one day never.

*

the sun shines different
moments ago
even though
it looks the same
as it did when our late
loved ones walked
this spinning globe.

now to imagine
the unimaginable
for it no longer exists;
now to see
a face that no
longer is. now we
take new-growth spring
absent our others.

April 21, 2016

That thing you want so bad, and the rain

What a person would give
to wake whenever—
alarm clock inconsequential,
even for its buzzing
at startled sleeping ears;

next to a blossoming love laying,
touching, snoring, holding, warming;
giving thanks
for each nocturnal breath,
each pull of the down comforter
in a mute cat-hair covered duvet;

awoken to a springtime pitter-patter
which started the night before
after pictures on a screen—
now somewhat cold
listening to talk of global warming
with a whole day ahead,
oh god, Kerri Miller (sure…);

a few hours behind,
cleaned dishes sitting,
dripping as beyond the window,
and much wasn’t said
for want because this person had:

a few new books free
from Pierre Bottineau library
of Northeast (which it is not,
so I am told), flax-seed
and oats and brown sugar
and clear water;

this person sitting
had everything that was needed
and more just to realize it all
just to think,

from the inside out, heart beating,
synapse snapping, mindful
being, just slouched there,
and would give anything for it,
that thing you want so bad.

May 24, 2015

Touched by Sweetness

Having impregnated
a mind
of pulsating flowers;
touched by sweetness
they stir,
coming in
at full bloom.

April 26, 2015

Human Beings at Wm O’Brien State Park, MN.

Morning.
A passenger side ranger inquiry,
lead to fresh blinding light
and splashing potable water.

Campfire embers smoldered
after an evening’s neighborly introduction and proclamation
of “Uptown Pride.”
—We, not so much.

Dusk.
Shown tattoos
and mushrooms,
no room for outside,
where the suburbs subside.

Today.
Huddles of families on holiday,
weekend campers on parade;
an International Airstream
sat local in a vast
golden marsh glade.

Yesterday Afternoon.
Pulling from the Bulleit bottle,
to crack a cold and wet brew,
gathering sticks with the best,
for firewood,
for warmth under
the firmament in rolled tents.

Last Night.
Loud bullshit and no possessable fish,
dirty fingernails and a waxing moon paled.
Lagers along a road near the St. Croix river,
walking long lengths pinecone covered trails.

Morning.
Shoes on jet rocked gravel drive;
smoothed stone,
downed trees,
white smoke,
where the sunrays seeped cutting dried eyes.

Here was Sunday morning,
a question,
packed and coming down
to the sound of classic rock, shutting doors, and moving tires.

How it got away.

April 20, 2015

Commute Home through Como

On a home commute lately,
on Como Avenue’s length,
under streetlamp’s orange presence,
with blurred trucks and cars,

where sleeping neighborhoods
and empty industry wait;

I am moving between point A and point B,
I am alone in the dark nodding hello
to the stoplights changing,
empty storefront’s grey,
and mounting sidewalk debris.

Still some bars glow,
still long trains roll.

Coming to me are night smells
of dried hay—ironic spring,
careless weed smoke blown,
and fabric softener exhaust—all biking home.

Lost in darkened new elements
under low heavens, star speckled skies,

lately through Como,
on a commute between two cities,
resting local economy,
where sparkling broken glass
is scattered—reflect, a sight,
in clouded purple shade
of night, no sun, to my eyes, and going home.

April 13, 2015

Monday Anon Anew

Monday is a rebirth
of the past two days forgotten—
a new moment, a new mindset,
and a new chance.

Though,
we are the oldest
we’ve ever been
right now.

Still,
we are young as is,
as naïve,
as buds on tree branches sprout.

Soft eyes sore,
a window’s breeze of Spring must
through messed hair,
in sharp lights which have come on again
at the rotating of the earth.

Outside is exactly inviting warm.

Here we are,
here we prep,
here this Monday anon anew.

March 30, 2015

Again in April

The Ides of March to
April bird song,
where sprouts push
and pull to, through
fertile soil; come the
warming sun heat
on affectionate breeze,
past the months of
cool cold torturous toil.

March 29, 2015

Bike to Attain a Surly Pentagram at Zipp’s

At times we are a shameless weekend day-drunk,
on more mission than malicious,
while some factors remain
out of our hands.

It was…

In Dinkytown, a hundred dollars pocketed,
bike tires on fresh-thawed paths—
I moved with those in needed noontime sun,

where girls in flowery mini-skirts and low-cut t-shirts
families holding hands and smiling men—friends,
on a walk, on the go,

to Washington Ave, to West River Parkway, to bike paths,
more on the trek: sunglasses, glances, buses, and light-rails
those along the tracks.

Nothing stopped,
masses moving,
given this,
a Saturday to spend,
listless.

In the foreground beautiful dimensions;
a bridge expanse,
where tons of rock and rubble smashed,
stood in the sky above brown waters stirring,

above geese making wake,

with joggers, debris, bikers, and cars in the street,

this is where a person must stand the apex and view the cityscape ahead,
from South,
from Franklin Ave Bridge, it was.

Where Marathons had crossed,
where break-ups took place,
where others died on bikes by cars
in the twilight.

Memorials stood for them, fading,
locked to poles,
alabaster.

My mission: head to Zipp’s for that
Surly, Pentagram:
a $25 bottled designer beer.

I had to,
latent function ephemera.

A need,
like biking while cars pass,

here, remembering houses and nightly walks home alone,
or with new found strangers,
remembering people under streetlamps, red eyes glare,
empty cans and scattered trash about,
remembering.

An accident brought me back here for something,
Seward streets and an absence of time.

I thought of Tracy’s and Luce,
and cigarettes and movies,

of what I had not come to see,
but did…

I was careful with my backpack, another bottle couldn’t break.

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.