'Some' poetry'

From time to time I'll copy my poetry into this space, swapping them out from time to time, adding a couple, taking a couple away.

Skipping Stone

I become a stone on water tossed

seven times proudly skipped

over liquid skin until… kerplunk

I sink into the pond settling

for a time at the bottom

until time and tide, currents and

seasons being what they are,

I wear down and particle-ize

into the water itself

picking up others melding with us,

washing over and under the land forever,

becoming part of something

greater than a stone or water

or tree or flesh or wing.

I become part of it all as it

becomes part of me until even I

can't see me for it, or see it for me,

if you catch my drift?

Isn't it all too obvious, this journey

taken with my permission and

against my will, seeking playmates

along the way to the end and the beginning?

What do they bring to this? Like me?

Hollow words, resounding forever

without a sound?

Or thundering energy so vast and small

it explodes everything without moving a cell?

No matter. We are here in any case,

and will be, and won't be,

makes no nevermind.

Cursing Autumn

I've gone so many miles it must be

autumn and late at that, the legs gone

from beneath me and sore back needful

of rest, it's probably not long 'til all the leaves

are gone and green no longer springs from dirt

moistened by angel's tears laughing.

The fall comes and I'm weary

my body heavy for a carrier of my soul.

What happened here yesterday ere I was young,

body coiled to spring for no reason

except to show the strength it possessed.

Youth wasted on youth again.

Thoughts labor from me slowly,

then escape too quickly to catch.

What a laugh I'd have at myself

were I younger than today,

watching me peer feebly at a past

that no one else can see.

It's autumn here amidst my breast.

In the darkness there's no sound,

no light, no smell, no time.

I bless the wings that bring my heart

to where I've been before.

Rebellion

The poet sat at the keys,

considered writing a poem,

but instead decided, “no,

I’ll do this instead!

I’ll tread water

and count the grains

of sand, and lean my head

to and fro for a while”

The poet refused the presence

of the muse for whom his disdain

had no limits.

“To hell with turbid splendor!” he said.

And then jacking himself in the eye,

because he was deserving,

he ripped open his chest

to look at his heart.

Holding it in his hands,

he laughed when it grayed

before his eyes and thumped so hard

it leapt from his fingers to his lips.

He screamed with joyous glee

when it spit at his face

and slapped him soundly

across his spirit.

“Dunno whether to keep this or not,”

he spewed, before slamming it back inside.

“Thump, thump,” it went, just to piss him off.

He sneered at the effrontery and gall.

“Who the hell do you think you are,

that you can get away with this?” he roared,

laughter boiling from his lips.

“No one,” came the answer clear.

He snorted and stomped his foot

upon ground rising up to smash him.

The sky dropped suddenly on him,

crushing his head beneath.

He rose, shook the dust from his shirt,

and spat at the earth below.

He didn’t give up easy, this poet.

There was too much left to do, perhaps even

a poem to write.




Mortality
A page, vacant in the morning
backlit through a window muddied
with feet splatters from drizzled paws
telling me I’ve much to do.


Two primordial oaks deceased outside
the glass, moribund limbs hanging by
no more than a thread, crashing silent now
and then, no one there to hear.


Each line of the poem so sluggish
to materialize and then only dimly
in the haze of a morning with no slumber
thinking, judging, what will I do.


Trash pulled hurriedly and chaotically
to the curb, some whose life continues
while others will be buried inside the earth
to nourish the reaper greedy.


A house quiet at the top of a hill,
latent and nestled within the trees,
breathing occasional as needed,
waiting for new life inside.


The old life there lights another smoke
and watches the gas escape his lungs
glancing uneasily from time to time
at the primordial oaks deceased outside.

Dickens

He sang softly to me as he left,

His breath coming shorter all the time,

His heart, always strong, swung open to me

As it had so many times before.

And all I have left is his soul.

When we first gathered him into our arms

To take him home, his plaintive bark echoed,

shattering thoughts of the pet we had in mind,

the one with the calm demeanor, the quiet and lazy way.

Dickens’ path was on another road, one we travel’d gladly.

As he grew, he imposed his will, not because he desired,

But because he was. Such a friend again I’ll not have.

I talked to him the whole night through,

Making him stay for my own sake.

He didn’t have to, he did it for me,

Giving me one last piece of his heart,

And all I have left is his soul.