METAMORPHOSES
Sunday I rise early
while my love lies layered
in her warm cocoon
Not yet ready to unfold
into the butterfly of the day
Monthly Archives: October 2005
JEANNE MARIE WRITES A NEW BOOK
JEANNE MARIE WRITES A NEW BOOK
When it rains in Biggar Saskatchewan
a bigger battle begins
Grass and grain sucking straws
to the slurping point
The sun trying as always to extract
far more than its fair tithe
Muddy waters swirling down drains
of gopher and badger holes
Settling through hollows of buffalo wallows
where the buffalo no longer roam
Remainders feeding underground streams
and deep raging rivers
If I put my feet or my ear to the ground
I can almost understand her last poem
Almost hear the next one
SLEEPING WITH YOURSELF
SLEEPING WITH YOURSELF
If you think you have no power
try sleeping with a Kennedy
You may find some, but most likely
they will end up with more
If you want to touch vulnerable
try sleeping with a Marilyn
You may find some, but most likely
you will just pile more dirt on her grave
If you can’t find your inner poet
or the painter unafraid to use red
You can always find one willing
to help you find it in their bed
And there may be value in this trail
however tangled dark and faint
For you can sometimes find out where
something is just by finding where it ain’t
BUKOWSKI GOES POSTAL
BUKOWSKI GOES POSTAL
After fifteen years of sorting mail
sorting mail and carrying mail
Bukowski finally snaps
Leaves the UZI at home
mows them down with a novel
FOR CHARLES BUKOWSKI
“Bukowski, in his grave, dead as hell
reaching for one last beer, and almost making it.”
Al Purdy?
A childhood so warped it could have led
to mass murder or a Bush cabinet post
leads only to alcohol, poetry
and mass appeal
TROUBLE IN PARADISE
TROUBLE IN PARADISE
(Memorial for Alfred Huffstickler)
You were reading
at the Northwest Austin Borders
Lines I remember went something like this
“She wanted me to say forever, and so I
thought, why not, I have said forever so
many times before”
But now dear Huff, not that you have
stepped into forever
What will you say to all of them now
THE BUSMAN’S HOLIDAY
THE BUSMAN’S HOLIDAY
I think I’ve done it now
run out of places to hide
painted myself into a corner
surrounded on every side
For like every pilot
that ever learned to fly
I’ve got to help the captain
whenever I’m in the sky
All my time of thumbing
and a haulin heavy loads
links me with the Gypsies
that I meet along the roads
And if I look from side to side
at the lands along the way
why the farmer and the rancher
still within me want their say
Whenever I get to stop to rest
at any sweet Inn along the way
the years I’ve spent in running one
with constant detail mark my stay
And now I’m studying psychology
and the hidden parts of you and me
and prevalidation and master talk
and how one ought to walk one’s walk
Capped with the writers joy and chore
of finding a metaphor behind each door
ACT YOUR AGE
ACT YOUR AGE
I might have heard it first at six
when mother thought that I was acting three
And again at ten when acting six or three
certainly at sixteen, acting ten, or six, or three
There is the age that I am now
known as the age of responsible men
But there are those who know it’s just an act
the me’s of three and six and ten
THE NEW POETRY MOVEMENT
THE NEW POETRY MOVEMENT
Full Full Full
Pain Pain Pain
Pushing Pushing Pushing
You’ve done it
Good boy! Good boy!
No you don’t have to show it to daddy
or mommy, or me
Oh no
No, don’t play in it
Ah jeez, what a mess
FAIR BALL
FAIR BALL
So what
if my father
only came out once
to watch me play baseball
He was a busy man
I caught a hard line drive