Archive for April, 2017

“Epilogue”

Apr 26 2017 Published by under Uncategorized

This is one of the last two sonnets he wrote me, by the way.

 

“To the Cat God:

There comes a point, when art is false excuse.
I don’t think this is trite, but who am I?
There’s medicine, and then there’s drug abuse.
You quit me, but I couldn’t hear ‘Goodbye.’
I’m not that frightened rabbit, hollow-eyed,
who asked if he could hold your hand, and you
are not that little waif who bravely cried,
in ‘trouble,’ prick my thumbs and start anew.
Ten years, and a degree less wee deranged,
I don’t believe our beating hearts have changed.
Our ‘souls’ were never in or out estranged.
My love was neither chance nor prearranged.
Your shadow gave no reason or excuse.
Each in our turn, we ducked and slipped the noose.

Love,
Your ‘ex-’ ”

 

He’s keeping the other one a secret. I could see it, if I wanted, but I respect his boundaries.

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Smoke

Apr 20 2017 Published by under Poetry

Mist, the next morning,

quenches my hot, black ashes.

I’d announced, “I quit.”

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Caught

Apr 20 2017 Published by under Poetry

I catch my echo.

It cries above the tree frogs.

Again, it runs off.

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The War for Your Attention

Apr 18 2017 Published by under Poetry

It’s hard to hit the pupil of your eye
as visions thrust, and jerk, and reappear.
I’d steal a glance, askance, but who am I?
There’s how we look, then how we disappear.
I’m blown and busted on the war of tugs.
What good’s a pair? Why don’t you trade them in?
A six pack for a patent pair of “ughs”?
I placed my ad in verse, and signed it “Fin.”
My steely arsenal is on parade,
its edge, acute admission to my rage,
the kegs discharged, the bloody mess I’ve made,
precision pricks of light to pierce the page,
my total war, below and from above,
missiles of meaning, Molotovs of love.

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Epilogue

Apr 17 2017 Published by under Poetry

To the Cat God:

There comes a point, when art is false excuse.
I don’t think this is trite, but who am I?
There’s medicine, and then there’s drug abuse.
You quit me, but I couldn’t hear “Goodbye.”
I’m not that frightened rabbit, hollow-eyed,
who asked if he could hold your hand, and you
are not that little waif who bravely cried,
in “trouble,” prick my thumbs and start anew.
Ten years, and a degree less wee deranged,
I don’t believe our beating hearts have changed.
Our “souls” were never in or out estranged.
My love was neither chance nor prearranged.
Your shadow gave no reason or excuse.
Each in our turn, we ducked and slipped the noose.

Love,
Your “ex-”

No responses yet

For Angie

Apr 16 2017 Published by under Poetry

Before I could present a Christian gift
in small return for how you took us in,
you sat me at the head. Then, settings shift.
Your cooking starts before our yens begin.
A Christmas tree too great around to hug;
a star way up there higher than the clouds;
a hearth to snuggle little bugs in rugs;
your love’s a silent solstice prayer aloud.
The bunnies hop and wag their cotton tails,
(some cross the bridge,) to see you, every year.
The ease of love–the work the ease entails…!
You plant the seeds; the flowers all appear.
…Another Christmas, just in time for spring.
Please have my love; it’s all I had to bring.

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Untwist the Words

Apr 11 2017 Published by under Poetry

I know one thing about you. It’s enough.

You have a heart to just accept this word.

Sometimes it’s soft; the better parts are rough.

It’s less the voice, and more the way it’s heard.

“Shall I compare thee” to an April night?

The cruelest month, a rose shot through with fire?

Untwist the words, and bend them back aright:

In temperance, obscure, recall desire.

I don’t know if you wanna take this trip,

or drop a second blotter micro-dose.

The parts you can’t identify, you flip.

Did you hear, “Guten Tag,” or “Adios”?

I said it as it sounded in your ear:

“You’re wonderful,” but is my meaning clear?‚Äč

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The Need for Smoke

Apr 10 2017 Published by under Poetry

Where there’s a dire need for smoke, there’s fire.

When there’s a wish for death, a dream comes true.

What dreams may come, perchance sleepers expire,

to sleep, to burn, to bleed, at least I knew.

I don’t wish on my lucky stars to fly

to magic kingdoms, glades of nevermore.

I save my shooters for the rendered sky,

the salted earth, the stumble to the door.

I live here in this ditch, and God does, too.

At least, She visits, every time it rains.

We share a drink. She asks, but nothing’s new.

The same old Earth; the same old growing pains.

She comes because I’m lonesome, for a spell.

She’s lonesome, too, but I can never tell.

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