Scattered

torn in a tattered
back seat,
spread like confetti
at midnight,
littering the sidewalk
outside a Cafe. 

swept from hospital
floors,

clinging to thresholds
of freshman dorms,

among old
photos

just some of the places
where
I have left
the pieces
of my heart

a quadrille for dverse

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Lifespan

The summer days burn more each day,
steam rises from doused pavement,
sudden storms flair and fade,
evening exhales a calm breeze.

Steam rises from doused pavement
heat shimmers and swirls
passion rises with the mercury.

Sudden storms flair and fade,
emotions flash and roar
then memories on the horizon.

Evening exhales a calm breeze,
comfort in the twilight,
clear skies and peace

The Longing of a Drunken Poet

February mist shrouds the top of the pines
while the frost retreats before the advancing dawn,
leaving wisps of steam swirling like the smoke of a pre-dawn battlefield.
A hint of warmth assures a coming change
of season
with renewal and growth and fresh outlooks,
optimistic rhetoric of prosperity
and better times.
But the turn will bring storms
and stifling heat,
and a pining for the season to change again.

There was a time when drunken poets
were revered
and tyrants and politicians reviled.

When you sit by the fire at night,
staring into its depth as you 
take in its warmth,
you can hear history. 
Within the crackle, hisses, sighs and whistles 
there is creation and growth and brilliance, along with the firestorm 
of war and embers of destruction. 
It breathes with lust and cries
the mourning wail of the consumed.

There was a time when drunken poets
were revered
and tyrants and politicians reviled.

The whiskey is smooth and calming,
full of promises. 
After the glow,
when the ice has watered down 
the bourbon and nothing
but a weak swill swirls
in the bottom of the glass…
only then is truth realized 
and the reality of tomorrow made clear.

I long for a time
when drunken poets were revered

Anonymous

I found out today the custodian
for our office
had passed away.

We often exchanged pleasantries
when passing in the hall,
she always had a smile.

I never did learn her name,
or where to send
the flowers.

In dark Corners…waiting For dawn

sometimes…..you miss the

……………………………madnesS

……………….It becomes more of a hunger

than an urge

you listen Close to silence,

study it’s …………………………………movement

follow the slow
……………………………daRk
…………………………………….trails
………………………………………………of its path

you Shout often

revEl in the boundless ………….power

of an unrestrAined wind

…………………………hold close the sound of

………….whispers.

Memory is a gritty irritant

…………….like sand in your

………………………eye…..

Exchanging Babies in Parking Lots

They park out by the road
on the edge of the gas station
parking lot,
or sometimes the grocery store
or a church.
Probably not the one they attend,
but still, a church.

They move bundles and bags
between cars,
the necessities of a young life:
diaper bag, change(s) of clothes,
formula, toys, pacifiers, blankets.
The content changes with age,
the concept stays the same;
transient growth, multiple caregivers.

Often it is a young mom
handing off to her mother,
who gladly accepts
another round of raising babies,
even though she is supposed to be past
that time of her life.

Other times it is the parents,
a couple’s love abandoned,
a child to nurture.
He listens to instructions,
attempting patience with
words he has heard before.
She wrings her hands often.

Grandma always leaves slowly,
cautious with precious cargo,
dad is quicker, with something to prove.
Mom tends to wait a while,
only leaving when they are
out of sight.

I Resolve … Not A Damn Thing

This concept of a magic reset switch
which flips with a calendar page
baffles me.

Come January first will we be…better?
Will we hate less, love more?

Shall we develop empathy overnight,
or an ability to listen to — much less
understand — the words of an adversary?

Perhaps we should resolve less,
and do more.

 

A Friday Flash 55

Moving Day

My son moved out today…

He packed the clothes he would need,
the books he wanted near,
his favorite mementos,
and said goodbye to his dog.

He hugged his sister, his mother,
and me,
setting his sights on new chapters and grand
adventures,
excited by the anticipation
of great things to come.

While we are not sure what to do,
other than pet the dog
and avoid the empty room
at the end of the hall.

Warhol Questions

I wonder if Jacqueline appreciated 

the seriousness of Andy’s study

of JFK’s assassination, or his 

portrayal of her life afterward?

Did Mao find the humor

in his cartoonish caricature?

Would Marilyn be secure enough 

to understand no amount of screen-

printed color could hide the glamour?

Is Campbell’s appreciative of the massive

amounts of free advertising?

Did Valerie know her bullets would alter

the tone-focus-mood of the art

as much as they altered the body

of the artist?

Expectations & Disillusionment in 17 Syllables

Today
another’s heart

disappointed

at least
the sunset
was nice