Daily Poetry & Prose

Laughter is the silk that touches hands woven with the flair of fairy wings caressed by cartographers with no plans to map the throat before we start to sing Falling on each other like the rain splashing in the gratefulness of glee winding in our rivers and our flames shooting up like branches on a tree Graceful buds blooming in the sun flowers with colors bright and gay shaking with our spines until we're done and we begin dreaming again 

Guided by the gilded cage, the yellow canary in the cafe Denied trial by the police, sitting in a prison of penmanship Poet with a tilted hat, black skin, earth in each line Fixed the face of the mechanic, frantic with panic strumming the magic mandolin  erasing the tragic pendulum swinging like a trapeze in a big band Lord, have, mercy, she's going to  jump.

Forgiveness is a hoax a snake in a box Gravity and the smell of the river Feet touching the earth Never revealed  in mixed company her heart in her bones the rocking chair moans Purple is a mood salt shaker in her hands the iris growing wide as I see through my own lies the swinging screen door the old car rusted through the pill box is empty the pit bull we pet on the chain sit silent old movie raptured in teeth quit delaying the quiet drum beat

The dog-eared leaves wilting on the trees it's a cold spring day and they need water while the breeze off the lake picks up and the sunlight rises like a python out of a basket snake eyes hypnotize me for a moment before I zip my coat. The whirring sound mixing with the engine of the diesel garbage truck and its big clanking noises which eclipse the softer shades of brown on the bark as the wind shuffles the branches quietly like a tired dealer shuffling the deck at the eerie casino.

Fog covers the night  All the streetlights look like moons The cab leans to the right  We are on Lake Shore Drive  The driver and me he is on the phone  His voice is deep  I close my eyes

            The charts are tipping over                                    from                                    aLL the Lines  the quadrants full of aXis            flippant and fiddling                    razors sharp with wit                         According to the newscasters the data is in...                                                                                     up.            ...

Run rabbits run Eaten by the wolf, for he is hungry... The dill pickle criminal sick and subliminal Tuned to remedial, punked on residuals The hot dog of omnipresent despair pays her bills, takes her pills, roars like a lion  sign on the dotted line, and run up the hill  the garden is full of perennials the menial laborers weeding on their knees picking up the tiny, invisible, scattered seeds The soul of the soil: stones, minerals and trees These days, we are so busy as society... redefining what it means to be a thief. We love to point our fingers like the branches of a snarled tree growling like the wolf justified to the teeth but have yet to master the random art of the wildflower  blowing in the wind silently colorfully amongst the weeds. Read this poem up from the bottom.

I like to hear the coffee grinder whir as the galloping beans disappear into a cup of chocolate sawdust. My clothes iron makes a sound like a whistle when it's hot. The steam is singing. The shower faucet, as it spins, eeks and gawks, like a ghoul in the wall tapping drunk morse code. When I was little, the bathtub faucet made a super satisfying KONK with overtones when the water was shut off.

The beige bricks and the canyon side have the earth in common, yet a journey stands between them. The East window is sky-blue with scattered clouds simply due to a reflection. We are full of the sky if we let ourselves be a mirror. We can build if we allow the rocks within us to be excavated, crushed, stirred, formed into cubes, dried, stacked, aligned, slathered with mortar, and bit by bit we are raised. What a long journey we have when we choose to be a brick, compared to when we choose to be a window. There is something rather satisfying though, about baking in the sun. And glass, well it's far too fragile to bear some travels. When the rain comes, it bounces off the glass, running down in like little rivers, where I trace my finger. The brick wall, I hardly notice, as it soaks in the rain as it runs down the gutters into the alley.

Shortcuts are more than tempting they are addictive With technology they are also abundant But just like she said to sell the shadow to support the substance content sure makes you look busy to your "boss" or whoever you think is watching nowadays it's Big Brother and Little Woke Sister they're all onya waiting to pickyapart and cancelya. or worse, SOB! ignore you. So you better post, boy you better post.

 I've got a mission today. The thought of putting the cat in the carrier makes me so nervous I'm about to jump out of my skin. When my sister and I tried before, the cat escaped, with a great deal of drama and screaming. Truly, there is something to the saying of letting the cat out of the bag. However, I have a strategy. Chicken soft gluten free treats. They only cost $15.99, which is a lot of money for cat treats, but, if they get the cat into the carrier, so be it. I imagine it will be like if someone put me in a box and gave me Cheeseburgers.  Let's see how this goes. I love cat sitting and the cat's name is Kavetch, which I heard means something like "bitching" in another language. He's been here a week. His fur and dander is in my nose, but it's incredible to have another heartbeat here. His pink and black nose, and his attitude, please me. I can't expect the cat to not be a cat, and I can't expect humans to not be humans. Cats need to be...

I walked out in the sunlight reflecting on the blacktop to wait to meet my friend who is bringing me incense. When he and I talked, he also gave me sweets wrapped up in brown paper. The sunlight and the cool air makes this memory, along with the smell of the incense and him telling me to put tinfoil on it so it doesn't burn too much and to create just enough of a mood while I am playing guitar or chilling out. When I light the incense I will imagine the sunlight again sifting through the trees and the cool breeze. Thoughtfulness is the memory, incense is just a smell to remove the everyday and lift us to the divine. What is more than divine  than the Earth, Heaven? I am way too simple to know.

I had an odd thought today that poems are not meant to be my own point of view but an expression, a proof, a mission, an attempt to put my own language on an altar and to prove the worth and beauty of my language to the world. This counteracts everything. No expression, no story, no vibe, no juice. My car doesn't matter, just the road. Looking at the road out the window, is one language more beautiful than any other inherently or is it the ideas expressed  which are lovely? Image source: https://www.lonelyplanet.com/articles/california-hwy-395-road-trip A road trip along California’s Hwy 395 from Lake Tahoe to Death Valley will take your breath away © Mark Read / Lonely Planet

In the early morning outside I  passed the girl on the sidewalk  Her covered with a face mask Hunched over like the hunchback Notre Dame I waltzing by in running shoes  With holes in the toes Motivated for a morning walk  Ready for whatever comes my way  She was more concerned about preventing  Illness And I was more concerned about  Capturing health  Chasing it  Even