Holler

It is painful to think of the relativity

of the girls and the boys and the farm

the rider in the night with the red cloak

heading into the belly of the wolf

It is painful to think of the mystery

wrapped up in the veil

It is painful to think of the teepee

folded in the rain

It is painful to know that it's over

caught in the wind

like a holler

Slow Regrowth

I enjoyed walking by the lake and eating the sand.

I drank water from my hand,

and it tasted like the blood of restitution and slow regrowth.

Hands & Hair

My fingers have bones 

they are there, underneath the skin

My wrist has a rubber band around it

It's a black elastic thing, and it's worn out 

so that part of it is thin, and part of it is thick

I have it wrapped three times around my hair

which is long and greasy today

I had it dyed over six months ago

by a lady who whispered, "You're gonna jam" in my ear as she was looming over me

and she left the color in too long 

and my hair and bathtub was purple for days

and I sat under the dryer

my locks getting singed off and when she blew dry it

I didn't have my glasses on 

and I couldn't tell how bad it was

until days later

It's growing out now

and I keep it tied up

tiny tweaks of grey are all on my forehead

like tin soldiers

standing guard

about to storm my forehead to remind me of age

I don't care much really

and I rather like my hands

with their slightly weathered look.

Notes: written after reading "A Small Place"

Big Brown Shoes

The angel played the zither way up high

caught up in the plaster 

stuck there for all time

The nuns walked slowly by in big brown shoes

with soles as heavy as their babyless hearts

draped in the blond sunshine

of almond-shaped eyes

the angels continued to play their songs

Far away in the fields

a small boy with rough hair and hands

picked up the flute

made of bone

and with his shawl of animal hide

began to blow

The zephyrs swarmed in like a herd of rushing bulls

crashing through the parlor

of the forest

Artemis winked

and advised

that no one

challenge anyone to a contest

Yet in the wings there slaved an artist

intent on his oils and bathed in rabbit skin glue

in the bathtub of alchemy

rubbing gold into a pan

and smattering the light

Notes: Written after reading Vasari

A Poem for the Snow

The daily act of writing a poem,

how dare I think I have outgrown

myself 

when I am just a wandering child in the wilderness

bare feet in the snow

fox tracks 

picked up and sifted

as the whiteout blows

tiny arms of sinewy stems

pierce the air

with their 

ambition

War

All the war in the world has it always been there

never leaving always burning

like a fire in the core of man

Wise old women and wise old men

say this too shall pass

where there is shadow the sky looms

black with smoke 

When will the sun shine on the wheat fields

women weeping faces buried in their shawls

they had to bury their sister and her husband like dogs

The pain in the heart is insurmountable

like an ocean wave tidal and tsunami

How can we live with ourselves

humans

how can we turn away

Those of us that raise questions

Those of us that raise fists

Those of us that raise flags

what is it all for

the devil of War

is deaf to reason

Oar

The summertime of indecision is upon us.

We must cast our fate to the wind,

and put our oar into the water.

The Deep Waters

I started thinking back on the many years gone by

and flocks of seagulls swooping and screeching

I thought of sitting in the bleachers way up high

and standing on the dock thinking of leaping

The water is cold this time of year, it's never a good idea to swim

in the deep waters where you've been

Fear

How can it be hard to write a poem?

Perhaps I am afraid of what I'll say.

Instead

Instead of writing a poem today, I'm going to read some Keats.

Instead of worrying I am going to smile.

Instead of going out into the snow I will stay where it's warm, drink Red Raspberry tea and talk to my sister about the ways of things.

Music is a mystery.

The sound of a small violin permeates the void.

The pipes haven't frozen because I left the faucets dripping:

the snare drum of my sink

trading fours with 

my bathtub percussionist.

Instead of misery I will handle mercy,

dance it through my fingers like change in my pocket

before the washing machine eats it all.

Ode to 'The'

The mystery of mastery past through me time will tell

The golden seashells line the inside of my wishing well

The yearning for the years that drifted across the summer sky

The raspberries in the jar 

The curtains draping 

The mirror bending

The flowers bloom.

Dimensional Travel 1007

I'll take you to another dimension

through a dark alley and a hole in the wall

a ray of light which a rat chewed

a grain of sand

would fall through

to a supernova of gushing radiation

tipped back at an angle

a hypotenuse to the sun

flailing arms and

toppled bodies

we run

summertime solstice

toward the moon

suddenly we are in a pool

of dark water

reflection of the moon upon its surface where we brush our hands across it

and bring them to our mouths to drink

but it tastes like champagne instead

and suddenly we are at a jazz club

on New Year's Eve

and the woman is wearing sequins

and we are deaf

Water

Water is a gift of the earth dripping

from the rocks and the cliffs in the jungle

the animal bends down and cups his hands

liquid quenches his thirst 

like hunger

he throws it into his fists

Plastic

I often start a poem or song with the word plastic.

It's not that I like plastic.

It's that it's everywhere.

And it rolls off the tongue with an open ended mouth:

plaaaaaahstic

Then, it ends with a resounding tic

it's kind of a percussive word,

plastic.