>The Birds

>

The window was open a bit,
like parted lips, and from its
mouth came songs to interrupt
my dreams.
It was more than interruption.
It was an integration of
of mixed language and trills
and dreamscape.
As if Hitchcock put sub-titles
underneath their chirps and
squawks and whistles and
a foreign film rolled on.
The robins and the grackles
sub-titles started wriggling
under them like worms
in the dirt.
 
“You know Grack, why is it
we have wings and we are
sent to the soil to get
breakfast?”
“I have, I’ve, I’ve, I’ve
gotten that conversation
 reeling in my brain too.
Robin, oh, if I were a bird
I would fly away from here.”
“Sometimes I pretend I am
a rabbit…hopping down here
from worm hole to worm
hole.”
“ I I I feel the earth move
under my my my feet, I
feel the sky tumbling down,
a tumbling down.”
“Hey, get real, that’s
groceries you’re hoppin’
past friend.  Let’s see a
little neck action over there!”
“Now, now, don’t you you you
get a little feather bent over
feeding your little ones
second hand goods.  I mean
worms are are are gross
enough the first time.”
“Not the huge earth worms,
hey watch this…”
It was then I started to wake
when I saw the big
orange breast dip and
yank an earth worm like
scarves from a sleeve.
Pulling and pulling and
pulling a gewy dirt soil
freckled beast and sucked
it in like linguini.  The robin
stood among the blades
perfectly still for 13 seconds
and then cast the worm
out. 
And there it lay, divided in
three equal sections
by square knots.
The robin said nothing,
jutted out it’s chest
and nodded and
ascended like a
harrier for a moment,
and then flew away.
The grackle stood 
with its beak hanging open.
“Well,  I’ll, I’ll, I’ll be.”


Posted for one shot where poets do their poeting.

>Springing From a White Out Dream

>

White out has covered

the sleds left out,
the junk pile behind the fence,
the fire pit,
the holes dug by the dog,
the I.E.D.’s (insensitive excrement drops) by said dog.
the trampoline,

the picnic table,

the dormant garden.

Does this mean I can declare a do-over?

When it melts will
clandestine errors be erased?
When comes the spring will
a rolling hill support Julie Andrews
and her guitar?
When the shaving cream is scraped will
Arnold Palmer claim our
greens as his own?
When spring flowers rise
will Martha Stewart
pull out of K-mart?
When the snow angels
fly back to their perches
will I look upon an English
garden which will inspire
poetic trances?
When a foot of snow
shrinks down to a bootie
and beyond will
I sway in hammock
 

nodding off slightly

above pristine nuances
of botanical gardens?
The white blanket lays
like a dream
a dream that
I have of my back yard.

>I Don’t Know

>

“I don’t know.”
 A non answer weakly dispersed from his mouth after minutes of pursed lipped wonder. 
One of many simple questions laid to rest under his crossed arms.
Ten white knuckles throbbing, two fists hang by his hips.
I thought to myself, “I don’t know either.”
I don’t know why he came under the crossed arms of his parents.
I don’t know why they put a hole in the wall with his head.
I don’t know why sex was so polluted for him.
I don’t know why they let him fend for himself.
and I don’t know why our arms are thrown up and leaving him to fend for himself.
I don’t know why he can’t ask or consider help.
I don’t know why the base instincts are intact and the self control unweaves all the time.
I don’t know why neuron highways are littered with trash and bridges are out and dyslexic signs confuse and diffuse any semblance of order.
I just don’t know.  Though I welcome mystery often, this mystery I would rather not know.  I would rather answer the question positively…”I know.”
Is there a way to reach in and put things back in order for him?
Is there time to protect what seems to be inevitable?
Can I put on a big red S and blue tights and white out some of the history?
Can I say underlined “Only nothing is impossible” like Clark Kent said.
So now he enters the ark alone.  No family.  No friends.  No thing.
He just called and wanted to come home. 
Only fourteen hours ago he spewed disrespect and denounced this family…
And now he wants to come home.
What kind of a home is he looking for?
A home that succumbs to his narcissism?
A family that plays into his manipulation?
A place which honors lies? 
How far does love go with a broken soul?
Love is patient but…
Love is kind but…
Love never fails…but…
I don’t know.

>Sniffle

>

A foggy head
laying low in a foggy heart.
A ragged start.
A sinus silo
filling in with pressure grain.
What a pain.
Little I think
above the mucus descent.
My thoughts are bent.
A nasal muse
a mist to be sprayed.
How I prayed.
I saw my dad with a Kleenex
hanging from the right side of
his nose.
Time froze
as I remembered him saying
hello with the dangling
participle waving in the wind.
I guess it is better than
watching a drop form on
the tip of his facial protrusion.
I’ve watched that too.
His leaky facial fawcet
running up a bill.
I wanted to tighten his ear
to dam up the trickle.
Lefty loosey righty tighty.
I suppose the muse cut through
the mucus today

and I am on my way.

>Long Shadows

>

As Elton said
 “don’t let the sun go down.”
Last night as it rested briefly
 on a grove of trees
a melancholy hit me in the
eyes right below the visor.
If only I could hold it up with a tripod of candy canes.
I like the feel of shadows rolling out like cookie dough.
I wanted to pull the truck over
and grab garbage can lids
and old pie tins
and child shaped
cutters
and
have at it.
Cookie cut my
children out of the
silhouette of my truck.
All those evenings out
helping Santa git er done.
I missed many winking suns
with the children. 
So now you golden sphere
I ask you for a continuance.
Please, just ‘til I get them cut
out and laid within
the light of my heart.

>A New Day

>

A New Day
How many have written of a sunrise?
The darkness pealed slowly like an orange.
A dimmer switch pushed up by God.
Then light sweeps the horizon and
overflows its banks.
The silhouettes shed layer after layer.
Shadows stretch, yawn, and stick.
It dawns on me.
This day I will stand in the light
and watch the shadow turn around me.
The silhouette lays on the ground
as an evidence  that my
life is transient.
That transience casts a shadow
this new day.
The sun’s up and I won’t spend
this day chasing shadows.
I will walk in the light.