Olive Branch Cem.

down dirt and gravel
heavy cloud of dust
dissipates in the wind
a field of stones rises
from the dip in the
wide thirsty stretch

abandoned to hellfire
summers and temps
close to what the
preachers tried to sell,
she lays in her box
for time continuum

she never was one to
sit and twiddle thumbs
there was too little time
to ponder, savor or rhyme
yet now time is her
only possession here

under the swaying grass
and passing leaps of deer
as fast as the Model A
her foot used to floor
down dirt and gravel
with a heavy cloud of dust

her neighbors in their own
the boxes marked by stone
with lives of constant change
starting with a crying birth
ending in the weeping earth
more laughter than the pain

the constant was the change
the storms with their wind
that stole away her soul
in a dark thunderous night
she now joins the chorus
that whispers in the wind:

"Here I'll stay and roots I'll be.

You go on and be the tree."

Your arms

your breath
the lullaby
good night
sweet dreams

your chest
the tide
ebb and flow
the lullaby

your arms
the warmth
melting pain
draining fret

your life
the tide
ebb and flow
through your arms

your heart
the drum
beating fast
idles slow

your arms
the tree
catches me
holding us

your words
the net
cast to sea
from the tide

your arms
the last
flowing tide
holding us

What ducks will say

shovelful after shovelful
to clear the patio and the pit
and the question mark back
remains after shaking snow
and ice from the iron cage

behavior of an older age
an age once I will be soon
where I can take the time
to ponder over such things
and look back at where I am

for now, paper is torn
to strips and laid over sticks
in the concave metal disc
as remaining snow waits
to melt and boil and fade

little flames flicker with
the striking of a match
and the wind whistles
through the paper tunnels
its love song for fire

the box of junk mail slowly
empties into the growing
heat and smoke, the pair
a paparazzi who will not
stay out of my face and breath

in avoiding their constant
attention, I look up and find
a scrambled flock of ducks
who sound of loose belts
on old cars speeding on by

their flight reminds me
to pause from my endeavor
to find more than feeding
a fire is happening in this
moment I choose to live

that I should stop and
see the ash from the flames
and how the winds scatter
black bits across the snow
in this small scaled backyard

to remember a larger scale
of the world I choose to
live in, the darkening snow
of a thawing sea, something
more to fight a war over

but I am only burning
the mail I didn't want so
I can clean the office for now
and go on with the day
I choose to live in now

Momentary mountains

reflections lay gleaming
and tired on the ground
where weathered stone
cups the light of the lingering day


remnants of the torrent
tearing through the skies
lay in a now silent eve
unmoving silk draped over stone


reservoirs from broken heat
are libations of miller moths
when suddenly the sun sinks
behind the horizon's momentary mountains

Eye sickles

it's the clouds
that keep the fangs around
the crystal clear
slowly dripping to the ground

some so sharp and thin
to pierce the heart,
to tear the skin

above the doors
the clouds keep them around
pointed daggers
slowly dripping to the ground

as angel wings hide the sun
they scoff in their
teetering possible fun

of when one might
decide not to stay around
and surrender the
slowly dripping to the ground

to collide with someone's head
to cause mischief,
surprise, and pain instead

that surely is why
the clouds keep them around
in their agonizing
slowly dripping to the ground

as angels hide the sun so well
I'd tell them all
to go straight to hell

for playing the odds
in keeping them around
and savoring  the
slowly dripping to the ground

Palm reading

Napping

savor of solace found

in the last breath before sleep

the forgotten image in

front of the heavy eyelids

the tiny bit of muffled

sound lingering on earlobes

before slipping into the

inevitable and unknown

 

and not knowing digs

down into depths of souls

with thirsty tyrannical roots

 

be it the first nap of a babe

the initial night terror

with the call of a banshee

tearing through the halls

to snap a parent out of bed

the tyrannical roots have

scattered their spores

throughout man's psyche

 

and not knowing infiltrates

the borders where now

no guard has their post

 

though it has been habit

day in and out, sun up and down

to slip into that other state

left behind our daily clothes

and stark we run through

the glare of both moon and stars

and dance on spider threads

dripping with the cold wake

of the next routine and hours

 

and not knowing simmers

on the back burner of brains

idle yet scheming yet biding

 

following the rabbit through

this habit of falling again and

again into the abysmal sea

where we don't see but feel

don't feel but sense as we

are the incense that burns away

a scent that fades from the air

to drift and wander off somewhere

 

and not knowing turns cold

when the idea of death dies

giving way to sleeping, then waking

New? year

Ben's hands fold

to pray for another day

one anew too

in another time

but the old lame slime

cheers a cup of cheer

raise a glass for the new year

blah blah Auld Lang Syne

still the old lame slime

a wash for numeral digits

scrub those zeros, ones, twos

shiny new sixes in time

lingering the old lame slime

predict all those accordingly

what's in store well ahead

for sure the perfect chime

one of the old lame slime

but Ben's hands grasp tight

and pray up over head

to hope so well

for a different climb

away from the old lame slime

Sacred night

a sacred night to eye the sky
to look above into the past
the lights they reach through the dark
signals from the very start

a gaze upon our eternity
the endless dark waves of the sea
the waters glisten within the stars
on this sea our dreams depart

to set sail across the sky
drifting to find their right place in time
reaching their destination as a gift
but for now our dreams must drift

In the box?

what be it in the box? 
albeit a strange looking box
all wrapped up in papers that glitter
golds, reds, and greens of autumn litter
what be it in the box?
can't wait to see

what be it in the sox?
albeit rather long red sox
all hung precariously next to the flame
if they burnt up it would be such a shame
can't contain myself in this waiting game
what be it in the sox?
pour them out already

what be it in the sleigh?
albeit an odd place for a sleigh
up on the peak of our icy cold roof
to keep it so high to be so aloof
why all the secrets, enough is enoof
what be it in the sleigh?
oh please here my plea

what be it in the bag?
albeit a stupendously big bag
hurled over the shoulder of the jolly guy
jelly for a belly, ho ho ho is his cry
as he hops into the sleigh and away to fly
my questions vanish with him into the night sky
what be it in the bag?
somebody answer me