Fifth Position

I’ll dance lightly on tepid glass

with you melted fifth position.

Your arms long, smooth, as gilded wings

I’ll slight embrace your poise sun.

A phoenix ray of squint ballet

you warmed the cold solstice

that hung briefly upon the air.

A mid- winter’s preface.

A ballad form for One Stop Poetry

Chosen

 

Like a gum wrapper or a pop can

tossed out of the window,

so some children are broadcast like

unwanted seeds along the roadside.

They take root where ever they

can burrow in to be counted among

the unnoticed weeds.

They find ways to push toward

the light to receive wandering drops of love.

They crowd and pull and reach

to prove they are the fittest.

To them hope is undefined and

longing an unreachable ray…

Until they hear…”Stop the car!

look at those flowers!”

They look around and feel

like just another weed.

Unaware of the pedals of worth

and stems which had risen above

the gravel in which they were broken,

they breeze bend toward the voices.

I imagine many of us have been there

in one form or another.

We took it a little too seriously when

someone would tell us we were growing

like weeds or some other 

definition of inattention.

We would unconsciously

self talk into doing more,

loving more, and dispense colorful

persona’s to bring a portion

of attention.

Maybe then someone will notice us

among the unknown weeds.

Each seed, smooth and firm,

is broken within God’s mystery.

Where ever the breaking open occurs

it is always within sight of the

Master Gardener.

The light which might scorch

brings baking temps.

The water which might drown

brings moisture to earthly potential.

We, apprentices all,

learn to tend the soil.

We aerate, till, and water.

We pluck, trim, and prune.

Then, sometimes, we transplant

from a roadside to our garden.

We hold on to their unfurled

pedal of hope

until the soil that came with

them is no more.

We long for them when, to them,

longing only brings a withering

pain of despair.

Hope and longing are

fertilizing the soil

while love pours over them.

This was written a while ago for some friends on the day they adopted Malachi and Mercedes and submitted to RAP in the High Callings Blog Network    

Peace, Be Still

I saw that you paced yourself

and that graced disclosure

of your ingrained past

rose

I wondered where your shadows

would lie pared from

your impressive

gait

I didn’t care what formed you

that hourglass figure

trickled sand in foot shaped

cairns

and I prayed for the winds

to be still

so I can trace your

steps

Photo by Iquanyin Moon, the guest photographer at One Shoot Sunday

Bad Ire Day...for FFF....join the crew today! It's a hoot.

Don’t take that poetic tone with me!

Put that metaphor down and back away slowly.

A little less alliteration, leave letters lie.

About those similes, they are like, like, like…identical twins.

Don’t talk to me in meters and rhyme,

I’m not in the mood, out of time.

Give it straight,

because I have a headache.

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.

Assumption

Now there’s a woman that might understand me.

Let me see if this does anything for me.

She re-inhales it like Ottoman incense.  Eyes closed.

I still like the smell before it is lit.

There’s an exquisite juggler of wine, Cubana and the mystical fog

between them.

This isn’t working for me.  I give.

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.

She Was She Is

Pain was amongst the close circle of friends

for she would visit with suffering faithfully

for 20 years.

Each prick and poke a tiny sting of death.

Each stay wondering maybe if her address

would change.

For each suction of life from her

a greater breath for life would exhale.

Those reactions spiritually, physically

would often mock the nerve ending

throbs and sandpaper edges.

Faith would often trump understanding

and mercies new with each sunrise

would reflect off her soul.

This is the first year of wiped tears

and dissolved sorrows and

understanding that trumps faith.

This is the first year of seeing

the One who took the sting out of death.

She knew more intimately his suffering.

She didn’t need to poke her

fingers into his wrist.

She put her hand in His.

In memory of Laurel Barrett’s Ultimate healing one year ago today.

Arch Lines

we kissed beneath the

arch of who we thought

we were

just two kids

plain as notebook paper

line upon line

our stories told

as our shadows

settled under us

Photo by Katherine Forbes our featured photogragher for One Shoot Sunday.

Sure, a picture is worth a thousand words, but can you spare a few and link up some of yours?

Do The Math...She Did

one drinking mother

two incapable parents

plus inattention

multiplied by abuse

equals one

minus one corpus callosum

plus several seizures

add one shunt

and dozens times dozens

of social miscues

divided by wry smiles

plus one pure voice

of song

add two new parents

plus patience and hope

go on and you do the math

White Out

The white angels descend straight down

with their feet curled

toes to touch

the whipped cream.

And it seems.

Each one a sound catcher with

their wings as embroidered

doilies buffering heaven

from earth.

And it seems.

They touch down

and interlock into a mass of

communal insignificance

spread out like powdered sugar.

And it seems that

this insulated pane with

its broken seal inhales

the yard like old man

winter smoking his pipe

and the snow piles

up between the pains...

and it seams.

Caffeine Nation

There is a sound that needs to be identified with a word.

The sound that lifts from

A mug as a wave of

Seattle blend curves and

rides the walls until it

flattens around a rim.

The low tones that ride an

octave like an aria.

It’s a clarion call to

fold back a newspaper.

It’s music that sets up

an anticipation of deep

lyrics of a conversation.

It’s a chorus that arrives with

A smiling waitress singing,

“Here you go…need cream?”

There must be a word,

some sniglet that would

do it justice.

Arise, O caffeine nation,

and put a word to that

wonderful sound that spews

from a cup like waves

above an orchestra pit.

Thanks for stopping by.  Why not grab another cup-a-joe and visit some other poets at One Shot Wednesday....?  

My Own Meme...Me Me

It was an accident, seriously.

I was trying to follow poetic heart

from my follower list.

I am now following my own blog.

A Freudian slip, click, and now

there I am looking at my forlorn

image in the followers.

Geez, I know many artists

have a narcissistic bent and

self- absorption is as natural

as bran flakes and organic carrots.

But I really didn’t intend this…

did I?

Now, because of my technical

immaturity I can’t figure out

how to unfollow me, seriously.

I’m like a politician voting for myself.

I’m like a poker player with the ace

of spades up my sleeve.

I am my own critic’s corner.

Sheesh.

Forgiving Stains

Don't walk away in the angry light
of dissolution.
Differences happen.
Give deference a chance
to curve the light into
a spectrum of grace.
Please stop and turn to
me and let's stand
in the charcoal base
of who we are.
Maybe then the passion
red as blood fruit
will spill on us.

Orange Glow

He wore an orange ski mask
slits for the eyes and mouth
as he rode his bike with a basket.

As I approached in the brown
truck he lifted a fist high
punching the sky

His way of saying hi.
I think I tossed him some
ten cent returns in the summer.

My fist raised.

Soul Saliva

the incense drifts under the incandescence

sometimes swirling like the Milky Way

and prayers are offered

audible words of faith and wonder

like spitting into a soup can

they hit and dribble down

I hear the echo in them

like the swirling of the Milky Way

they hang under the coherence

peering into the can I can

see evidence of a fainted

universe distilled in rings

then one voice in stillness

lay in a tin silo

standing  with a string dangling

and on the other end

a burning, a glow scented

of frankincense

and the smoke rises

and wanders while

I keep spitting prayers

PP

I was informed last night that the peers at school are applying their pressure.  My son recently went back to school after being home schooled for quite a while.  He has his quirks like everyone else.  Quirks accepted and\or ignored at home are now framed in a culture which is far beyond any sub-super-culture in existence.  So it starts.  He immediately spent his mowing money on an MP3 player.  Music to one’s ear has to be music in one’s ear. 

Then the earth’s gravitational pull begins to increase.  Like a chihuahua pulling on his belt-less pant legs they start their descent.  The pants, with no right to vote, are recalled to a lower position.  Then lower back dimples begin to rise like phantom eyes…like the fake eyes that spiders have tattooed on their backs to scare their predators.  Then what used to be unthinkable sears an image on the brain of any unsuspecting innocent…a line, shaded like a crease in a folded paper, begins to rise out of the depths.  A line of distinction, of definition, rises above the denim lattices which once were a covering.  Is it a sign that thousands of plumbers are in the making?  Will there be an increased need for “under the sink” repair for the gazillion baby boomers retired in their condos? 

I think not.

Had Your Back....For One Shot Wednesday...come on give it a shot.

When I was young I had your back              

by uneven steps on the sidewalk.

I’m sorry I stopped paying attention.

I had destinations.

I almost tripped over your broken back.

Then the dandelions pushed through

to see if I would look down.

I kicked the buds off their bases.

The cement was mine and I

didn’t notice the shin splints.

The wheels turned.

Skateboards and bicycles.

The bumps shot up my spine.

Then I got off the walk by

borrowing your car.

I left you by the side of the road.

I was center lined and selfish.

Things were said, better off dead.

Your broken back.

Your broken heart.

I’ve seen my kids stutter step

down the walk protecting

a spine of a mother kind.

When will they stop looking down?

Their mom wants them to look up…

to watch were they are going.

But I hope they look back

occasionally and see the curved

back they once protected.

For My Mother

OMG

I am almost fifty.  Does that entitle me to adorn a little prudishness from time to time?  I was up in the night and I got thinking about how often I see OMG in a day.  Especially since I FB, those letters line up, usually with an explanation mark tagged on.  Now you might be thinking…”Get off of it geezer, it’s common culture now, it’s our time now.”  Well, to those I say “Give me a minute to exercise my free speech right, and then I will get off of it.”

Listen, I have family members who use this acronym.  I have quizzed them on it. “It means ‘oh my goodness’ dad.”  I tried to explain to them that the general public won’t interpret it that way.   The real thing is the general public doesn’t give it a second thought.  If it means “oh my goodness” do visions of Shirley Temple with pursed lips enter from stage left in our mind?  …only if we are over 65. I remember years ago making a delivery to a receptionist.  She was on the phone and said to her friend “Oh my gall”. Oh my gall? Really?  It sounded stupid to me at the time but at least this young lady had thought about God as another person perhaps.  By the way, this was 20 years ago.

Oh, I can hear it now, “here comes the judge, it’s time to right click outta this.”  That is God’s gift to you, the freedom to choose. 

Hey, I am a follower of Christ and I believe that God exists.  Because that belief exists I have reason to believe that I can talk to God.  I have talked to God on many occasions.  There are many times I know it would have been good to talk to God.  When I watch Extreme Home Makeover(I happen to really love that show btw.)and they MOVE THAT BUS, almost without a hitch OMG comes out.  Are they really referring to the God who exists and is personal to them?  Please excuse me, but wouldn’t “holy shit” be a better expression.  What?  Did I shock you?  At least a feces doesn’t have a personality.  Oh, that’s right, that word is not allowed on network T.V.  Please understand that given the situation, expressions and emotions would gush out of my wife and me if our house was leveled and a dream house took its place.  When overwhelming situations surprise us often what we say out of our mouths is a default system of where we are in our life.  Why, just yesterday, I was told an old friend that I hadn’t seen in 15 years or so was right up the road.  “Holy shit” came out of my mouth…I immediately covered my mouth in the present company.  

Now listen, all you OMG-ers, I am about to get off of this o.k.?  You can respond with a dissertation on HS.  I am just thinking that when it comes to using the name God, give God a second thought.  In the mean time I will wonder a bit about the words that come out of my mouth.  I will talk to God about them too.  Oh my God, show me the way.

Minus One

She strolls past like a mist
an apparition that no one sees
a quiet dance is all longing

splinters from the boardwalk
a reminder that a wedding
dance with her father
are only little slivers of
pain of the loss

this should have been
the happiest day
but now it is happiness
minus one