Dropped(a recycled poem)

I stumbled across a dropped call today.
I picked it up and wondered what dangling conversation
hung on its edges.
Upon scanning the area along the side of Almena road
I saw hundreds of fallen voices laying there.
I had stepped all over them like so many worms
On a rain soaked day.
The flattened words lay dead,
some hoping for a resurrection,
and some wishing they had never been said.
Idled words.
Loving words with their passion subtracted.
Crouching down, I started picking them up
like loose change on car mats.
I began to pile them my left palm.
They became a pyramid of nouns,
verbs, and adjectives grouted
together by prepositions.
Oh for a refrigerator to throw
these on so I can order them like a shell game.
Maybe there a chance I can put the sentences back together.
Maybe there’s hope to text the best words
with the purist of intentions to the expecting phones.
Maybe I can stand in the gap where the cell towers
wandered too far away from each other.
I do hate to see words lying beside the road.

Had to go to the matresses today...time has dwindled to write lately.  Peace to all who enter here.

Give Me A Bite Of That Apple

because I’m definitely outside the garden.

I’m out in the carb jungle and it shows.

Where can I buy fig leaves with spandex?

I know why A and E hid.

I know why I want to hide.

My pants don’t fit right, I mean,

I don’t mean to sag, that’s not how I

usually roll, but now I have a roll and

it sags and my buttocks are packing

their bags and heading northeast.

I used to have a button on my belly and

now there’s just a button hole.

I have to think about how I tie my shoes.

A short chair is best or

I come up with no air in my chest.

Hand me that apple so

I can bite it to the core.

I’ll have it bronzed and stick it

on my dash to remind me

of my core within.

Maybe an apple a day

will make my belly go away.

Maybe.

Real Time

That afternoon there were moments

Time outs from speaking, breathing

All that surfaced was a ticking

A tocking like a heartbeat

Thump, thump, thump

Like a metronome keeping pace

And we submitted to it

for what else was there

There was no DVD

there was no DVR

There was only us and him

and thoughts and prayers floating

He once again suspended future

and past and invited  present

Oh what a gift it was

like eating breakfast on the beach

after a long arduous night

and light came softly

and spilled on us

through that window of

real time

For Dan Webb in the loss of his son.

Or WHAT!?

Chop sticks

or

chap stick?

Both touch the lips.

Tube socks

or

tube steaks?

Both retain water.

Saxophone

or

phone sex?

Both captive…ate.

Bow Flex

or

flexing beau?

Both impress.

Violin

or

Lynn is vile?

Both can squawk.

Superman

or

rubber band?

Both are a stretch.

Gypsy queens

or

Burger kings?

Both are loosely royal.

Curtain call

or

certain fall

Both are taking bows.

Poetic justice

or

just a poet

Both are needful.

Sitzfleisch

Technically going round and round

and sitting down.

Systematically deconstructing

and squeezing the mystery

out of a gnat.

Oh, it’s all been said before

so they say to say it slant then.

Juggle some solid ideas

and let one fall

now and again.

Maybe it will bounce.

Maybe it will break.

It’s tiring and boring

to keep it all in the air anyway.

De evolution ize.

Re revolution eyes.

See?  That wasn’t so bad.

You and Me

Over time we have formed a

more perfect union.

Our names at the

bottom of a license

a quarter of years

ago.

Under time I have walked to

gather your shadow,

white as the snow,

the passion trailing, and

grace on grace.

And time after time I saw

us meet again fresh,

honest, standing

bare, with each other.

It’s you and me

babe.

And Oil Keeps Floating By.

Let the chains lay heavy

on shoulders of bronze

as the oil floats by.

Keep an eye on a key

and it’s hole of freedom light.

See the sphinx winking on

and prowling in the night?

And oil keeps floating by.

A pharaoh is turning in

his tomb trying to get

comfortable again.

And oil keeps floating by.

The streets fill, erupt

like a plague of frogs

while armies break it up.

They jump and croak.

And oil keeps floating by.

Will the pyramids be

overturned and spin

like tops

on the sphinx’s

litter box?

And oil keeps floating by.

Thirty years minus three

thousand.

Thirty years plus three.

A simplified answer.

What is that to thee?

And oil keeps floating by.

A religious antidote

slips like a camel

through a needles eye.

That eye of freedom

a squint with a sty.

And oil keeps floating by.

Not rest for middle earth

that land that has been

shuffled from birth.

Middle East so far from mid west.

And oil keeps floating by.

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....?  

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

Aurora Borealis

we stood together

almost silently

with mutual awe

for the celestial

apparition

pointing with

guiding words

of wonder as

the glowing curtain

danced and skipped

in the northern sky

like a nervous ghost

its translucent

evening gown

tucked and furled

in the folds of

the wind

we stood together

straining to see

the mystery

of us

for my son Nathan