Christmas poem

What manner of salutation this?

The angel's presage of waiting labor,

of a burden-before-Being so common,

life's ubiquitous prop of progeny

this one time rare.

Seen there, a brilliant sun filling space

cast to a meager flicker, a warmth in one womb

for a near calendar of days

'til that one night you threshed in pain.

His cry, keeping time with your labored breaths,

with the lamb and the ox,

knew then only an initial hunger,

the thirst we all have known.

It was you he first loved here,

Millions of e-books will be published this year

That uneven beat

be it wing be it cavitied-muscle

be it tortured man typing note on paper

lost in a backroom.

Not forgotten.

Never remembered.

Insignificant creation spewed

to final recess of mind and ink,

ideas drifting to dissipate, disperse

in never read, never heard,

never-loved obscurity.

A dead forest of butterflies,

a heart never raced,

color and form in a land of the blind.

New one, a little rough

Salty flek, uneven, speckled surface,

ground or chopped,

squeezed like Christmas relative then spread as butter,

baked in cake or cookie

you waited there,

the assassin among bean thread,
hidden in sauce,

curry or cabbage your camouflage,

silent killer,

Yes, a poem about a utensil

Metal spoon

handle and scoop

tool of time

your uncertain content of tin and silver

was unhappy mixture, cool now

but such memory of white hot radiance

Undulant underside curve

upside down mirror

false sense of what is real

delicate set atop white wove linen

Down warped reflection

descend to brown broth

touch first, explore first

sibylline sense of what will come

Christmas is coming

Another great cover from Vladimir Chopine over at Geekatplay Studio. This time, Vladimir got his daughter, Tasha, involved, and I have her to thank for the tree and gifts on the right. This book is a collection of short stories I wrote over the last five years. My wife, Kris, suggested I write a Christmas short story for our neighbors way back then, and I have done it every year since. I will probably do it every year for the rest of my life if I can keep the stories fresh. It's a nice tradition.
This book is available at Amazon or Smashwords for purchase. My neighbors have loved these stories. I hope you will too.

For a friend

Invulnerable child.

Youthful body of health

and energy. You raced

through your long days

like all the year was Summer.

Your thin shoulders held such

strength. Your arms all but bone,

they could cut through the harshest misery.

I can feel them about my neck.

Even now.

Your pleasant outcry, the din

you made in our home,

I despair in its departure.

Photos hung in the hall will be hollow,

flat and without texture.

One Sunday

On her lap a quiet moment with a book of trains,

or cowboys and Indians, or a page of wild color,

exotic animals half hid by jungle brush,

or single letters that then stood for dog or cat or xylophone.

I do not remember.

There on her lap

she whispered in my ear the words of a story,

the beginning middle and end not at all important,

only her voice,

soothing tonic I must have cherished.

Happy Halloween

hollow cavity,

the rot of ages could not enlarge,

then and now no heart to know compassion.

I was that murderer, that blank stare,

the beast inhuman that villagers burned,

the tale parents spun for truant children,

the terror at night, her eyes wide and sightless in the dark.

Headache tonight

Solitary note, digit hovering

ever over ebony key.

You can descend only once

and change is known.

A new and common-sensed wisdom whispers

that Silence, my former comfortable companion

is not music

nor never music was.

What rut one makes.

Any errant wheel but senses Familiar

and the precipice of Same’s a silhouette shadow.

The mold once poured, and sunsets dried,

remains and reminds.

But wait

Caution’s a coward yet keening the unknown note.

listen

The Sound will surely surface.

Like my clock?

Digital tic of Time pass in silence.

Sound surfaces on creative whim

or clatters in descendent insanity.

Unspeaking electrons ever buzz into unlit obscurity

infusing numbered lights that count last to eternity,

but first to shrill bleats

waking to morning coffee,

prayer,

or nothing.

This world expanse wrapped in stucco walls

it weighs and waits

rages to calm and back to rage

placates that blind guide

bares the fruit of the barren.

Until the dawn unlike another.

New comes to creep.

A scarcity of grey brews crimson red or amber brown,

at-first-unfavored-light,

you crest a rounded line

and rounded self,

blind the already bemused.

Smell like tincture wraiths cloy a curry tint,

wrap and warp my milquetoast memory and

backward fade to vibrant Dream.

Taste buds - hills on mouthy Mars -

rouse and breathe blue.

Seen silk will find scratch of common cloth,

like augury, atmospheric gender set opposite a thickset thumb.

Look up,

ubiquitous ceilinged cellophane,

Poke and Prod,

Sound will surely surface.

Don't be hatin'

August and September air

is blast heat to chill promise.

The outside year fades and

I feel the tug of hot cocoa,

the at-hand switch to thick sweater.

A layer of Winter fat will soon pad

but not now. The Summer swimsuit reigns.

I inhale only imagined change.

Today, leaves yet live green

and park tables still fill at noon.

But how the haze hangs in the air,

the cool hint of bite in a breath,

discomfited lungs insinuating a

precipitous fall of molecules

delving to unexplored reaches.

No longer the hot air loft,

the far-gazing heights -

a heft in my chest is missing -

and the absence
is sweet and solid promise

of holiday trinity.

Another Friday Another Poem

Cement Wall

sand and lime

water, time

formed, framed, with forethought, purpose

chipped or stained, barren-surfaced

hemming in and holding out

sections cross America

dreams directing, contained, deflecting

Cement Wall

Hey, a Big Poem Friday poem actually on Friday

I killed a feral dog.

Dog I knew.

Dog I loved.

I killed him from atop my back porch.

Slouched and secret,

stooped on that steady redwood beam,

I lifted sight and trigger pulled.

The redwood rail, newly stained

proffered fixed foundation to my elbow,

steadied barrel and black hole end,

last image burned upon his retina.

My delivered touch of metal slug

pierced flesh and severed life

ceasing what surge there was of disease

what verities of thought, touch, or feel remained.

Rabid sound and shout, growl and whine,

gone like Autumn in August.

Need help naming this one

Bowl of cherries sit

centered on a black wood table

mounded fruit striate a rounded red

a wave and weave of azure

nature-polished, warped mirrors

their woman round and woman curve give

smooth-textured invitation.

Tear the flesh,

red juice spot black

the dark undulant pits within

are dead promises of life

dark inside and dark in ground

drop to the earth and inside hide

wake, tremble,

earthy dweller

Mezcal End

Your formative beginning

was the underside of some leaf or branch,

a haven of factoried photosynthesis

Body of segments like life for you,

a series of moults, stages and progressions,

rungs on life’s ladder ever upward

to the chrysalis and celestial end.

But you,

breathing deep in spiracled obscurity

are meant for lesser end.

Human digit seized,

grasp and thrust you through

to smooth-surfaced cylinder,

poured death of sharp-biting mezcal,

fiery baptism bathing your end

‘til soft-tissued skin soaked up its killer.

What simple dream dashed.

The sound of wing aflutter

a silence never beat.

Float there in the bottle,

a dreg of liquid labeled,

by chance a dare some day,

but never a creature of wing.

con gusano.

What I've Written

Until this year, I've written mostly in fits and starts. Really not much of a list for 20+ years of effort. But I've got my 1,000 a day goal now, and I am sticking to it.

First book - A western. I rewrote it two or three times, so I could fudge and call that three, but I will only call it one. Never named it, that I can remember. It is buried in a file cabinet somewhere and will never see the light of day. I was a big Louis L'Amour fan back then.

Second effort - the Without Mother Without Father Trilogy. Spent far too many years going over this and rewriting. Have seen it so much I don't really know how good it is. Electronic publishing allows me to put it out there for others to decide.

Third try - Blissful Misery. Not out for sale on Amazon yet. I am going to get a cover soon and then I will dispense. Kind of short, but some good writing. A friend and I have put some work into making this a graphic novel, so that might happen.

A screenplay called The Forerunner. Got the name from a Ralph Waldo Emerson poem. About a man who thinks his father committed suicide and how that has affected his life. A bit of a thriller.

Some short stories and a couple other screenplays I didn't finish.

Last finished project - Alone With You Somehow. Lifted the name out of a tune by one of my favorite bands - Self. Finished it the end of June. Letting it sit for a month before I return and start a review. This book stemmed from a challenge I believe I received in a class I took from Dave Wolverton (David Farland). The challenge was more for a short story, but I made it bigger. It was to have your main character do something really horrible in the first scene, then redeem him by the end of the story. Hopefully I succeeded.

The next book will be an HP knock off.