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21 December 2011

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,

16 December 2011

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.

09 December 2011

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,

02 December 2011

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