A poem not about rocks

Warm in my bed.

Layer on layer separate

shut me from the cold air of my room,

insulate the bare skin I've shed to

while heard in the kitchen, after hours,

consequent flesh of my flesh whiles an hour to midnight

with waiting wolf

or lamb.

I will know with no harm done

or blood blotting her sifted snow.

Eavesdrop I, tally seconds to a witching hour,

wounding with doubt if lamb he proves,

but cooling carcasses, fur scarlet-stained in a drift

trump what grievance I give.

Alone in my layers, count 60 then again.

12 to come and see her whole

but the dark will come again, the cold, and

I'll retreat to layers and let her live,

unearth the wolf or lamb.

A poem not about pigs

line leaving pen,

metaphorical blood flow

along arm thru hand from finger

up at once and end in me

this line draining or filling,

more me or less

words with thought their anchor,

held now here,

best here,

true here,

blood and ink now

after Arial.

Thinking about serial killers

Next book I start is probably going to be a YA. Most likely a Pocket Hole three. After that I think I'll start a book where one of the main characters is a serial killer. That makes sense, right? Anyways, I have been thinking about serial killers a little.

water

the base

foundation, substance

such source and beginning

where the end can be anything.

water sack ruptured,

puddle on floor and spray on walls,

and water is all . . . or most.

Mostly water.

you your walk last night

some park, your inadequate dog leashed

more mostly water

now a world water red

blood by any other name

spilt today and encouraged first.

this my springboard dive

to oceans envisioned

sea I see and will create

your sack and your sack and your sack.

the taste now on my tongue

water wells

I am coming.

Poem # something

past weakness is forever weakness,

pebbles lodged in remembered time,

a snag not foothold,

a hidden hook in foliage,

wedged stone,

scum stirred to the surface,

clear water clouded,

potable then remembered filth,

remembered error,

remembered hurt,

forever sullied.

For the 3rd year, my favorite Halloween poem

Hollow Cavity

rot of ages could not enlarge,

then and now no heart knew compassion.

I was that murderer, that blank stare,

the beast inhuman villagers burned,

tale parents spun for truant children,

terror at night,

her eyes wide, sightless in the dark.

I the coward's knife from behind

tracing his second smile,

the hard unflinching fingers at her neck,

the menace in the shadows,

unseen, unblinking, unwavering,

waiting for the moment,

that instant of inattention.

Your Kind buried me,

and buries still,

when you find me.

Yet here I wait.

All.

Feast of abundance.

Docile herd

upon which I feed.

I linger in my unmarked grave,

listening beneath your home,

lying aside the path you walk,

crouching outside the chain link fence,

one step from a window,

a face in the dark to view.

Look at me,

You, perched atop society's pedestal.

I am in the crowd

waiting for the world to end.

Halloween Poem 2013

missing now, this night

ghoul in mask or made up,

character, creature, hero or villain

all hailed, all rewarded,

to my house and handed candy,

their scare a lie or wink

on world's stage tonight,

waning fall new in my home,

my handful, then they away

across and down yon dead end street,

his house not dark tonight but

lit like visiting carnival,

and they an ardent, careful flow

one way,

my unworthy thought

of all amiss, I dismiss

then provide more sweets,

watch the little vampire

scurry to the unknown house

an open maw

a hurried end.

where do they go?

Fun Halloween poem

Dug that hole in my backyard today,

trowel in hand, small black hole

where earlier this year tomatoes grew.

I buried that chicken bone.

Not dry and dead,

greasy dead, remnants of dinner

pieces hidden, clinging to tendon,

knuckle, all dead meat all dead bone

all the same and buried in my backyard,

covered and smothered in soil I'll use

to nourish other food.

Nighttime now,

my body of flesh covered and smothered

by blanket and pillow,

I see, my open eyes tracking shadows,

my mind centered on bones buried,

bones that should rightly move only

as decay and the worm wiggle,

but out there at midnight move of their own,

greased in gardening,

unsmothering, moving slow at first,

no mind to understand,

nevermind soothing then inflicting, infuriating

some semblance of purpose, writhing bone

this night will quest, will grow dry and snap

and reform and snap and a victim die, and another,

all born of consumption,

dry bones slake take,

from my garden first,

marking the end of all and all.

Early Morning Rhythm

One ribbon of blacktop,

roundabout circle where 4 is 1 mile,

so swears the sign.

Her walk's to retread the already trod.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Monitor pace, pulse in vein,

search for the clarity

rumored at mile 6.

All the world’s contained in this,

living, moving beside the edge of green,

park full of life to avoid,

directed despite such open alleyways,

no walls, no row houses, no crust of commerce,

just promise of measure.

For such she is sold.

Just an opinion

Below is a poem I wrote a couple years ago when a friend lost his son in a drowning accident.

I went to a symposium a month ago and met a guy who was a professor of English at a prestigious school for a number of years. He was kind enough to look at this poem and offer feedback. I'm curious what a regular reader thinks of the change. Which is better? Actually, I don't think I'm going to say which is which. I'd be curious to hear #1 or #2.

If I get some responses (indicating interest in this particular post), I will say in a later post which is the original and which is the new one.

To mourn

Your Formica countertop was a wonder,

a well-wiped surface that gleamed.

Clear in my memory,

the chosen color - burnt brown –

like Wonder Bread dipped

in warm waxen chocolate.

This one token

heaped on others remains

tucked in my mind

of your ever-ordered household.

Every easy fold,

every towel regiment on display

lined in linen closets,

exact as rulers,

Siamese same,

silent, without voice,

did shout your name.

Harken Harkonnen

street I know,

corner house,

canal, swollen this time in July,

threaded field of weeds,

strung telephone poles,

and this Sunday something new.

The sign aside the blacktop,

and that simple word -

Free.

No arrow pointer.

No declaration modifier

meant to associate or direct.

Just a word unbound by spin,

ink-dried and stationary on square cut poster board.

A lonely man's edict?

His invitation?

Free what? Free whom?

What compass point afix,

what landmark mark

make me hero to one . . . or many?

Where the bonds to loose, the despot?

Or is the sign a tempter,

a bid to unbridle my avarice?

Halloween repeat

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.

I was the coward's knife from behind

tracing that second smile,

the hard unflinching fingers at her neck,

the menace in the shadows,

unseen, unblinking, unwavering,

waiting for the moment,

that instant of inattention she gave to me.

Your Kind buried me,

continues to bury me,

when you find me.

Yet somehow I am here.

Somehow I see you.

All.

Winter creep

I am warm.

It is cold.

Outside there the enemy.

I see it in the snow on the ground,

the gray filter of overcast

a blanket blue of varying hue,

crisp like celery,

ice breaking, snapping somewhere.

I am warm and wonder

what inherited guilt is mine,

like winter cold should rule

no molecule bound or slowed.

It is the season circle some progenitors knew

I feel new again

I feel new again

the air tastes like morning

like AM sun shines clear and mild

bright heat a hint in sight

but not on my skin

meadow vision, pond

unspoiled nature now

here even surrounded in city

centered lower than that grasping tasker

that worry of my own

my ownership, what I own

what I wish

the flow downward to my heart

direction reversing

losing myself not finding

listening to another's wisdom

again, happy again

until I forget to remember.

You drowned as a child

you drowned as a child

gone in my momentary absence

yet i see your end in my mind

such perfect blue that day, water so safe

saturated clean, chlorinated with Science

i suspect the surface rippled

your feeble attempts a

bob atop your end, a corked bottle

as if you were made of some other substance

than what sprang from my most earnest effort

i see your head, i see your face

breaching that blurry plane

blowing, inhaling

frantic even to the indifferent silence

the unseeable, inattentive air overhead

that precious breath you were, by degrees

denied

i count the times i think you fought

the sodden sink set in your feet

in your eyes i see fear

the uncertainty, shock, surprise -

life was fair, full of love and friendship,

family, the strength of a father -

and then all these abruptly left you

to struggle alone against a foe

you did not know

Time card

a cityscape and stories to invent

stories because they must be, stories

to thrum some surface

hid by wall and roof, shuttered window,

blind or closed curtain

stories in minds or

shut in hearts, stories

that happened or wait as wishes,

pure deeds

or poisoned needles set

soldering some mind,

calm eyes their windows that belie the violence.

all stories to hint at endless realities,

libraries of nonfiction filled by

books never borrowed or checked

enough to stretch a mind so thin,

perhaps

Free tickets

these free seats to a game I like so little,

puck and stick, blood on shaved ice,

the test of beer and steps a steep curve.

circle farm of fold down settees

most opposite empty.

I disparage not the play,

don't discount those skating arears,

the dread crawl of Zamboni I fathom,

if not the whistled icing

the roaring surge of stretched net.

It is, I suppose, what we know in youth,

Did you hear it?

My uneven design on

wood grain diary.

Quester lines reached upward,

rose, receded in efforted growth,

pattern on time nourished

creep or crush, sprint, spree,

flight and flee, lines in wood were life.

Her remnant of chemical compound intake

such remarkable humdrum, yon

quiet being

once stood sentry

moved by my ax.

Novels new

This book will end

my work of some days

meager collection of metaphor and simile

arks in story that rose and fell

shifted setting and by degrees

faded in strength.

You are derivative of other works, I say,

yet you will shine for some,

a fitting first for sequels spun in inkjet loins,

a child that will bear my name.

Silent, without voice,

but full of words, the riddle

I say you were formed in a thinking womb of months or years,

Third rock

There is blood on the ground.

Every effort, every step

more than metaphorical,

blood of man or blood of beast

this year or last.

A boy's broken nose once

bent in neighborhood sport,

or a rabbit's full measure,

even now lost, forgotten,

locked in a dim recess

spurred once from predator appetite.

Drops or gouts

blood on this spot