30 Poems in 30 Days (Redux)

1-10

I put my arms around you,
My freedom, my safety;
We float above
By the cool breeze,
With skin glistening slick
As warm as the sun.
I rise to the top
A smile on my face,
And then go down,
A wave dying, spent,
Leading us astray.
We bend sideways,
Together we spray,
Tumble over, crash dive,
Beneath the surface,
United, tied together,
Happier, if slightly tousled.
We start again,
Keep going at it
'Till sunset comes
And it's time to leave.
It was a long, long day—
But while it's dark,
In wind's cold embrace,
We dream only of sunrise.

sunset-beach-oahu-hawaii-1971-s_1047.jpg
 
1-12

Rest in silence
passing night
of quiet stars
and Moon's brave light.

Bless the morning
breaking dawn newborn
child daughter son
bless and keep
this Earth newborn
if only in a dream
time's song.
 
1-11

Always he plays the martyr
flings himself on a sword
of words
they all ohh and ahh at his strength
his conviction
his willingness to do more
for the cause
behind closed doors is a man
struggling with the weight
he has accepted

He is buckled and bent at the waist
boulders on broad shoulders
His nose mere inches from the ground
though he strides out his lies
with confident eyes

a charlatans grin, hollow
jokes laughed in the hope
he can fake it, till he make it


another favor asked,
Another stone accepted
more weight he bellows
chest puffed out
inside
only screams
 
1-13

Snowalt

The effect off the Great Salt Lake
is a "conundrum," a word an 8 year old
uses, knowing its definition.
Confusion crosses her blond brow
as she sticks her tongue out at me,
catching snowflakes.

I have know idea, what the plows
use to clear salty snow. So I laugh,
make ice balls (because salt does
weird things to snow), pelt her
with them. After all, already she's at
that age where adults are dumb;
I'll have to wait until she is one too
before I'm smart again.

Twelve years later she'll realize
there are no easy answers,
life's a riddle, wrapped in a mystery,
inside an enigma and it takes ¹
a lifetime to figure it all out.


¹ Winston Churchill
 
2-2

Not Today

Although the season
pads each blade of grass
in fluff before disguising
autumn's wrinkles
with drifted white

Although the frost
makes every blemish
sparkle in crystal
sprinkled layers

I know how cold
exhausted fingers
feel when wrapped
in winter light

weak, watery
and oh so weary,
but we rise together
and warm beside
our still crackling fire.
 
1-12

The sun has been gentled, and
the Greenman sleeps away the weeks
until it regains its strength and
can wake him once more;

It is a restless sleep, however,
filled with the dreams of playful Spring
and active Summer...reflections are
spread outward to all who would
see them...any who would escape
the more barren seasons.

I wish for things to flow the way
they always did when I was little,
how they do in my memories, even now,
when each quarter was firmly delineated
laid out by equinox and solstice.

Dreams of a green Christmas do not
come to me in the night.
 
1-12
oh lait

the coffee, barely sipped, grows cold
forgotten now as
cream slow settles down
through black

upended tendrils
slipping quietly
turning on infinitesimal undercurrents

not far away
another blend is perking
hot and frothy
cream shaken
and stirred





*footnote: apart from the obvious play on 'au lait/olé' i loved the layerings in this http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/lait*
 
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3/2 - Don't Drink the Water

I remember those amber drinks
of fruit and summer blunders.
Home-based reserve tumbling
to a new low. Did I misbehave?
Did you?

For every little umbrella
we got soaked and
every strawberry bruised us
badly black 'n blue. A little
litchi? Perhaps guava or
papaya will pave the long path
to Montezuma and revenge.

Silken stretches of sand and
shells slighted courtesy
of blighted bowels. We
might go back and try again
when the painful tide of
memories has turned.

th
 
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3/3 - Ice storm

This gentle innocuous rain,
not stinging cold on skin
but encasing all in ice.

Air
rattles through trees, jangling
aching boughs with brittle pain
and raining branches down like
fallen birds.

Some trees, burdened
beyond endurance, crack and split,
there'll be no spring for them.
Familiar objects made strange
by this chilly mantle.

An alien world of beauty and
anguish, danger and amazement,
will only last as long as a dream.
 
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1-12

I hope you get some

for Christmas, I hope you
wake to a rare shock
of a fur-trimmed satin
G-string, elastic
pulled off snap! like
A Christmas cracker, or

barefoot in the kitchen
stick your thumb into
that warm cherry pie
lift those apron frills
and slide mmmm between
warm buns, or maybe

pour Dom Perignon
on her spread
hop on in the sled
hold reins of glossy hair
ummm, yes..There

And ride, ride ride
Till the wee hour when
Father Christmas comes.
 
1-13

Dirge
For Yusef Lateef (1920-2013)

I should play a little tune on the rubab,
a spare thing, plucked
in sets of fourths

and, properly, spin variations
over its beat
with an oboe, or flute, or sax.

But I am only a poet, and a fan.
So I will simply play
your tracks
instead.
 
1-12

Something about holiday season
that sets the brain on fire
indulge flashes neon
pretty colours
eat more, drink more,

you stuff it in
swallow it down
your grin at every drop

I eat oysters, fit to bust
licking the last of the juice
right out,

seconds
there's always room for seconds
 
1-13
carols, cathedrals

ribs
a vaulted nave
filled with pure notes that soar and swoop
curl
carry my heart
contain it lest it fly straight to the stars
 
2-3

It's Difficult

to live spiritually
when your world
is collapsing, upending
and all askew

the cold permeates all
stiffening anemic fingers
and slowing an evermore
sluggish pulse until

cheeks pinken
and hands warm
to answer pleas
whispered
for life
 
1-11 Gentleman

Tut, tut. I sense an outburst.
Where have your gentle thoughts gone?
How unseemly to inconvenience others
With such strong emotions.
That is not the way for a gentleman
To behave.
Listen to me. I'll show you the way to
Safety, and good
Manners; a way to avoid
Everything. You'll be a master of truncated
Communication, of perfectly delivered
Platitudes, well-thought
Beforehand, agreeably
Diplomatic, sanitized and
Pasteurized, tantalizingly
Tasteless, suspiciously
Odorless, fleetingly
Translucent, customarily deep and
Inscrutable, approved by
Committee, and completely void of
True feeling.
Listen to me. Don't panic.
I'll keep you
Safe, and
Sound, and
Well
Locked
Inside.
No need to thank me, my dear boy.
I am always thinking of you.
 
1-13

He bathes me
in love, showers chocolate
perfume toys and music
kisses my cut finger
chops the onion and carrot
smiles with his big eyes
sorrowful ironic knowing
in his arms and hands

He says everything is A-
Ok baby honey sweetness
he sings me Bobby and bebop
lullabyes tickles me breathes
into my neck whispers
secrets to make me giggle
and gasp covers my eyes
to make me guess

He reads to me and tells
stupid jokes and I forget
everything but our world
my home in his heart.
 
1-14

What The Birds Say:
Peace

attachment.php





*have to log-in to see the illustrated poem.
 
3/4 - We Iz Baking

The dragging of the chair,
the grunting effort of clambering
up to head-and-shoulder
height at the counter.

Eyes lighting up with eager
helpfulness and fingers twitch,
itching to be deep in flour.

But prudence dictates and I
measure, add, mix, roll while
he watches through the hollow
tin-man waiting to do his bit.
Carefully he places and presses
delighted as the spread-eagle
figures appear.

Together we cover the sheet,
he watches from his perch as
his army of dough-boys disappear
behind the hot door.

Together we wait as the aromatic
air makes saliva run and
impatience loud. "Now?"

Finally the crispy crew is
cooling while he reclaims
his pulpit to watch creation.

Eyes, nose and wide grin
make him giggle, the white,
sugary worm making magic.

The first one cool enough
loses his legs first, consumed
to his startled face, then......
gone.
 
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1-13 Comsumption

We gather in a mass,
handing out wrapped
boxes and envelopes of
unhidden presents,
wishes foretold,
while being careful to
speak well of the day
and all that goes with it
all so quickly.
My chest hurts.
 
1-14

pallini_limoncello.jpg


Limoncello, Plied as Aphrodisiac
—after a fine holiday meal

A meal superb in every way—
al dente pasta, perfect wine.
Your conversation was divine.
Now, one last drink to end the day:

Limoncello, well chilled and served
in long-stemmed glass. It's not too sweet,
yet has a kick that's hard to beat.
I hope it leaves you "unreserved."





Yes, I know. Simplistic. And sorry about being a bit confused the last couple days. I plead inebriation.

Happy holidays, all. May you all be as happy as I am.
 
1-13

Shattered

Searching for lost spectacles
I spot puddles of black ice
and surrender to the impulse
to shatter white lace crusts
in a satisfying
crunch
of my booted-toe
the same crunch, I suppose,
some black-booted stranger
sounded while squashing
my ice-blue specs, leaving
a single scratched lens
behind.
 
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1-13

Her first time on no training wheels,
the wind in her hair
my admiring gaze
as she plays, how fast it goes
new toys shine treasures
ahh the pleasures of being a kid

:)
 
1-14

if i reached inside
tore out this heart
held it out to you
beating, bloody
how many would recoil
afraid of stains on their cuffs
or the standing corpse
the inappropriate gift?

to save problems
i just bleed ink
 
1-15

Halfway

There is a tall house at mid of
two towns I grew up. When Mom
said the "Halfway House" as we passed
it. I always imagined it full
of drugs and whores. Ya.
I really thought of them whores
through tweens and teens;
the sheets were changed a lot.

I never touched drugs in those days,
scared shitless what Mom
would do if I did and got caught,
surely be sent to that house,
not the halfway one, but
the other one where
fiddle-dee me happened
and night terrors begun.

No the drugs were after,
but anti-depressants and anti-anxieties.
That Xanax was a devil, they never
told me it's addictive, never saying
the DT's were worse than heroin,
or about the flashbacks years later
again with DT's again. They don't say.

Sometimes, even though I'm not,
I still feel like I'm stuck at the Halfway
with all the druggies and whores,
watching the cars pass by
refuting deliriums, insisting halfway,
is the middle and there's miles left to go.
 
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3/5 -*Wanker

He says he's good when he has wood
especially when he's in the mood,
right up there (excuse the pun)
with famous lovers, every one.

Rasputin and Romeo, every famous gigolo.
Sammy, Frank and, of course, Dean,
Hudson, Brando, Steve McQueen,
all four Beatles, Ronnie, Mick,
or any other studs you pick.

He's their equal, tops the ranking
holds his own in champion wanking.
But wanker is as wanker does,
I'm in the know and here's the buzz,
in truth he cannot keep it up
so never won The Wanker Cup.​

* wank•er (ˈwæŋ kər)
n.
Chiefly Brit. Slang. a contemptible person; jerk.

[1945–50]

Random House Kernerman Webster's College Dictionary, © 2010 K Dictionaries Ltd. Copyright 2005, 1997, 1991 by Random House, Inc. All rights reserved.
 
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