not sure how many words

Simple Gift

Lightening at dawn
Like tiny Sutras with
Children breathing-
The rythym of brothers and the
The waking of birds in the
Thunder and rain.

A swirling prayer
Steams from
The Tea Kettle,

Then We ride
We chatter
Lightening at dawn-

Fathers
Sons
Daughters
Lovers,
Its a
Mother's
World.

A swirling prayer
Rattles inside my ribs.
 
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The brightening sky
unfolding from dawn
the grace of night
that precedes waking
day blowing green
on the other side
of pane.

Busy feet straight
up to smiles, pachchouli
scented air past doors
closing and opening.
 
lazybones

No purchase today-
All bets are off
And my bag of
Coins- they have been tossed.

A feral cat
And a grey seagull
Fight for my
Refuse
So I'll just give them
All my food,

For I will
Refrain from
Flapping
My alligator jaw,
No words to reveal and
No weaving
At the memory
Wheel

What I saw
Is what I saw.

But there is no cordwood
To cut today-

Just listen to the cold north winds so late in April, so close to May,
And wish for nothing
Home Alone-

Just me and my bag full of
Lazybones.
 
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Flower Child

Her annuals
Are my perennials,
Golden fleece
Volunteering
To rise
Next to Lavender wisps,
Maidenhair
And Violets
So deep and so blue were her skies.

The Coneflower hedges
Where the hummingbirds
Hovered,

The Heartwort
And Sweet Basil-
They all know what to do
From under the cover.

I cut back my mums
To good green wood
And I made them round
But like windswept Cypress on some salted shore
Like Japanese etchings- they remain as they should.

They arent fooled so easily, not this year
After sleeping under snow,
Back to the nurseryman's humble garden
I guess I must go.

When once they did return
Often much to my surprise,
Just a silent reminder
What is past
Has gone passed,

But the sparkle in
The flower child's
Eyes.
 
second sunday in May...

Im split pretty thin today, while
A Chinwhisker floats on
My blue black breast
as your red rose pedals
ride the 5 year wind somewhere over and in between Nebraska and the soft bed
that carries your soul

On a westerly breeze
clear like a ringing phone
no voice on the easterly receiver,
But All charges accepted neverending.

Yes, Im spilt pretty thin Suzy my dear,
saltwater rivers dilute the freshwater reflection
of your eyes upon mine, and
The flood washes pocket watches and little boy jack knives
galore,

Our river, we called it, and the,
Feathers from the breasts of birds are
Collected like relics from
your womb, your planetary alters, all
Cut pretty thin
Suzanne,
the colors give you form
and prevailing forces
Kiss me and cover me.

I'm sliced mighty thin today.
 
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what sort of bloke starts a thread and utters such silly malarky over and over again.

Your a whiner.
 
gregariousbomb said:
what sort of bloke starts a thread and utters such silly malarky over and over again.

Your a whiner.


Thanks alot.

You hit the nail on the haid.

good'n!!!
 
34 thousand feet

as homeless as gymnosperms
or perhaps 2 by 4's
hewn of Virginia Yellow Pine-
shackled down and flatbed tractor-trailered,
bound for unbuilt towns
across mounds and mounds
vanished in the sun like
languages lost.

remember boy?
when eel season came
and the Silvers ran so thick
a boy could run across the
river and only get the bottom
of his dungarees wet?

fly, oh riveted bird
no longer destined-
I populate like pollen,
A Duchamp collage
tossed in torn bits and landed into perfection,
paying no mind to direction
or meridians,
lifelong like
a fertilizer of sporadic reproduction
homeless and winding down
Fallopian avenues

blowing into town
volunteering to arrive
anytime-

to help
to only try and help.
 
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Lets Go North at Sundown

Them aint crows,
Fat Tom Gobbler and those
Two Hens, crossing out of the
Naked cornfield
And across the granite roadledge,
Up into the stand of firs and white birch, myrtles, alders and beech.
With Highbeams squashed, we watch them go hide for the night.

Well wintered
And waiting
Serenely for
The longer days,

Taking the rain as it comes
Waiting for the crop to get high again unhurried.
"They come up to the back door
every morning up this far."

Big Tom Indeed, happy in his chair,
Living on a road meant to
Get lost on, dogs and Wild Things
He knows how to get home,
And is terrible with directions
And full of some kind of luck.

Dark now,
Roads like black cellophane,
The sky's opening again-
A radio plays 4 good songs in a row.
 
Hung a door
First click-
Plumbed and on the bubble.
Cut an apple on a
Cinder block
And used needle nose pliars
To remove white pine slivers,
All so I could sit and
Play you,
Your Jawline
and Curves,
Handprints
Gleam on panes of
Summer glass
As we choose a melody
To settle in to.
 
marlboro reds make her nauseous in the morning
so I stroll about the house
NAKED!
while I smoke and rub last night out of my face

it's been a lot of simple pleasures
laundry time and inside jokes
cursing Erma Bombeck and
swearing never to end up under a pile of children
with knitting and drinking problems

so much plotting
diabolical over cups of coffee and
empty packs of cigarettes
we talk like we can get tomorrow in a nerve lock

in the morning, nude and smoking
(if I don't get some sun, I'm gonna get rickets)
sitting on a chair
upholstered in fabric like 1970 barfed on your gramma's davenport
it's not so bad
 
DeepAsleep said:
marlboro reds make her nauseous in the morning
so I stroll about the house
NAKED!
while I smoke and rub last night out of my face

it's been a lot of simple pleasures
laundry time and inside jokes
cursing Erma Bombeck and
swearing never to end up under a pile of children
with knitting and drinking problems

so much plotting
diabolical over cups of coffee and
empty packs of cigarettes
we talk like we can get tomorrow in a nerve lock

in the morning, nude and smoking
(if I don't get some sun, I'm gonna get rickets)
sitting on a chair
upholstered in fabric like 1970 barfed on your gramma's davenport
it's not so bad
long time no see, DA; glad you're still keeping it real.
 
kept it real
close to the vest
behind rags and spaces
between the ribs
all locked away
because i
was taught to do that

but words slipped out
anyway until walls were covered
and it became my home

how could anyone
leave a home
made of words
and music?
 
neonurotic said:
long time no see, DA; glad you're still keeping it real.

I'm around and about. Haven't felt poetic, lately. I keep starting something, but... I dunno. It all gets too narrative. I think I need to write a story to purge my system. Haven't done that in a while. Meh.

I'll see what I dig up.

~D.A.
 
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