The Eagle and the Cat
First the eagle glid low overhead.Then the farm cat, lame and tabby,limped from bumper to dumpster,while we smokedand whined about our day. Image: Patrick Brinksma on Unsplash
Category: Poem
But For The Pheasant
But for the pheasant’s coppered wing the fieldsin sculpted snows ne’er bring the promised yieldsnor pleasures found ‘til light does crest the riseat dawn and ambers claw upon the eyes. To wake and wonder here among such thingsas iridescence glides there down and bringsunto these smothered lands and frostbit handsa hope that winter’s scoff no […]
Silent the Sun Falls
Silent where they fell,spent ash, dog hair, coffee grounds.Silent as they were when useful –for buzz, for warmth, for waking, nowbits of grit to grind down the slippersand vanished for a pleasure. Silent where they fell,old debts dismembered,chunks of glass that could perhapsbe re-assembled as candy dishesor ashtrays – maybe porcheswhere the chew jaw geezerstook […]
Some Thoughts on a Blizzard
It is not the sapling or bit snowthat scrapes the window, coaxing,Come out little boy, come out –Come out where the sting wind blowsCome out where the wind plays a saplingas a rube to scratch its bidding on a window.That little life left tight against the foundationmissed in the pruning now the dim wittedaccomplice to […]
Three Rib Bones with Trains and Rain
Three rib bones flush from the culvert pipeafter hunks of pelvis beside the tracks –the tracks with no arms but rumblerumble strips and red bell ticks. Clang go the boneswhere no grass grows Bang go the trainsand the pink prairie rose Rattles with the rushin the same stiff pose as ribs and hunks of pelvis […]
Delta Blue – a Sonnet for R.K.
We came upon the delta, we, brothers,split out from the blue wide river,contrapuntal and lost among cypress,moss, muck and brute-teeth jangles. And though I never carried a tune,I carry the tone of your faded fifths,your deviled tri’s and slip-foot riffs,an octave less than finding you gone. But in these stale bite-fly airs,in this green moss-dripped […]
Water for Tea
They are not yours, those eyes –those hazel eyes crustedwith sleep-thrashed release –and neither the mind behindthinking of toast on a new day,soft-buttered and still yet crisp. And those are not yours, those fingers,curled smooth-knuckled on the cutlery,waiting for toast and soft butter –and neither the wait for the kettle’spitched steam or the dry tea […]
