light years

There was a time delay
between when I lost it and
when I realized it was gone

A star supernova light years away
drifting through time to
form in our consciousness on Earth

So too was it when I found my youth was missing
like a spare cash bill in my back pocket
on a night out with friends mixed in beer
gone and unaccounted for
into the new black hole of numbers

brainswell

it is crazy how man and mind can fight
like in any relationship, a little booze can hurt
coming home late stinking of Bourbon
and then crawling into bed
no wonder the power switch was off
and is telling me to flip the circuit breaker
at almost noon the jolt came through
I should have been up for longer

Now my mind has taken on a fight
pounding the inner skeletal skull’s lace
fearing another night of self indulgence
and the weekend coming up soon
Bourbon will be my friend again
and will distance my self from self
once again having Manhattans on the namesake

Storied Pines

Today I grew old enough to plant my Pines
as father had planted his, so now I do mine
while we were younger we played amongst his
a small grove of boughs, a magical land for kids
we played hide ‘n’ seek and cowboys and Indians,
through  youthful eyes we missed the stumps
strewn all around our shenanigans
how could we have missed the stumps?

Father always did avoid that patch of wood
always hollering to us from the house
today I grew to sadly know why he would
as my uncles came pouring in from neighboring towns
they cut down the Pines where brother and I once played
each tree they crafted with storied hands
they too had planted Pines to make into boxes where later they’d be laid
growing boxes in in patches on their land

As their fathers had and now do I
dig my these holes to fill with roots of Pine
I hope that when they come to collect these trees
I would have made my father proud
having raised strong boys and my share of work and time on my knees
so my boys will plant their Pines too, to carry the tradition ’round

pushing buttons

sensibilities are hard to see through or into
like New Hampshire’s White Mountain valley mists
which brings chaos to peaceful Spruce lined roads
hiding ice patches from drivers, causing crashes
or concealing lovers from neighboring windows
some find both offensive with their screams

not the Wolf or the Owl, nor the Spruce or the Hemlock
they hide what offends them poorly
fog induced screams and human
poppycock are not among their concerns

the Owl cries when the Wolf snatches her fallen prey
Spruce’s veins flush red at Winter’s huffing
huffing, which makes the Hemlock delight with company
of snow hugged branches and it’s quieting peace
Wolf only cries for food, which lumps him with the Spruce and Owl
who will leave car crashes and human lovers to their howls

Ode to last week’s flowers

They would be bare, no doubt
after a week in bloom, exciting the room
and then a long weekend unattended, unappreciated
their petals would have plunged to their deaths
forsaken lovers self-propelled off incalculable cliffs
felt forgotten and afflicted with broken hearts

We returned to find them waiting
on their widows walks high above the table
looking sad and drooping, but still in color
they were waiting to die with pride for us
emitting final fragrances, stems still strong
that is how it will be remembered

This morning final breaths left puffed out chests
pride now following the spirit, no longer inhabiting their bodies
some now lost their petals and some sagged sadly
the Tulips stand erect with crispy crimson crowns
all stamen, stems and petals caught in rigor mortis
only a few Tiger Lillis survive among the dead
keeping the bastion of beauty of last week

Gwapin man

I am not black
I am not white
no color choose I
nor other racially partial hues
I am one human
I am one man
no other race to placate or amuse

If you must press on
and are not yet satisfied
then I will speak in kind
to your made-up words

Made from dim-lum-rum
in a Kaas-bin-kip
my parents gave me gwapin features
That should answer your questions
and should quell your fears
otherwise, you must find new teachers

New York lives

The city didn’t seem to mind missing the sun
elongated street lamps replaced the stars
in a never-really-black sky
neon signs and subway orbs
racing traffic and mutating faces
carry the soul of each neighborhood
possessed by the spirit, yet unencumbered
free to let another be the host
but wanting desperately to be chosen
it breathes through us as we live with her
alive in this symbiotic relationship
thriving on the life force into dawns break

for you

This poem I write for you
pressed like petals
of memories we will keep
in this short book of our love
it is an easy read
that is not to say, uninteresting
only that even a child would understood
this poem I write for you
a simple offering of scripted love

layers

there are different layers covering my first coat
sometimes life reveals an under coating
through a chip showing yester-years
I wonder how many paint jobs I’ve had
growing fatter with time, administering a new coat
I remember when I was red
I’m trying to forget when I was black
today I try to be green, but
fade quickly to beige and lack luster
maybe time will have me a livelier color
but for now I
do not choose my colors.

Weekend Wordsmith prompt: Paint.

poet

At what moment is it official?
When does the title follow the name?
Having been assigned homework
or when friends share text
silly rhyme and prose,
does that make everyone a poet?

Perhaps it is more like an affliction
of words bubbling over then formatted.
Maybe it is a photographer’s eye
with a pen to capture essences
rather than a camera.
How about offering a prolific effort
writing incessantly and filling tombs?
Do any of these make a poet?

Surely it is not the ability to conjure
beauty in written form!
Talent is subjective and sometimes accidental.
When we are paid for words, is it then?
Is poetry a popularity contest
wherein you are a poet only if read and accepted?
If I were one, I suppose I would know.