untitled

looking at a blank space and nothing
much inspired
has bubbled up yet
but this
drivel
bubble
pop!

October in That Railroaded Earth

One calendar gone in the trash heap of an old back yard
What mothers -since then- have sighed the sweet swell of
Farewell
Only one that I know of
The only angel of earth that comes to me
In the shape of strange old angels
At my door step.

her gleam

her gleam her eyes poised just right
half open half closed
smirking that knowing
she knew all my mother knew all
even when there was nothing
to know
her white head intent
spent my youth in her shade
her sun gave growth to me the boy
and into middle life
her sardonic grin
now with months passed
grows thin
her gleam her doubt just right

3-5-11

New Hampshire Impressions

This bridge of land has been unlocked
From careful hand to masts of rock
That loom and stretch the ribboned road
Has quarried most, that green she coats
Then inks to black where eyes of doe
Flit swift and cold near boulder’s throne

By cutting gullies, frothing white
The heads of moss poke holes through night
And burdened there with cat-like eyes
Are sparkler brights on country heights
Whose patient rovers crossing lanes
Drop tracks of rolls and coffee stains

This one grand slope that furrows time
That grapples sky with mountain’s light
It’s bands of silver etching through
What rings of birch have leaned askew
The bridge holds true, it cups and throws
The bedrock falls to silt and stew

Where simmering we see her toil
A family sown in land’s deep soil
A cloud of crow, a wash of dove
Round heights that ice has gripped above
And soon to rinse her granite face
That rain has carved with cunning grace

Into a shallow water’s trough
Grand spectacle greets fish and moth
That boats could swell in mirrored sounds
Their waning cries call dusk to shrouds
Bathe valley steeple crowned with white
Poke spires round God’s pristine sight

Prod fingers clay that belch and steam
Hold weary workers heads to dream
Call clouds to boil in heaven’s hand
Calm fears that strive to understand
That faith and stone are shaped the same
Beneath this lion’s fiery mane

HANDS

HANDS

My hands are
Smooth and small
Extensions
I have always
Looked down on

My forever friends
Hopefully
Always attached
But
If lost
Then wished well
Till I join them again
To play catch

The fingers
Were there for me
My bony buddies
Nails for heads
Knuckles for bellies
Whisker hairs
From gently curved flesh
That gripped my fork and pen

They scratched
They stroked
Now, just a hint of age
Has arrived
One small dark spot
One extra crease
One vein more pronounced
Now I’m looking for
Old man hands

The hands,
Like cold twisted clay
They creep up on you one day
Struggling to pop the cap
On the pill bottle
The claws
That tighten into balls
They can only strike out
Angry at having grown
Old.

Thoughts Part 1

I am starting to write again. Well....that's a start. Stay tuned. Now where did I put that Muse?

Tangents:Chapter 1 -The Fermenting (Excerpt)

Prattle on endlessly and make certain that the aquarium in the Indian restaurant overlooks those who chose the buffet style dinner.
Glass walls that bounce back the city bus in all its glory are merely reflectors of what’s actually going on in the piss and dirty streets of Cambridge.
The lofty are ploughed under and the musical is betting on the sweet sound of the Bolivian flute to send them to the other side where they will find the Promised Land.
Couched in clichés, we corner ourselves in hot summer late afternoons where the in-goers and street hangers wish kiosk doom on the token holders.
The hum and brazen criss cross of car horns curls dangerously around the narrow roads that wax historic in all their blue parking sign,--(P sign on corner)—splendor. A bite of warm and friendly Chinese food and then a thick room temperature Guinness at the Black Sheep and the sudden doorway bum frightens me and how I wish I could park somewhere and get on with it already---