Sourdough toast and life… my life…

I’m fond of sourdough toast buttered generously,
it’s an indulgence, and rare, but thoroughly enjoyable;
like children laughing where they shouldn’t be;
smiles from strangers who have no reason to notice;
kind compliments from those who care and say so;
these are all nice things, to be sure, and just as rare;
crisp autumn days as fine, and the warmth of spring,
still summer nights too, but little in winter, for me;
and that strange feeling of uncontrollable emotion
when you see something beautiful, something small
which no one else notices until they see you cry;
but mostly I enjoy sourdough toast buttered generously.

 

Advertisements

Burning leaves is prohibited…

We Can’t Burn Leaves Anymore

Just last week the leaves clung
to their boughs
though heavy and sweetening,
glowing in October’s
blinding noonday sun
with its
hint of warmth still;
dancing in the stir of a breeze
soon to be bitter wind,
but mild still causing all to
inhale deeply, slowly
in a final, seasonal mindfulness
of fleeting comfort;
but November brought a change
of heavy rain
and the verdures no longer clung,
they yielded
and fell underfoot, waterlogged,
soon to rot,
staining the sidewalks if not
raked and swept
to be discarded in bags for burial,
no longer afforded
the final aromatic triumph of
autumnal cremation
stinging the eyes of dancing children
and rake-braced adults
gathered round in funereal muse.

That interchapter I like…

It’s ponderous lumber makes
that interlude into its own chapter,
it’s dry progress threatens
the snail’s infamous reputation;
the turtle’s nameless fame
is itself a Joad, mesmeric lethargy;
it’s path is a migration against
the desiccated earth – dustbowl dry.

Yes passive, yes armed appliance
the witnesses are numerous and none,
yes agents at first swerving
then steering a targeted shell upset;
soup meat or yellow-nailed apathy
there are so many, many of us afoot;
kicking when upturned, feigned anger,
flailing limbs but our eyes lack humor.

Read on, read on the highway,
we cross and pretend to look both ways;
somehow knowing the dangers
will do something for our advantage;
go on, go on and sluggishly pilot
trusting our conspicuous shell conceals;
the road crossed is burning hot,
there’s no reason to be going this way.

I like Steinbeck’s turtle….

Read it again, please…

Today is Just a Page

The marks have no moral,
they know no stories,
nor me or mine,
no memories surfacing
in the quiet of the day’s ebb
haunting and mocking what can’t
be changed by dreams,
they are carried along
as the wave of the page turns slowly
to the next leaving anyone
reading to wonder
who writes this way,
not how but why;
and the way the words go
becomes a prophecy
because it is a path
leading to another nowhere
ready to mean something,
to be noticed
and maybe even remembered
enough to justify
a child’s plea to read it again,
and again, and again, and again.

Is there a way back…

Careening Through Life

Do trees cast off their leaves,
eager to be free of those parasites
drawing more than they offer;
do they cure and fall themselves
as birds leave nests never to return again;
or is there a romantic but exhausted grasp
which simply but reluctantly
fails in the cold of November?

Do the vivid colors of toys
cling to pathways cossetted in the
soft tissue of my memory;
a red fire truck of tin metal
and sharp edges that cut
my tender fingers as I played
the role of rescuer in the midst of
a horrible blaze; and what of the smell
of Mom’s cookies – unmistakable
and gone forever except in words
put together in strings
without sentences; is there a way back
to those sunny afternoons
with powdered sugar floating in the air
and me praying for a broken sample?

People died here…

Visiting History

It’s raining on the prairie,
but not in answer to prayer
as we huddle inside a dusty museum wondering
at the recreation of a settler’s life,
determined by weather and wind and rain
on the cut fields of earth;
if we shiver in a sudden summer storm and wonder
at the musky air it’s best to recall that people died
here – in this room probably, because they did
everything in this one dark room – and we can’t
wait for the storm to end and go on with our fun.

What marks the spot…

X

I can say X is red
or X instead;
because what’s real
is what we steal
from authors dead
but well said,
both/and and lost
found with a cost
that I will pay
every single day
until words mean
not what they seem
to Dumpty’s many
egg’s a plenty
toppled from walls
ruining school halls
angering teachers
pleasing preachers
who always search
for sin’s church
of truth’s facts
but object acts
baffling thoughtless
fearful, cautious
realists all
of Adam’s fall
who hear a word
and jump stirred
by a fear of living
and God unforgiving.

 

 

What it’s like to die in exile…

– Like Ovid

Like Ovid I will die in exile
and no one will know why,
obvious rumors will fly
getting his due, they’ll smile
in assured ways their lie
comforting thoughts supply
and enjoy my sour cry
from my joyless isle
knowing justice will supply
but I won’t know why
emperors once prized
but were just as spry
in sending me here to die.

What I feared about the year 2000…

In the Year Two-Thousand

When I grow up I will be old,
but little else will be different,
I remember dreaming at night,
like running will still be easy
but maybe I won’t want to
run as much as I do now,
I don’t remember thinking
about choices or school,
having more or less money,
hair loss, getting fat, or sex;
and everyone would still be
alive but they wouldn’t and
I didn’t realize it back then,
they’d be sunny summer days
with baseball games and
watermelon but no mosquitoes
and bees would stay near the
flowers and leave me alone
while I ate hot dogs and
salty potato chips, and drink
fruit punch like it was beer,
and far off into the future
it might be scary to be me
like the year two thousand
when I’d be forty years old
if I ever lived that long.

What it’s like to fill a hole…

Into the Abyss

Once upon a time they were called a road crew
but I have no idea what they’re called these days,
six men, leaning on shovels looking into their hole,
while another’s at work therein pounding or digging
and it is hard to tell who’s in charge in this circle
or maybe they’re all in charge or need to be today
while that one poor man does whatever it is he does
down in that hole which will soon be filled again.