Panels

I shutter my life
With vented panels
To allow a little light
But no exterior vision.

Some light is necessary.

It tells the approximate
Time of day
And where I placed
Those damned cufflinks
I never wear.

But I need no vision

Beyond my room
Else I may see her
Strolling the street
And I explode from my door
Chasing her
Begging her
Come back to me
Or I die.

Listen

It is a universe of sound.

                

If you ride out an hour

Before dawn

You may even hear

The sun rise.

If you tune your hearing well

As you sip your coffee

You can hear sweat trickle

Down the skin

Of the bean gatherer.

Listen well

And you may hear

Electricity in the wires…

Flowers opening their petals…

Lips spreading in a smile…

Ants scaling blades of grass…

Shadows sliding across sidewalks…

Ideas forming in the minds of children…

Pupils dilating in the eyes of lovers…

Midnight dew gathering upon lawns.

But, for me

All that must be heard

Can be had

In the creak of saddle leather

And the silent song

Of my horse.

He Said He Knows Me

It is impossible

For one man to

Chart the course

Of another.

Winds blow

From every

Point of the compass.

Tides rise and fall.

Storms blow suddenly.

Masts snap.

Canvass rots.

A vessel may linger long

In the doldrums

Before gaining trade winds.

A man may examine the timber

Inspect the lines

Evaluate the worthiness

Of the ship.

A man might even hazard a guess

As to where the crew last moored.

But no man may know

The course

Of another.

Sugar Cube

Love me, please. Love me again.

The maple tree
Beneath whose canopy
She stood
Was a blaze of golden flame.
Leaves fell between us
And upon our shoulders
As I contemplated her plea.

I thought her sincere.

But there was far more

Between us
Than autumn leaves.

There was too little left

Of myself
And I feared that I
Like a sugar cube
Drenched with water
Yet maintaining its form
Was sure to crumble
To disassemble
Should the slightest bit more
Be inflicted.

I had no reply

Though
I am certain
My eyes told her
All.

Dear Readers...

I was asked about the sometimes vast difference in style and content contained in my posts. Some are heartfelt; intimate. Others, like the one posted next, are lighthearted, and silly. My answer? Life reflects the variance. One moment we cry. Wait an hour or two, and we'll smile, maybe laugh. But there's a further note...not every poem is autobiographical. Some are. Others are clear misses, complete fiction. Which are which? You tell me.

Sweet Wife

I’m plucking my bowstring

While she plucks her eyebrows.

She’s counting her wishes

While I’m out counting cows.

She talks to her girlfriends

While I talk to myself.

She values society

While I hide in stealth.

There seems no possible limit

That she would not go

While I’m all about stopping

Her long downward roll.

Don’t get me wrong here

I love my sweet wife

But I’m telling you, mister

She squeezes my life!

I guess that’s the way

It just seems to be.

But when you get right down to it

It’s probably just me.

Summer Storm

Summer Storm

In an early-summer storm
I sat beneath a wide porch roof
Much in need of repair.
Soon, the rains discovered
Their portals
Onto my shoulders
And I shuffled to better advantage.

The incessant downpour

Lulled me
Toward a brighter
Long-ago
Summer day
With bread and drink
In the tall grass
Near the university.

She was again there

Laughing musically
The full light of noon
Dancing from her hair.
She lay before me
More inviting than the food
We’d prepared.

The charm of memory
Soaked my heart
And I absorbed again
Her eyes
Scarlet lips
Her tender form
Sighs
And soft words.

How maddening

That summer storms
May wet the dreamer
But the fury of the heart
Leaves the lover
Awash
In tall grass
Beneath poor slates
In a dreary summer storm.

Inasmuch

I am not that
Which looks back
At me.

Those eyes, ears
That nose
Those lips 
That chin
Are not myself.

These are useful

But only as clay
To the pot
Whose purpose
Is to present the bloom.

These briefly remain

Until age or injury
Replaces them
With those of younger
Energetic
More appropriate hosts.

Until such time
I remember daily
That I am useful
Inasmuch
As I exalt the bloom.

Let the reader understand.

Amethyst and Flame

Leaves of green 
Rust away 
Like the hulls

Of neglected boats

Sleeping at their moors.

Along the quiet avenues

They skitter down

Loosing their bonds

Blanketing the swales

In auburn

Russet and gold.

Laughing children

Skip through them

Sounding as

Dry bones rattling

Or parchments rising

From dusty confines

Along the Dead Sea.

I haven’t the will

To rake them.

Why remove

The only color

This poor city ever sees

Besides the broken amber glass

Of whiskey bottles

Thrown against curbs?

Autumnal winds

Will soon gather them

To deposit

Along fence lines

And limestone foundations

As beds prepared

For virgin snows.

Before their going

I selected a single maple leaf

Amethyst and flame

To pin against my mirror

As reminder

That all creation

Is magnificent

In its spiraling

Final waltz.

The Trash Compound

I watched him

Turn the corner

At the edge of the building.

I knew this man.

I’d propped him up before

Removing his sodden boots

And socks

Cleaned his feet

Putting fresh socks on

His peeling feet.

But I wasn’t having this.

Walking into the trash compound

He tugged at his zipper.

Momentarily

A stream of fluid

That I guessed was

Mostly beer

Ran around his feet

Into the parking lot.

Before he could re-zip

I was out the door

Awaiting his emergence

From the trash compound.

Expecting renewed compassion

I disappointed the aging drunk

With scalding retribution

And harsh berating.

He acted more shocked than ashamed.

That fueled my anger

And he walked away

With his shaggy head down.

You can throw up in my arms

But you sure as hell

May not pee in my trash.