A day unfolds with no grace,
lots of malice,
and frolicking crows;
you say “nonsense” like it’s a bad word.
.
I crave the gobbeldy-gook
like a fish needs to move forward.
.
Pump the feet
and go round and round-
when it stops,
the rest is soporific.
Gingham
When they danced,
cows from the next county
slowed their cud-chewing
and the moon hung back,
a little envious, mostly wistful.
His cheeks held secrets
of tombs and acorns while
her smile was a Mondrian nightmare
and her hands were full
of crushed pine cones;
they were sappy
and devoid of catharsis.
their there they’re
they’re always starting something
and it’s usually done in full light-
I wish I was visible and able to be heard
but I’m headless and mostly vapor
like a storm that passes through
–
there is so much deviance lurking
in the world of sweater sets and chess,
I’m not hip to the nihilist scene
because I just want to believe in something
uplifting and warm- like cookies
–
their silhouettes haunt me-
like watching a family at the kitchen table
through a window at supper,
not quite within reach
and alarmingly real
Winter Man
Between houses with asbestos siding
and power lines connecting
and disconnecting the neighborhood,
he dwells in familiar discomfort
among stale pillows
and rolling hills of macadam
not far from the forest.
He walks lightly- almost invisibly –
but sees more colors than most
and knows their meanings.
Movement of rails and wheels
keep the city moving and dirty,
taking him from hunger to curated canvas
and all he wants is to feel less sad.
Lean limbs and sharp eyes give way
to a tired view that he cannot help
skewing with fresh angles and a dark hilarity.
He is hope without knowing it.
His heart is closed and closer
to the end of his story than beginning;
the tragedy of his winter
is that he feels all used up,
but he is magic and light and is loved
by those who embrace the cold.
Rainstorm at year’s end
proclaiming nothing new
but touching the dark
with cool precision
and a wayward song
tapping a sloshing journey.
The Word Rummager 