Origami Clouds

Posted inFree Verse, PoetryNo Comments

why do you glare at me so bright
that blank stare of a dare
to trespass → → → → → → on hallowed white

but, no SIGNS_______no rules__________no lines to read between____
the owner’s manual makes it official
yes, i am the full-fledged owner of a once-blank sheet of paper
now i’m free to scribble
or perhaps write a decree → nail it to a telephone pole → invest in a ream of this stuff
‘cuz, it’s starting to get crowded on this page
thinking of hanging it on the wall and starting a new one

but the idea of driving a nail
through my trusty friend
kind of bugs me →

and i’m easily bugged → about friends with nails in them
they hang around → until someone tears ‘em down

shreds of dead trees littering city streets
torn-down friends
abused and forgotten

newspaper for a blanket → or for wrapping dishes
now, i’m worked up over newspaper blankets → and empty bowls

all these marks
in the once-empty space
breadcrumbs . . .
leading the eye on its path
don’t look back ← we might ram a tree

i’m reading between the lines . . .
thumbing down the road
through once-virgin forest
pondering my navel
and the miracle of recycled paper

you must pre-un-PRE-APPROVE me
and you cannot replace my apartment windows
my roof, my plumbing,
my AC, my heat
get your facts straight
i don’t need 258 channels of spam
that won’t fit in my can of a room

paper with too many lines
so small, so tight
can’t read between them
but somewhere buried . . . deep beneath them
a Medieval twist of the trident

damn all this modern symbolism
not a syllogism in sight
so much crap on the paper
you can’t even write a poem on it

and it’s messing up my feng shui
can’t take me out for a walk
mow the grass
trim the hedges
water the flowers
or even wipe my ass

could paper my walls with it, i guess
nope, it’s an apartment
never mind the feng shui dilemma

turn me sideways
i’m looking crooked
or maybe the mirror isn’t straight
either way
time’s-a-ticking
if there’s a sensible solution
perhaps this ink
isn’t flowing out of my veins . . . in vain

these words
ain’t no manifesto
or a deed to the door of my soul
no, more a proof of purchase
a canceled stamp
says we’ve arrived
i scratch my crotch
yup, i’m alive

as thunder rolls
through this night
in the encroaching glow
of lightning
and the impending threat of tornadoes
i walk outside to take a look
come inside and jot these thoughts

sometimes all it takes
is a grand display of nature
to seduce my creative mind
into doing crazy things
albeit crazy things
like spreading my own propaganda
on digital sheets of paper
marked with virtual dots of ink
0s and 1s in a lump sum game
don’t be alarmed
not a single tree was harmed
in the creation
of this poem

the earth turns
and we play till we drop
words are worthy
of full-size print
there is no pulp
to this reality
the pages filled
with light and shadow

should i abandon my clutch
of unwritten poems
or should they breathe
as free-roaming thoughts should breathe?
it’s possibility I see
watering seeds
one row at a time
letters on the page
blur the lines
between fact and fantasy
the only difference is degree

nevermind the band
we hired them for the wedding
but the bride never showed up
all those invitations gone to waste
somewhere, a tree
lost its life
for a train wreck
the groom’s got no poems
to suit the moment

drop a dime in the jukebox
listen to the strains
of country love gone wrong
makes tears in my beer
taste better

drain the glass
head back to the back
for a moment or two of relief
then step out into the rain
take the long walk home
rap to myself
about climbing trees
got to write a poem
about climbing trees

if everyone climbed a tree
we’d all have something in common
never mind that we were all born
that’s just too common a thing to have in common

but if we all climbed a tree
we would see we’re all breathing foul air
how chopping down all the trees
could suffocate us
how polluting the water
could poison us all
how nuclear war
is not a game for shared planets
so, never mind tomorrow’s poem
i recycled it today
the one i wrote yesterday
was stolen by a time bandit

the poet’s pen
is doodling again
got to get out of the house

i walk to the park
near the city center
sit on the bench
near Sister Louise feeding pigeons
watching a boy at the water’s edge
launching his origami ship
causing ripples in the reflections
of passing clouds.

March 7, 1965

Posted inFree Verse, PoetryNo Comments

I remember mornings when milk came in bottles
left on the front doorstep
when battles on the black-and-white news
couldn’t match our imaginations triggered
by trains rolling down the tracks
headed from somewhere to somewhere
we knew the boxcars by name
listened to the warm steel rails
never had a clue that once the choo choos
carried human cargo
never heard a peep about what happened
that brutal Bloody Sunday March day
I was an oblivious five-year-old
it was the spring of salamanders
the Edmund Pettus bridge
in Selma, Alabama
light-years away
I’d never experienced racial hate
segregation, human degradation
I’m thankful I didn’t get that brand
of education
I didn’t know about Emancipation
how it’s been ignored
by others on the other side of the law
I look around today
1965 doesn’t seem that far away
I’m waking ‘round in skin
and so is everyone else
that doesn’t seem to sink in
with those who claim supremacy
asserting their authority
comes from above.

Following In His Own Footsteps

Posted inPoetry, Tanka ProseNo Comments

he tends his dreams
’til the break of dawn . . .
songbirds
gathering in the field
signal it’s time to harvest

Here, beneath the clouds, a boy feels the first drops of sky dripping from the leaves. Soon he’s a walking sponge, the trail oozing around his soles. A humming patter lulls the forest to sleep. He pauses at the top of a rise, the valley below frozen in time like an Ansel Adams photograph.

damp moss
blankets a rotting log . . .
time perfumes the air
with the sweet scent of death
feeding life

He takes the long way home. But when he gets there, he just keeps walking—walking into the sunset.

many paths traveled . . .
the pilgrim
follows a dove
as if it could carry
a mountain

Fifty years later, on another rainy day, he pulls out a weathered memory, and like a muddy shoe, begins to clean it off. He feels drenched cotton clinging to his skin, sees a shaft of sunlight poking through the clouds. He hears a chipmunk chirp. A doe and fawn bound across the trail. Then out comes the rainbow that told him to move on.

repurposing
toybox relics—
viewing the moon
through his kaleidoscope
he finds a field of stars

First published in Ribbons Volume 19, Number 1 – Spring/Summer 2023

Overexposed

Posted inHaibun, PoetryNo Comments

that old song
stuck in a groove . . .
flashbacks

You occupy half the space; your smile dominates the composition. I look happy—must have been—I was holding hands with you. Here we are in posterity between my finger and thumb. How have I become so numb to file you in the circular file, to banish you from this time and space, to leave behind what could not be, to set aside what you meant to me?

Turn the page. Another display of happy faces, you half dressed, my hair a mess—nothing like obliviousness to paint a carefree picture. Two criminals of love, abusers of each other’s lust, nightmares passing in the hall, emotions bouncing off the walls. “They’re the perfect couple,” others said.

If they’d only read between the lines, watched the tears drip from our eyes, peeled the masks from our pasted smiles, traveled a while in our pain and fears, got a good look at what’s etched inside.

dream castle
my bones too frail
to scale the stone

My Queen—your face framed with gold . . . heart so heavy, I could not hold it—we clicked for a while, got sick for a while, shutters closed on the grand hotel; we fell into a spell of disrepair.

So, here we sit in the kitchen, scattered as we always were. Bits and fragments of laughs echo off the ceiling. I’m in this for the healing, so don’t mind the mess. I’m clearing off this table—letting go of the emptiness.

a blink—
your face
slips out of focus

Japanese Death Poems

Posted inFree Verse, PoetryNo Comments

as I slip from this plane
into the quiet realm
beneath a sea of stars

I’ll take with me my memories
and leave you with the laughter

the dog can have my bones

*

as this waning moon
falls from the sky
please remember
how gently our footsteps
echoed through the stars

Darkened Rooms

Posted inHaibun, PoetryNo Comments

I’m wandering the upstairs hallway of this old hotel, wondering what stories lie buried in its now abandoned rooms. It was once a thriving establishment, catering to travelers on paddlewheel boats wending their way up and down the mighty Mississippi River. It’s my dwelling now, just me and my cat, Snowball. Each room is fully furnished, mostly with Victorian-era chairs, beds, bedside tables and light fixtures (bulbs long since burned out). The doors creak. Cobwebs are everywhere. I turn on my flashlight and brush my way into the first room. It feels like Friday the 13th but it’s really just All Hallows’ Eve.

sounds of laughter
fading . . .
dust in the moonlight

The four-poster bed is all made up, waiting for the next guest to arrive. An unopened Bible sits on the nightstand. I imagine a pious man kneeling to say his evening prayers. The space smells old. The memories feel even older.

Snowball startles me as he jumps onto the bed, stirring up a thick cloud of dust. Wheezing, I back myself out of the room, leaving him to explore on his own. The next room is much the same, abandoned in a state of readiness.

shadows falling . . .
I follow a breeze
through the grass

In the third room, I find an old Victrola standing in the corner. Lying next to it is a stack of 78 rpm records. I flip through a few of them. I’ve never heard of the artists—Cleo Brown, Memphis Minnie, Eva Parker Pace—but still, I can feel their music seeping through the pores of the pealing papered walls.

The last room on the right is locked so I turn back down the hall. As I look for Snowball in the first room, I see something under the edge of the bed. I take a closer look. It’s a box of rat poison. I leave it there and close the door behind me.

Finally, the trick-or-treaters have come and gone. I search the place for Snowball and sure enough, I’ve found him, lying limp in a pool of vomit, here on the bathroom floor.

curiosity . . .
the ghosts in the attic
are playing for keeps

First published in Scryptic, November 2018

The Next Moment

Posted inHaibun, PoetryNo Comments

He watched the leaf drop beneath the horizon and gently light on the ground. He watched as it became a memory, lingering there in the blooming sunrise.

one step closer
to revelation . . .
a cherry tree blossoms

First published in Under the Basho, November 2018

Broken Mirror

Posted inHaibun, PoetryNo Comments

Sometimes I just sit and stare at an empty page. Nothing comes so I decide to write about nothing which often turns into something. Let’s see. My life’s journey has been so convoluted that I can’t even put it into chronological order anymore. Sure, I have memories but they’re all tangled up like a ball of yarn subjected to a cat. It’s gotten so bad, I can’t remember if yesterday was really the day before or the day before that. Tossed around in childhood, I turned and became a wanderer. I’ve long since given up on putting it all together. Better a painting by Jack the Dripper than an empty box of crayons. I doubt any historian will ever sort it out so let’s be frank . . . if you want a piece of me, you better get it now.

searching for buried treasure . . .
better ways to lose my mind
have not been found