Relief.
Months of
Mounted
pressures
Released
for the
first time.
Steam bursting
from a boil
of potatoes
changing
soiled
potential
into energy.
Gathered
friends to
remember
and enjoy
the bounty
that our labors
have provided.
“Let us give thanks.”
Boys
Are dumb
And I was one
Who stood upon
A red rock ledge
At the top of the bell
Where it all went to hell
While I almost fell to my death
As the couple sunbathed on the spire
Below us. — Bandana over foot, iron spike
And a couple friends spared my corpse
from too much youthful ambition.
Protected valley
Almost secret.
Easily missed.
A closed garden
Naturally walled
With mesas on
All sides. Few
Openings for
Free passage
Among the stones.
Seasonal bounty
Arises. Perfect
Conditions for life.
Fertile volcanic
Soil needs only
Moist covering
To yield sustenance.
Native flowers,
Cacti, cedar
Abound, adapted
To dry and
Sometimes
Absent thunderstorms.
One monsoon
and her ridges
will be riddled with
The colors of
A desert bloom.
As
Fast
As a Falcon Flies
Pere-
Grine
Fastest bird alive
Tracks
Three
Objects with one eye
Sharp
White
Feathers, tucked to fly
Brown
Tail
Strapp’d down for the ride
Sharp
Gold
Talon avicide
Bloody
Dinner for his bride.
Boys
are dumb
I was one
I sat upon a
Rocky Mountain
shale slide eating
lunch with my brother
And sister. A logging road
As the likes my parents loved
To drive around on. I sat upon
A slide of shale that went down
For a while. I thought what fun it
Would be to slide on down that mile
and so I listened to my will and let go.
Down I went at quite a clip, wound up below
Terrified, I realized the error of my ways and began
to cry. “Dad, Dad! help me!” and down he came a bound
he sprang to my rescue. “Are you alright?” he said with fright
“Let’s get out of here.”
Write me something
Make it quick
Make it quicken
Make it thick
Phat with meaning
Pierce the soul
Get right to it
Start a scroll
Share your story
Tell a tale
Paint a picture
Be angry, yell
Just do it, damnit!
Give us your words
We’ll run the gamut
Beautiful to absurd.
Yes, write me a poem
Write it good, right it bad
Present us with something
Mad, glad or fad.
“Are you done with this?”
When we
were out
on desert snow
Up top
our fair
equestr’an mounts
We saw
A lone
Ghostly Mustang
Upon
the hill.
Whiplashing mane
White
Like snow
It flows
flurry over muscle
Watch’d us
ride by
then off
with a stride
Chasing after Freedom
You and I have both known men
Who didn’t know their fathers
And in the end when daddy
dies their ship’s afloat no anchor.
I am a rare and fortun’te one
To have a father I’ve known
Throughout my life, for good
for bad who kept the lighthouse on.
So many stumble in the dark
No hand to guide them through
Your faith, your light against the void
You always knew what to do.
Yes, we are the rare and fortunate ones
to share these times with you
May we pass on just a little of your light
To those who need it too.
“How may I be of service?”
Clip, clip
Snip, snip
“Don’t say that”
Stop, stop
Censorship
“Cut the crap”
On lips
One slip
Could reveal me
Know? No!
Say so
Better, not free
Hide, hide
Words words
“That’s a wrap.”
Censure
Can’t say
Lingual mind trap
Say we
Do, well
Then we’re through:
“I’ve heard just about
enough from you!”
Upon coronation the mandate was clear, find all the poets
Remove them from their posts, burn their works, make them ghosts
Metron was the first to be taken, his home burned to the ground,
A forced capitulation, his family, his staff were removed from town.
Each Officer of the Arts were hunted down, all their counterparts
And supports were taken to deport to the ramparts
On the outskirts of the cities. No one who made the claim
That poetry and drawing are superior forms of knowing are the same
As traitors to the Republican cause. The Rhapsodes
And bards were locked behind bars. Their episodes,
Their similes, their grandiose plots and tragic themes
Were to be shelved like volumes of books or reams
Of paper for the printers press now shattered like the tattered
Dreams of Authors with no magazines now silenced on all matters
That matter to society. Banished under the watchful eye
Of the most trusted of the Guardians who would not cry
For they are ruled by philosophy, not the tears of poetry.