What makes
A lot of Crows
A Murder?
Forty
Or so
That’s for sure
They’ve come
For the nuts
And some water
Their coats
Shining black
Night-sky pure
Categories
Crow
Crow, Crow
Pushy
Scared
Crow, Crow
Every
Where
Some in the garden
Some on the roof
Crow, crow
Sacred
Proof
Categories
Two Towers
Standing behind the crowd in the
Auditorium, looking down at
The Wasteland and more importantly
The Poet on a pedestal who
We were in awe to see. We bow
And say blessings to the lord of the
Modern moment where everyone realized
We were doomed. That the industrial gloom
Would blacken our minds as it had
Already blackened our lungs
And blinded our windshields
Our eyes in the dim lit neon spectacles, wept.
This was my experience from the lectern.
And I worshipped for many years the
Quartets and the high-minded — I don’t
Understand — Get the Encyclopedia — language
But, this was
Modern?
Now
I reckon
upon
a more clearly modern mind
Here
I find
The Red
Wheelbarrow
And a delicious
Plum
And I am
completely
satisfied
By nothing too Mythic
At all (save Unicorns & Beasts)
Just A
Waterfall
Of images
and words
That float along on pages
The rhythm
Tapping its foot – – –
Variably – – – –
Changing
Before you know it
You don’t know it
You don’t know why
It has changed
But it feels
So right.
Justified on the page to fit
Left and right
Right and wrong
Tomorrow and Goodnight
The Wanderer
The Sparrow
The Woman
The River
The Man
The City
The Poet
Founder
Of the plain
Every day
And therefore
Devotionally and divine poem.
Categories
Night B4 Christmas
We used to spend
A lot of time
At Christmas
Making magic
In the dark
Behind the curtain
From whole carrots
Left for reindeer
Turned to shredded Peels
The half drunk
Milk and a belly
Full of cookies
I didn’t need
To eat to
The secrets revealed
In the morning
When they wake to
Find “Santa Came!”
Categories
“Christmas Tears” by Jim Sutherlin
This cannot be understood unless the degree
of sibling rivalry between Louise and Jimmy
is also understood.
But that is another item discussed elsewhere.
Christmas morning.
Presents opened.
Floor littered.
Santa had arrived and just the right presents were
now being enjoyed.
Louise had a perfectly pretty doll she adored.
Jimmy had a six-shooter pistol with holster and belt.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Running through the house shooting everything in sight.
Cap smoke and smell filled the air.
“Jimmy! Get on your coat and take that outside,”
Mom yelled from the kitchen.
“Get out of here,” Louise echoed from the living room.
That sounded like a good idea to Jimmy.
Outside meant more targets imagined or real.
After Christmas dinner and because of the early awakening,
Jimmy fell asleep.
But no sooner had his eyes popped open again
than he was up looking for his pistol, holster and belt.
Search as his might they were nowhere in sight.
Outside.
He must have left them outside.
The search continued and they were outside for sure.
Belt and holster were tossed aside.
The pistol was smashed to smithereens
between two bricks!
Weeping and wailing, he ran to the house and
told Dad what had happened.
Louise went into hiding in the darkest corner
she could find.
But Dad found her.
And with her doll in hand and her hand
reluctantly in Dad’s hand the scene of the crime was revisited.
Justice would be done.
The pretty doll was then laid on one brick
and Louise was made to bash it to pieces with the other one.
Pieces of broken pistol littered the ground
joined by pieces of broken doll.
Tears kept on streaming to the ground from Jimmy’s cheeks
soon to be mixed with even more tears
as Louise joined the chorus of weeping and wailing.
The two kids were too young to think
of anything or anyone else.
But if someone else had been there to notice,
the bitterest Christmas tears that day
were in Dad’s eyes.
Categories
Winter’s Day
Winter is here
Mid-
Winter
If you
Live someplace cold
Cold is here
Morning
Ice
Muffin tops
Made of glass
Glass window
Draped
In fog
Glowing
With Christmas colors
Colors everywhere
This time of year
A light
To bring you
Through the dark winter night
3 Robins
in a bush
Murder of Crows
On the roof
In search
Of water
In search
Of food
Winter’s
Here
Hunger
Soon
You fall (asleep);
You call
“My Rings”
You sit straight up
And do the
Hypnic Jerk
The floor gone
An elevator on
With only one
Dropping
Motion
You flail
And crick your neck
Wiplash as
You do the
Hypnic Jerk
Cliffside
Sure you’ll die
You fall awake
Strain at the ache
Of sudden
Consciousness–
You object and
Represent the 70%
Who do the
Hypnic Jerk
The old man sits
His accomplishments
In his lap
A bag of
Memories and triumphs
Moments and epiphanies
He is alone
Now, sometimes unable to
Make sense of the bundle
He opens it
Rummages for one
To abate his longing
No longer relevant
All of his virile impressions
Are now gathered here
A wish to silence
The depression, the anger
With one last victory
And, if some passerby
May find him here
He would always share
For the stories
Of these deeds
Were all he has left
…to give…
Logs don’t lie
They burn
Or they lay still
Awaiting combustion or some
Shape made useful by the knife.
Its life knows first the tree
Then the use at least to fall
Back into soil for the next generation.
But, burn it must
To kindle inspiration for
What greater things we can create.
The power of industry
To Cook
To Forge
To Kiln —
The fire burns in the human spirit
Raging for us
To free ourselves
From the blue light
Of the black box
That consumes
Our waking moments.