Spring Emotions

Rich rain smell

scent of melting snow

Usher departure

of deep rooted frost

saturated bedding

for browned blades

grass loose-rooted

gently nudged awake

by sun’s growing

fever. I, long asleep,

winter wrapped,

reach tired arms,

achingly, toward you,

toward your warmth,

to melt deeply

rooted frosts of anger

and loosely rooted

spears of fear

A Study in Alluvial Science in the Gutter Out Front

Cold clean clear rivulets of a long past snow storm

run a crooked line merging, diverging and merging

around a bottle cap–a barren flat topped manmade island–

or grains of sands that tumble like boulders in glacial run off

collecting and creating countless drumlins in miniature

chunks of shovel loosed grass form dense archipelagos

near a vast waterfall falling fast from a sheer concrete cliff

increasing the current and widening the flow as it merges again

and diverges through a metal sluice pouring into a larger stream

underground flowing and increasing with more and more streams

until after many days ending up joining the torrential currents of

the upper Mississippi and flowing south to Gulf of Mexico and the sea.

Season — Augmented Spoken Word

Hey all,

Check out my spoken word work:

 

 

For those that like to read along:

 

 

 

 

 

Spring

 

Broken brown bits,  crisp
crumbles of last year’s green
and several dozen types of leaves,
crust over spring growth.
Like asthmatic ash from Vesuvius
Killing whole swathes of grass
roots and all, thier blades useless
reducing lawn to soil and mold
A graveyard of a landscape
ripe for the visagoth weeds
and hordes of invading seeds.

 

Ruckus winds rustle up dust and pollen

Much to my red-eyed stuffy nosed chagrin

Blowing snow mold from greening grasses

and picking up Spring’s pouring puddles

placing them in soft slow cumulus clouds

that patrol above like sentinels on watch

over birds scouting for nesting real estate

and us walking the recently unclothed yard

hunting sprigs and signs of future flowers

amidst the detritus of falls fallen waste

welcoming a storm’s whisper in the billowing

breeze, thunder being the trumpet blast

heralding the warmer season to come.

 

Late Summer

 

Drowning in throat coating dust
dragging deep dry breathes
thick through burning nose
down into long lashed lungs
on arid August afternoons
with lawn long gone brown
the sandy soil scorched naked
wind whipping up small dust devils
plastering particles of sand
to sweat soak on skin exposed
to reddening low slung searing sun
and one can only sit stone still
waiting for the inevitable window
shaking thunder storm to clear
the air and the damned drought.

 

And the sun surrenders dropping down in water
sky turning shades of fall foliate

The leaves themselves rustling muted and thick

laying in wait as insects hold their breath
upon the whisper of a storm tiptoing toward us  in the air

even the massive mirror of lake sits stil waiting,  a pebble tossed wouldn’t upset it’s calm.
the fish too admire it’s beauty and do not to jump
for bugs on the surface.

A Fire takes root
warming the night
Fingers of flame reach low hung branches
Logs groan and spit heat
Casting errant embers like molten bullets

Among us

As we watch moths,kamikaze to their deaths with unnervingly  grace into the dying flames

 

Fall

Fall fell sudden

Like a broken arrow

from an old archer’s

time worn palsied hand

Leaves crisp aqnd brittle

as rattling ancient bones

tumble around desperately

In the yard Catching

on the lawn or a stick, a puddle

a fence post, reaching for any thing

that holds.

And at night…

Through the leaves and
trees – The cool full
moon does not shine on
me as I sit or maybe
stand by the faltering fire pit
that is full of darkening coals
grown old and cold as the
late September night
and the coals also
do not shine on ….

Through the leaves and
trees – the old and cold
darkening coals do not shine on
me as I stand or maybe
sit, back turned to fire pit
that is full like the cool bright moon

Grown old and cold on this late September night.

 

 

 

Winter

Breath hard and heavy,
stumbling still sleepy,
along an old overgrown road,
cutting through dark woods,
tripping over logs long rotten,
now frozen stone solid

toward deerstand lashed

in marraige to old oak.
The November morning grey
seeps into pre-dawn gloom
as I sit in the soft slow sway

of my metal perch

watching shadow-like trees stand
against sharp freezing air
Frost tugging at tips of toes
damp in booted thick socks
a nape of neck breeze tickling
down the back chilling deep
in spite of my thermal shirt
Fingers pulled into palms
tips tight tucked away
against early winter’s
urgent and constant cold

soon we will cacoon against the season

in anticipation for of the next turning of the cycle

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kite — A Poem about Feeling Hopelessly Stuck

 

A kite in the tree

the crab apple tree

Want to get it down

the kite is stuck

and you only shrug

Say “Let the dog in”

 

This is your life

Charlie Brown

 

A Monarch in the tree

the kite is a Monarch

Stuck in the tree

In the crab apple tree

Still you only shrug

Say, “Let the dog in”

 

This is your life

Charlie Brown

 

Look at that kite

Up in the tree

This is important

The kite stuck in the tree

Again you only shrug

Say “Let the dog in”

 

This is your life

Charlie Brown

 

But Chuck is stuck

Up on a tree

He is no Monarch, no kite

in the crab apple tree

Finally you only shrug

Say, “Let the dog in”

 

This is your life

Charlie Brown.

 

A kite in the tree

the crab apple tree

Want to get it done

The kite is stuck

Finally, you shrug

Say, “Let the dog in”

 

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Zephyr — A Poem about March Winds (that came in April this year).

Ruckus winds rustle up dust and pollen

Much to my red-eyed stuffy nosed chagrin

Blowing snow mold from greening grasses

and picking up Spring’s pouring puddles

placing them in soft slow cumulus clouds

that patrol above like sentinels on watch

over birds scouting for nesting real estate

and us walking the recently unclothed yard

hunting sprigs and signs of future flowers

amidst the detritus of falls fallen waste

welcoming a storm’s whisper in the billowing

breeze, thunder being the trumpet blast

heralding the warming effects of Spring.

Elegy for Innocence

Once a sweet breath
of light spring clear air
drawn early in the morning
as damp dew cool and fresh
touches toes in wet Keds
that run in morning fields,
to evening woods so large
they must not be on any map
remain unexplored and mysterious

Until one day Ked’s don’t fit
beat, ragged and worn
like bedsheets of the sick
and spring turns to August
heavy sour and tainted
with the jaded sweat of time
and there is no time to explore
any morning fields, or evening woods,
because fields and woods don’t fit
and they are no longer huge, new
or a mystery