Listening To Her Singing At The Stove

The sound of the voice of my wife,
Heard, from a few rooms away,
In the place where we live our life,
Amidst hanging laundry and books,
Sheltered from outside stress and strife,
Her familiar voice, singing, as she cooks
Supper, calms and sooths the moment,
No matter how imposing tomorrow looks...

Global Warming

Having heard most recently,
That climates are changed by
The world warming increasently,
Due to carbon dioxides,
And our failure to decently
Defer from driving everywhere
All the time, rather than walk,
And talk of change, is simply talk.

The Old Royal Bonsai

Whose hands have guided you
For 450 years? ... Bending
And trimming, your growing
Branches for seemingly unending
Numbers of seasons, not knowing,
Those hands, not pretending
To guess at what point the care
Should cease, if ever, because
The life force that is there
In the wood could be holy,
Feeding silently on water and air,
The spirit in the pine lives solely
To grow in green beauty, controlled,
With devotion, and love, by those
Hands, since the distant times of old...

Vincent's Gift

The man in the woods looks out at me
From between the trees,
What does he see?
But does he need to, caught in a Van Gogh...
Stay as long as he please,
The man in the wood, as long as he could.   

Going Lunar In The Girls' House

The moon looks full and fine,
And the womb-renewal
Pains of the girls align,
By a mysterious PMS design,
And the following days are hell,
But after that, things are fine...

The Last Laugh

One who laughs last, laughs best,
It's said, but gloating and giggling
Could invite the wrath of the rest,
Those who laughed first, who now gaze
Sourly, and see neither mirth nor jest
In the result now displayed...
Winners are crowned, losers dismayed,
And it's not smart to laugh
As the bets get paid...
So, have the last laugh, at the end of the day,
But do it discretely at a place far away...

Lost

Already deceased, but animate
And full of feelings, at a place
Isolated, surrounded by ocean,
And haunted with a misty trace
Of the unusual, the dead actors
"Strut and fret their hour upon
The stage", influenced by factors
Beyond their control, they're gone
Already, but just don't realize
It, despite the gleam in their eyes...

Written, While Trapped, In A Meeting

It's a sad fact of life
That no matter how
Much you sugar-coat
it, both then, and now,
Bad news does not get
Better with time's flowing...
Victims disinclined to
Forget or forgive, knowing
Not about live and let live,
It's a sad fact that the blowing
Winds cannot disperse
Bad seeds already sown,
Or the sound of the hearse
Carrying the newly mown...

Big 1950s Sedan

Look at you now, who used to be
So powerful, modern, and sleek,
A den on wheels where we
Rolled each other on the big back seat,
At the Drive-in, which is now
Also gone, like your wonderful fins,
Which are sad symbols of how
Inevitably the rusting begins...

(Photo by Geoffrey Hamilton, 1955-2011)

Insomnia

Sleep, when it does not come,
Deposits a gray weary scum
Which stifles, it seems,
The drift towards dreams,
Leaving one stranded, distressed,
And miles away from rest...
Sleep, when it stays away,
Is like a joke gone astray,
With the punchline gone
Until the coming of dawn,
And the light shows it's true,
That the joke's been on you,
Who now, gulping coffee,
Face a new day's reality...

Some Wisdom

If, for what you strive,
Is so distant and far,
Across a life's desert
Like an unreachable star,
Then don't walk, take a car...

Dahlia Blue

So, I'm an insect, let's say, seeking pollen

Or nectar, or whatever, and I come across

This amazing flower, way beyond my fallen

Expectations of beauty, I'm at a loss

For how to approach this Dahlia, the first

Blue one, ever, carefully watered and grown

Not for me, nor to quench my bee's thirst...

Perhaps its purpose is yet unknown,

With its heretofore unimaginable hue,

Fragile and gorgeous, this Dahlia blue...

     

Afternoon Job

A watched clock, with an approaching
Deadline -- appropriate word there --
Taints the lazy afternoon, poaching
What little peace I had to spare...

My Life Seen As A Tree

My life seen as a tree,
With marks where branches
Were snipped, lost
Opportunities and chances
That were cut, or never
Allowed to grow,
Is what the holes forever
Remain to show...
As my tree towers above
Life-green growing in the sky,
Time passing in the Sun's love,
Shading below, not asking why...

(Photo provided By Megan Young)

Memorial Day

What is to pity, or feel bad
About, the young ones will
Fight because it's the mad
World's way, the gut thrill
Of the hunt, especially for
Other men, the chase, the kill,
Organized into a thing called war...
Our children fight for their
Cause, like their fathers before,
And for the winners, the fanfare,
They are lifted, like heroes of yore...
For those who lose, there's nothing
But to lie and cower in the gore...
Then there's the others, who,
Are quietly returned from the fight,
But their parts no longer work together
Like in days before, or fit quite right,
These others must find a way
To somehow make it through,
Each and every remaining day...

(Photo by Geoffrey Hamilton, 1955-2011)

Big Cat At Risk

The Amur Tiger is dangerous,
Yet at the same time endangered,
According to the law,
It sees humans as a meal
To be eaten warm and raw,
What does the Amur Tiger feel,
As it licks blood off its paw...

Morning Tea

Chemicals from the English Breakfast tea
Circulate out from my stomach's wall
Into the bloodstream, to awaken me,
With each gulp of tea, it seems
I perceive the new day much more clearly,
The weird-cool mist of last night's dreams
Lifts before the daylight's jobs and schemes.

Party Time

Looking back on the wild weekend party,
And how the craziness started,
It probably was the moment when
The lights went off, and the hostess farted,
After that it was blind-fun-bedlam,
Until the morning, when the last guest departed.

Victorville Penitentiary

Always check your six,
Watch your back,
For the ones with smiles
Who wait to attack.

If you drop the soap,
Don't bend over,
Keep it on a rope.

Count the days,
But not the hours,
Don't sweat the shit
That's beyond your powers.

The weak dog
Is meat,
For the strong dog
To eat.

All things will pass,
But things can move slow,
Like growth of the grass,
But then it's done, before you know.

May you long live,
And not know the pain
Of a stabbing shiv...

Cold Cure

Fighting the ails
Of a cold with plenty
Of citrus juice,
And if all else fails
Don't declare a truce,
Try adding some tequila...
That'll heal ya.

Reality Of Violence

A barfight is not what you think
It is stupider, uglier, shorter
Than as shown on T.V., its stink
Is cigarettes, vomit, body sweat,
And its cause was trivial, a bet
Unpaid, a look misunderstood,
A warped defense of someone's womanhood,
But not worth the pain being inflicted
On the poor guy, prone on the floor,
Who believed in bar fights as depicted
In stories and on T.V., nothing more
Than a rumble and flying out the door,
Rather than the kick in the face
Which knocked out teeth and broke
His bones and left him a coma
From which he only just now awoke.

Tumbleweed (3)

The cab-over White
Freightliner is a
Rust-lonely sight,
Parked in the weeds...

And what tales might
It tell, of its deeds
On the deadly roads,
Of toiling and speeds
Too great for braking...

Or the countless
Farewells, forsaking
Love for the lonely freedom
Of the highway's making...  

A grand old truck,
Driven by
A tough old fuck.

(Photo by Geoffrey Hamilton, 1955-2011)

Sweet-tooth's Gift

Chocolate covered peanuts
Are proof positive,
That though life often sucks,
It sometimes has good things to give...

The Reality Of Marriage

Our love has made a space
Where the walls are soft
Rubber, and it's a place
You can lung and rage,
And rattle the cage...
For no bleeding or bruise
Can occur, because our love
Will ensure we neve lose
The special room,
Which will contain our passion,
Which we can always use...

Nebraska Sky

To a person who lives on the plains,
The vast open unblocked sky is more
Than a soft blue background to scenery...
It is a looming monolithic presence for
Which there is nothing to compare,
Except perhaps the sea, seen from a ship...
The sky above the plains is more than air,
It is a canvas on which magnificent art
Appears for a moment, then is no longer there,
It prophesizes of things about to start
Like the coming of a storm, rain, or hail...
The person of the plains wonders at the sky
Which inspires, yet makes him feel small and frail.

(Photo by Geoffrey Hamilton, 1955-2011)