Looking for the Muse

Merry Christmas, 2011

2011-12-25T06:09:00.001-08:00

White Squirrel

2011-06-09T18:40:00.000-07:00

I watch from my office window the movements of one albino squirrel;

He is as scrupulous as an ant. He silently buries his pecans, pitilessly.

Softly laying aside his store for harder seasons;

Quietly caching his life.

One Voice

2011-06-09T18:37:00.000-07:00

The voice of my grandson is like this: bababa — some sort of indefinite pronoun.

When he cries, grampa; he re-invents me.

At breakfast he feeds me cracker; I reciprocate with juice.

Once he sips, he utters a manly ahhhhhh, like my daddy used to utter

while sitting in front of the tube washing down pork rinds during Sunday’s game.

Surreal Scene

2011-06-09T18:32:00.000-07:00

This is rancho Marquesas;

9000 miles from mayhem.

Just a speak-easy bar, 3 bamboo huts,

Lashed with Huka line.

We are fueled by liqueur.

Bacardi is our friend and all the Gauguins

And Conrads throw one or two back;

Some get drunk and dance.

Fata Nuka envisioned sainthood

I passed out.

Others sip on pineapple daiquiris;

Some eat mangoes atop tikis,

Keeping watch, as tramp steamers glide by.

Detached from the earth and its dream of life, the steamers

Sail to Papeete, Tahiti, passing pink coral beaches

Disappearing Into the Polynesian evening.

diphthongs in a thong

2011-06-09T15:59:00.000-07:00

Her voice is the staccato of a German burp gun —

monosyllables flowing by me at the speed of sound.

She halts, pedestal - like, talking into eternity,

I gaze deeply down into her gaping mouth;

Her tongue — quicksilver suspended in static space.

She utters diphthongs in a thong; I’m dumbfounded.

Her syllables hover in the heavens.

hiatus

2011-05-31T04:55:00.000-07:00

I've been on one, u know, that hiatus thing. Or, maybe, I've been on an enduring blank. Writer's block, i think?

A gap or interruption in space, time, or continuity; a break: "We are likely to be disconcerted by . . . hiatuses of thought" (Edmund Wilson).
http://www.thefreedictionary.com/hiatus

Maybe the Muse will stike me down today.

Garage Sale

2010-10-31T16:37:00.000-07:00

I’m open at 7:30 am to hear the bluebirds sing;
I’ll close at 11:30 am so I can coast to the café to scarf down a chili dog & coffee.
But, for now, I’m asking you to not smoke, at least, not in this house
and please understand that all objects are on a Cash & Carry basis.
And please be easy on the screen door handle.
And I hope I haven’t invented too many rules,
but, I can’t break a $20.00 dollar bill or larger.

FYI

2010-09-18T11:39:00.000-07:00

This blog features my original poetry, but, you are free to share your creative works. I write, for the most part, free verse. Although I enjoy traditional rimed poetry. My favorite poets are e.e. cummings and King David. I appreciate rap, but most of its content is crap. I especially respect the confessional poets. Confession is good for the soul. I prefer the KJV, but do not eschew the Message Bible. Reading poetry naked is something I would never do, although when I do a poetry reading I like to wear a red bandana, sunshades, + Koss headphones. Sometimes I hold a drink in my hand like Dean Martin. :)

Self-Portrait 1

2010-09-18T11:28:00.000-07:00

From the darkness of the womb
Terse verse births

Huevos Rancheros

2010-02-28T06:53:00.000-08:00

“Get some spice in your life, baby!” he says to me
As I top off his cup with hot java.
I see how he eats those bloody eggs,
Slathered with salsa and jalapeños.
And how he shakes the black pepper and iodized salt over them.
And how he, down from oil fields, grins at me,
Ogling my big bassoons.

Syllabary

2010-02-28T06:25:00.000-08:00

I sit here with coffee mug in hand, surfin’ the net,
Checking FB, fabricating another alter ego.
-the sounds of Macy’s T-day parade streaming through the walls
of our pier and beam house.
-the smells of grammas sweet potato pie.

Outside a crested cardinal perches on a mesquite log, the log laying in sunflowers.

Logging off the buzz of the binary universe, I hear the syllabary of his song:
He sings: sweet, sweet, sweet.
Then, chip - chip - chip - chip, like a refrain from an
antiquated typewriter.
I hear him addressing seeds saying: pretty - pretty - pretty.

Concrete Culvert

2010-02-24T20:46:00.001-08:00

Falling onto the culvert, feeling flustered, then, throbbing, then, that embarrassment all boys feel. And their overpowering presence – LOL – looming over me. My cuz slaphappy, bent over with laughter. And I , I , sat on that sizeable concrete culvert, crumpled by clumsiness, began to whine (little boys don’t shed tears, not in my family). But my sis laughed so hard, she peed herself. “my bttheaded bro has fallen in the ditch,” she crows. But, I was six years old and smoldering.

Lover Recumbent

2009-08-18T13:54:00.001-07:00

Encased in those old dried clichés
Like crushed roses in her antique diary;
Crushed - deformed by passions,
She had performed so well.

Long ago, lying beside him; some young buck she'd encountered
at a nocturnal ball. She had known him under one pecan tree --
The ambiance of magnolias and honey-suckle.

Now, seventy years later, she lies down, staring up at stucco,
With lilies decking her bed and fleur-de-lis
Forming a crescent around her head;
Dying flowers memorializing her final waltz.

Those that don't do

2008-12-30T12:20:00.000-08:00

Some produce a magnum opus - some don't.
Those that don't do a Divine Comedy or an Odyssey or a Sistine Chapel perhaps
prefer to slice open a succulent Texas grapefruit and
sprinkle some sugar over the upturned halves.

As he sprinkles he smiles at the ruby red halves sitting on
beautiful saucer he purchased for his bride
from a Hopi in Navaho Land.

8000 Chickens

2008-07-14T11:51:00.000-07:00

Low flying Hueys buzz my flock at @ 2 AM;
Weekend warriors were out having fun.

Bantams collided in midair with broilers,
Careening off one another,
Messerschmitts and Spitfires crashing into tin,
Piling up thick against the wall of their coop.

At dawn, walking out to survey the damage, I see red.
I spy broken birds; my forehead furrows.
I scoop red earth, slinging it at the scarlet sky.

My arms extending.
My fists clenching, clutching clay,
Chicken blood dripping from my fingers.

Next morning the rag reports:
"Eight Thousand Chickens Destroyed
In Cadaverous County."

The Alley

2008-07-10T09:21:00.000-07:00

The tapering perspective down the alleyway:
The angle of the alley
The rigid alley
The alley's straightness
The backdrop of blues
The withering weeds
The rotting boards
The pallid privacy fences
The prickly hedges of holly
The invading kudzu
The high-pitched telephone poles
The decomposing mesquites
The mysterious rattlers
The black garbage urns
Dotting the alleyways like angels of
Death, waiting to collect
the refuse of dead dogs.

Black Dominoes

2007-03-08T10:22:00.000-08:00

Dad's Crown dominoes, a double six set, as black as midnight,
Gleamed on the kitchen table;
They came with game rules in the base of a cardboard box.

My dad, Dick, would shuffle those bones along the sleek table
And I would listen to the rhythm of the clicking bones.
Sometimes they were chattering to me.
Sometimes they seemed in slow motion
Like old farts doing their death dance,
Shuffling off their mortal coils.

(composed on May 13, 2003)