dry live oak flowers
a withered rain following
each southerly gust
by James Brush
Poems written by me.
dry live oak flowers
a withered rain following
each southerly gust
shrieking joy and fire, hair
snaking out the window, racing
parking garage curves
carbon monoxide hellsmoke fumes
tires screech pedestrians,
shorebound sailors, mostly
jump from her maniac path,
cursing the admiral’s
daughter, her giant car,
the course she charted
over asphalt and down
to the drunken shore
down shore drunken
stars sailing overhead
sunrise sunrise bubbling
up from the Atlantic, filling
her blonde hair, again, with fire
smoldering laughter, spark
the curves of the road, her
body shaking joy and flame
foot on the gas, all the way
if there’s a gun
it must be fired
that’s the rule
and so now this poem
has a gun hanging there
and it must go off
it’s not much of a rifle
just a .22, at least
a hundred years old
with stock worn smooth
nothing to race
a hunter or collector’s
blood
still, there are cacti
and roadsigns
on the highway
we could shoot
and deer
standing dumbly
on the road waiting
for wolves that
never show
but I’d really rather not
shoot any of these
though I like firing guns
I mean who doesn’t, right?
and so perhaps we’ll
leave it hanging there
for now
as if above the door
of a hill country cabin
across from the mounted
deer head wearing
a rakishly cocked gimme cap
and I’ll wake at night
and check occasionally
to see that it hasn’t moved
because someday, of course,
it has to be fired if not in this poem
certainly in another
abandoned nest
two mourning dove eggs
under open sky
—
They abandoned the nest after a week, leaving two eggs behind. Don’t know if they decided they didn’t like our porch and dogs, or if they got eaten. I suppose now the grackles, jays, squirrels or whoever else will get some eggs soon.
The desert stretches its paws in endless forevers.
Vultures and hawks circle overhead
eyeing ruined billboards advertising
diners gone since the seventies.
Echoes of the ancient world tumble
over rock, spill down through time.
Coyotes call those who never come,
hang up when no one answers.
This billion year old ocean sea still can drown,
though the water now just floats as clouds.
I walk from my car, leave it unlocked.
I walk over scrub grass desperate for water.
I walk toward rocks painted by ancient hands.
I walk over fish, seaweed, dinosaurs, meteorites.
I walk into time made visible, layered and worn.
I walk until sunset when stars begin to burn my skin.
I get in the car, drive to the next town,
find a motel and watch a ballgame on TV.
—
I’m attempting NaPoWriMo again. As usual only stones on the weekends. This year I also plan to write about one poetry collection per week, probably on Fridays. Let the madness begin.
the chickadee sits
on her nestlings, each breath
a feather’s tremble
—
I think I’ll be posting my small stones here for NaPoWriMo and maybe past that. I’m not sure I want to keep maintaining two blogs. We’ll see.
I walk as in an autumn dream
to this sweet and secret stream.
Cumulous roiled sky and leaves,
reflections in this cloudlet stream.
Come winter nightfall stars shine
time above this comet stream.
Raindrops pelt the surface of this
momentary wavelet stream.
Despite well known creeks, I’m drawn
each spring to this minute stream.
Turtles travel the muddy road
of this slow and temperate stream.
Summer noon, birds disperse; only
wind around this quiet stream.
How many days have I explored
and sat beside this favorite stream?
I saw the wind today
not evidence of wind
like a leaf skittering
through traffic
actual wind—just
for a moment like
glare in glasses
when you turn your head
(but I wasn’t wearing glasses)
the wind was there
and it wasn’t
like a mourning dove
disappearing into grayer
fog
///
fingers twitch
like a rattlesnake
twitch like
a harmless rat snake
fooling those who come
too close
the judgement passed
too easily by those
who say he’s just white trash
who say he deserved that bullet
behind the chicken joint
///
Prayers go mumbling to the sky
mumbling
to the graying sky
the wind answers
forgets for a moment
invisibility
just for that moment
fleeting, gone
before I even knew it was there
but I knew it was there
I knew
There was a time when film was too expensive.
In those days, we used words scrawled
on fast food wrappers, creased maps and memory.
The cars ran on gasoline and explosions.
The phones were tethered to wires,
but we weren’t tethered to anything.
The highways stretched forever.
Nobody knew what was on the other end.
Not the maps of the ancient conquistadors
nor the atlases of the highway cartographers
could show us the ten thousand things
we needed to see for ourselves.
—
This is one I’ve been kicking around a while.
In other news, mark Stratton gave a nice quick review of Birds Nobody Loves. He interviewed me for his blog too and that should be appearing in the near future. Thanks, mark!