Poems written by me.
something about the moon
the orange evening sky
the way houses
become blocks of shadow
the jingling of the dogs’ leads,
their rabies tags
the hiss and whirr of sprinklers
a man watering the lawn,
hose in one hand, a cigarette
and beer in the other
that orange sky
mockingbirds singing slower
bats swarming just above the trees
a deer watching from the trail
ears twitching
the dogs leading us home
as they have for millennia
and that waxing moon
again and again
Asphalt miles vanish beneath ever-thinning treads.
Sometimes a truck passes and the car trembles.
The truck fades, a memory in the rearview mirror,
and in that distance behind us, we see freedom.
In the miles between radio stations, voices crackle
from Mexico from Flagstaff, islands in a static soundtrack.
The lines on the map folded on the dash become
highways through the desert, the smile on your lips.
From pine-shrouded campgrounds to painted ruins,
roadside motels to cars, wrecked and rusting in the desert,
and in the night-crashing waves of the western shore,
we learn the meaning of these secret messages:
rhythm of wheels, music of static, your hand on my knee,
the elegant whisper of trucks traveling the other way.
Along a southeast Texas highway, alone in a field, a missile points into a blue sky from behind a screen of trees, their lower trunks blackened in a perfect line by Hurricane Ike’s saltwater surge. The missile’s joints are rusted and whatever markings may once have identified it and warned away godless commies and damned Yankees are long faded leaving behind a tattered egret-white coat of peeling paint. No identifying information lurks at the base unless it’s been swallowed by the grasses of the coastal plain, which in a less droughty spring would now be alive with the ten thousand shades of a wildflower revolution.
a rusted missile
aimed toward the springtime sky
windblown prairie grass
Her name was Gasoline;
she was my goddess.
I chased her down highways
and through years.
Driven mad by her
perfume and shimmer,
her invitation to ride,
whispers of adventure.
She ran me a twisted road
to strange cities until
somewhere in the traffic,
the heat of endless delay,
I stopped
and forgot the road.
But she’s still out there and
though her name is cursed,
she still smells like freedom
and wild younger days.
Dusk ripples
across the pond.
A great blue heron
stalks sunlight
along the reeds.
He snags a fish,
turtle-sized,
from the water.
He flips and swallows
the fish, which falls
down his gullet
like a rabbit
through a snake.
His neck straightens;
the fish is gone.
He shadows dark
along the shore.
Don’t you wonder
if that fish
ever believed
in herons?
—
This post in included in I and the Bird # 149 over at Twin Cities Naturalist. Sadly, this looks to be the last edition of I and the Bird. I’ve been participating off-and-on for 5 years and even hosted it once. Sad to see it go…
There’s a cracked old deer bone
in a small field by the stream.
It’s been there for years
and every few months or so,
it moves a few feet. Maybe
a season goes by and it’s buried
in the grass and wildflowers, but
when autumn comes again,
the bone resurfaces like driftwood
from an ocean turning brown.
I wonder what coyote picks it up
only to spit it out a few steps later.
After the bleached taste
of years and sun-dried blood
on brittle bone, does he go
to the stream to drink away
the taste or let it linger, a reminder
of all the songs he still can sing?
Legend says
this land was sculpted by golf pros who only knew how to make a buck.
Legend says
there is a secret zodiac of yet-to-be trademarked corporate logos.
Legend says
the northwest passage was built by Bigfoot but is now owned by crows.
Legend says
there was a cat who joined the circus to run the big humans act.
Legend says
trees are the heretical thoughts of stone, but no one understands.
Legend says
the woman on the lake bottom sold her sword business for a taco stand.
Legend says
there was a man who named three oceans and drowned in a river.
Legend says
all night, the cities beneath the plains hum that tune stuck in your head.
Legend says
the Loch Ness grebe got lost on migration and settled in Oklahoma.
Legend says
everyone has three teeth and a tongue that aren’t attached to them.
Legend says
a man rode out of town and returned with an elixir made from cheap tequila.
Legend says
words are keys, but the doors were all busted down by thugs years ago.
Legend says
I don’t want to go to bed; tell me another one.
—
This was based on one of the prompts at Big Tent Poetry: start a poem with the phrase “legend says…”
—
My sci-fi haibun “Dear Old Stockholm” is up over at qarrtsiluni as part of the translation issue. Be sure to check it out and while you’re there have a look around. There’s a lot of great work in the issue.
Stretch your arms, rock to and fro
on the abandoned tracks, imagine
you’re a great ocean bird. Swoop,
dive, fly up to dizzying heights, peer
down to a rippled carpet, the ocean,
far below. Lean into your dive, feel
gravity’s pull, the insistence of textbook laws,
the water miles away. Accelerating,
you race until at the last moment,
wings straining with the effort, you pull
up. Soar away from collision, use
momentum to regain the sky. Eager
you test yourself against another drop.
Open your eyes. Disoriented, you’re standing
on the broken tracks, arms outstretched.
A flock of gulls about their business stays
a safe distance away. They have no idea
you flew with them. They watch
you with aviator’s eyes, making sure
you never attempt to get too close.
Walking home, you wonder if the sky is
farther away than ever, if you’ll ever belong.
She grew up in the land of twisters,
seeking shelter in middle bathrooms.
She baptized herself in the rivers of glass
sparkling through the broken house.
Wall clouds turned and blackened,
the sky decayed, fell down from itself.
Monsters ate trees in the night
but by morning, birds always returned,
the feeders full of color and song,
while all around hailstones melted.
Only small questions remained, then;
the big ones were all torn up
with the trees and trails, apologies
she used to believe she owed.
A familiar man in coveralls claims
he can repair the roof faster, cheaper,
better than the other guys who don’t
understand these things (sign here please).
Her fists clench, knuckles ache like love;
she relaxes only when he leaves.
She whispers secrets to her daughter:
about the days of electricity and engines,
about the thrill of kneeling wild-eyed
before the weather radio’s robot voice,
about prayers for thunder and wind,
about how she learned to control storms
and how everything that happens
flashes in a dark and roaring instant.
—
Call this my first NaPoWriMo poem for this April. I had mixed feelings about the whole thing last year, but here I am again, back for more. I won’t be posting here on weekends, of course, but I’ll still be writing my daily stones at a gnarled oak (but I often don’t post weekend stones until Monday). One where or another, though, there will be daily poems.
The soaring hawks who patrolled this highway
through the winter watched as wildflowers grew.
As if the sky were napping on the earth,
the fields in spring explode in deepest blue.
Fields mirror sky and fill with the shadows
of hawks and vultures flying through flowers.
Bipedal hairless apes swarm through the fields,
teeth bared, pointing rectangles at each other.
In just a few more weeks, the bluebonnets
will wither and be swallowed by the grass.
Then the soaring hawks will get their fields back
as, ignoring green, the apes just drive on past.
—
This was first published at Bolts of Silk (thanks, Juliet!) back in May 2009. I figured I’d share it here now since it’s springtime and our awesome Texas wildflowers are starting to show up along the highways. Also, I’m busy and getting over a cold so it’s a good time for posting reruns of a sort.
—
Caroline at Caroline at Coastcard [Land & Lit] wrote some very nice things about last year’s gnarled oak chapbook. They’re all gone now, but you can still read them online (though apparently not if you’re using an iphone).
—
Dave Bonta is running a cool little contest over at Moving Poems wherein contestants will produce a videopoem using Howie Good’s poem “Fable.” I’m almost done with my entry. Deadline is April 15. Check it out.