Acrobatics

Here’s one from the inner workings of my mind — at times a haunted landscape. I title this brittle piece of ground: Acrobatics.

reptiles
and insects
slither
and crawl
through
the jungle
of my brain
fangs
horns
sex organs
scavenge
battle
penetrate

in the mist
stone gargoyles
scream my name

the ground
trembles
and splits
and in falls
the sky

Romans

I might give up my website and consolidate it with my blog. Let me know what you think on Facebook. In the meantime, here are a couple of images from the stack on my desk. They have no title, as do none of my images. They merely exist, having escaped from the corpuscles of my brain. They’re of the dubious Roman era of humanity. You remember the Romans. Those ten percent who lived in comfort and prosperity, thanks to the short and rude lives of the other ninety percent. I wonder if the word “creeps” existed back then. Pity if it didn’t.

waking on Hadrian’s Wall
to fierce falcon eyes
clouds darken
winds quicken
lightning cuts the sky

the ancient Roman road at dusk
the cry of sheep in the rising fog

Losers

last night
under the pier
it was vodka
wine chasers
and russian roulette
we stood around after
looking down at the loser
passing around
the last of the booze
we helped ourselves
to his worldly goods —
shoes
coat
seventy eight cents
someone asked
where he got the gun
no one could find it
in the dark sand

Deportation

Here’s one from the pressure cooker of World War Two. An image as relevant to our world now, as it was then. I title it: Deportation.

 

moonbeams

pierce

the rocking

freight car

to wash over

cracked lips

that mutter

litanies

spanning

centuries

Some Images

I’m finally back after a long stint with bilateral hip surgery. It’s good to be back on my feet and walking better than ever. Oh, and I just moved back to the D.C. area — Fairfax, Virginia. I missed it a lot, and it’s good to be home.

Here are a few images I’ve been working with. Not exactly the Imagism of Ezra Pound, but not exactly shlock either. Let me know what you think.

drizzle glazes
the fallen leaves
and blades of grass
uncovered by the wind
__________________________________
the pail clinks on the dark stoop
a cat bawls in the alley out back
__________________________________
walking late over the covered bridge:
the cacophony of crickets

Days Gone By (Revised)

Sorry, guys. Found a typo in the poem. Should have read “wild timber” instead of “wind timber.” Wild timber makes a little more sense. I apologize for the confusion in the verbage. Here’s the poem again with the correction.

 

it’s strange

the sounds

a house

can make

windows

rattling

lights

buzzing

the slow

baritone

of the place

settling

reminds me

of a boat

i had once

the wooden hull

would groan

like wild timber

when the wind

came up

just right

and she clipped

across the bay

her sails bulging

that was a

long time ago

a lifetime

it’s funny

you find yourself

looking back

to a time

when you were

younger

stronger

less afraid

a time when

all it took

to boil

your blood

was the toss

of the sea

maybe a

humpback

breaching

off your port

and the veins

in your hands

blue

and bulging

with life force

as you gripped

the wheel hard

in the current

Days Gone By

Here’s one about the sea from the pile on my desk. Sometimes I go to the stack and pull out something that catches my eye. Kafka was more organized. He filled shoe boxes and chucked them into his closet. Maybe I’ll do that, too. I like the idea of stacks of boxes filled with poems. The verse below was titled October. For the life of me, I can’t remember why I chose that moniker. I have changed it to Days Gone By.

 

it’s strange

the sounds

a house 

can make

windows

rattling

lights

buzzing

the slow

baritone

of the place

settling

reminds me

of a boat

i had once

the wooden hull

would groan

like wind timber

when the wind

came up

just right

and she clipped

across the bay

her sails bulging

that was a 

long time ago

a lifetime

it’s funny

you find yourself

looking back

to a time

when you were

younger

stronger

less afraid

a time when

all it took

to boil

your blood

was the toss

of the sea

maybe a

humpback

breaching

off your port

and the veins

in your hands

blue

and bulging

with life force

as you gripped 

the wheel hard

in the current