February 2011
17 posts
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Poetry Friday
Ode to My Forefathers
I.
Dad, when you taught me to skate
I didn’t know your father
had done the same some forty years ago,
pushing you to push the wooden chair
in front of you, wobbling like a top
until you slid under, unwilling to get up.
Did your father coax you out
like a fireman calls a kitten?
II.
He taught you balance, patience,
the things a man does
...
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Poetry Friday
Elegy for an Assassin
I.
He had killed more sons
than his mother birthed (eleven, all younger),
but professionalism kept his private practice
separate from his public life, a sales job
that required travel, separation
from his wife and daughter. At home,
he cut the grass and washed his car,
twirled his wife around the dining room
with dish soap on his hands, stopping
only...
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Kind of Like Ronnie and Sammi Sweetheart, but in...
Cleopatra: If it be love indeed, tell me how much.
Antony: There's beggary in the love that can be reckoned.
Cleopatra: I'll set a bourn how far to be beloved.
Antony: Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.
Love Poem
Y’all didn’t really think I’d let this day go by without some verse, did you? I managed to pump this out somewhere between the Grammy’s and a To Catch a Predator marathon (Love knows no bounds? Age is just a number? Inappropriate. You’re right). This poem isn’t straight cuddle, but neither is Love.
Love by the Seine as Day Closes in February
I finished un...
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Poetry Friday
Elegy for My Mistress
I still think back to the last time I kissed you
with the moon as my witness,
daring to breathe in your virtue to cover
my sin, inhaling a shawl too thin for both.
Leaving you
to shiver,
I backed down the porch steps, promising,
“I’ll come back tomorrow night, Sugar,”
but I couldn’t.
Not until now, glancing askance
at your gravestone
...
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“The bud
stands for all things,
even for those things that don’t flower,...”
– Galway Kinnell Saint Francis and The Sow
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Poetry Friday
America
The building is a sieve,
red with the blood of those on the roof
who rest in the basement as clouds
and taste like apples.
Sandy Koufax is playing catch at the Grand Ole Opry,
the building that catches all,
as he who had no nickname
watches from his seat, wondering
how they might shorten Lyle.
The shining example of outer space
allowed the walls to skip rope,
undermining...
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Midweek Cuddle
It’s Wednesday. You wish it wasn’t, but you can taste Friday. Everyone needs a little cuddle to push them over the hump (or maybe to it? Sorry. This is cuddle. Not crass). It may be a short poem or even a sentence (twitter poetry). It might be a picture or a song. It could even be a letdown. Who knows? Let’s get a little weird and take some chances. Without further ado…
...
