The Fire

One spark an errant

future sent

careening as all

futures must.

On the hillside

the orchard stood

fruit ripe

as fire alight

forced

apple peddling

a way of life

far away

from mountain russets.

The Editors

Declined,

not rejected

Can’t keep anything,

not selected

Paring their words

my skin still shed

I seem to have

lived in sin

excreta I’ve read

That Bright Spot

A room of windows

western tending in a

northern facing house

To a small boy,

Huge.

So bright

during dinner

preceded by prayer

Uncle Rayburn

invoking

joined hands.

Storms of Illusion

You know there are

moments

of clarity

When  you cast about

for some

predictable plan

Return to the Wasteland

1.

Behind us

beyond the horizon

we left the wasteland.

Ahead

we steered

intuitively

to freedom instead

Of liberty

we often recited

an incantation

to strengthen resolve

Random decay

Tick

there’s a falling away

Tick

there’s an ending day

Tick

there’s a word to say

whose time has passed

Tick

there’s a looseness inside

Tick

there’s a pain alive

Tick

where soundness before

you could ignore

Rage no more

Sing no more

in old age

for the rage

of the day

has passed.

Play no more

the great sage

for the weary

of life

will laugh.

At the moment

you think

you've lifted

the veil

Poems are not Poetry, anymore Ms. Moore

Utterances perhaps sent forth

Looking for acclaim

in this world,

But no one I can find

writes a line of poetry

anymore, Ms. Moore.

I blame the war on rhyme,

Though not to rhyme

is not a crime, except

when it is.

Paragraphs

When poetry

looks like paragraph

I can't

pretend to read.

Instead

I let the cat out

or iron

my long sleeves,

Or tidy

another room

or wait

in the gloom,

Until paragraphs

become poetry

behind

closed eyes,

soon.

12/11/10