While I sat, considering,a one thousand-footer traversedtwo-thirds my far horizon.It is empty, up bound forore,and birds hang aboutagain. Can anyone saywhat is heaven,where is God, whoor what makes a miracle? From Lords and leaders,hear weexpectations of the end,some write their salutations,bendany willing earto hear the guillotine hit,as mask and wig tumbletoward the pitand disappear. IContinue reading “March Twenty-Third”
Tag Archives: Poetry
Squirrel On a Fence Post
I am that so grey squirrel,paused on a fence post. Rough dogs are busywith carrionof sorts,which gives me time fora warm ray,and twitching. Spring is not yet herebut will arrive,in time,by whatever egregious meansit must,so,too,with armageddon. I withdraw my sharpenedclaws a moment,wounding onlythis leftover and dried doughnut,from a grease-shack’s kitchen waste,found,down the street. This,is whatContinue reading “Squirrel On a Fence Post”
Enough to Deal With
We have enough to deal withdon’t we?cruel rain and cloud and knife andbullet,priest and politician.Somewhat the same istrue for wolf and bear,alwayshungry and thirsty andwalking somewhere. Fine castles built,long summer’s gathering,a saviour ark,these may give the driest tinder heartjust a moment’sflint-struckspark.We have enough to deal with,don’t we?
The Little Black Dress
The Little Black Dress Just out of reachin a shop window,discreet,one teasing design’sperfection. I am huge,her heart says,and incomplete,without the basic black dressI’m told a wardrobe needs. The deeper she studies an innocent reflection, so greater becomes her restless irritation, until she, resigned, repeats: “Is there no measure,no sort of tapeto offer kind assessmentand aContinue reading “The Little Black Dress”
What Chapter Are You Reading?
Deft fingers, light puffs of breezelift familiar pagestoward a sun’s benign interrogationwhen readers,for one moment,abandon the book,turn away to fill that cupat another faucetspout. Forever, curious eyesfind the story,someplace forward, perhapsback, it is dependenton luck or God. Meanwhile,excited light bombardstoday, dusting our shroudwith a blue under which,visible movements of leafand worm are lies,teasing that timeContinue reading “What Chapter Are You Reading?”
Trying to Keep Upright
It is slapstick comical,this furious winterslippy day.Folks are looking back quickto see ifsomeone else saw…they are embarrassed,as the single moment uprightteetered towarda fall. It doesn’t look good out there. I’ll stay inside awhile,where restless power is hummingand we’ve marmaladeon toast,a little something warmthat isn’t blood. “So lucky,”they say and I am lucky, I guess,my birthdateContinue reading “Trying to Keep Upright”
That Force Which Through The Green Fuse
(January 18, 2024) Outside,puffed birds are actingcrazy today.Perhapsthey have a temporary blindnessgranted themby whichever, whomever forcecan offer kindness on the one hand as antidote for icy truthheld in another.Maybe the flappersare simple, foolish, joyful?stamping wings the way I would feetto get warm? I am glad the long grasswent to seed,the berries to dry.My ordinary procrastinationContinue reading “That Force Which Through The Green Fuse”
Poor Eyesight and the Heart’s Desire
Poor Eyesight and the Heart’s Desire There was a timeI dear remember,when fresh and newwere printed boldupon my private menubut I am older, nowand more mature. I learnedthere is great spoilage risk,after a long dayin the sun or two andtime,a maggot creature,chews away,as they best do,until the darkest eyelashcomes undone, itsglueproved not true. Throughmeasured, ground,high-polishedContinue reading “Poor Eyesight and the Heart’s Desire”
In Six Seconds, I Will Get Back to You
Many statements trueor notreceive that broad applausewhich indicates, in glitter-sound,alignment with the lawsa group of social voters passwith random muster-calls. It has been saidin public means,writtencrude on walls,that thoughts of sexinvade not womenbut men, most oftenof all. By this belief,it’s every seven seconds then,those full-grown boys,the masculine,think of hairy partsor carnal actsfrom which all livingContinue reading “In Six Seconds, I Will Get Back to You”
A Dead Spider
These lines speak of a man whowrote poems in his head all day long.For this fellow, it was ‘twenty four seven’. The poems were observations,points of view,not necessarily uniqueor new,but constant. On one occasion,a very large spider died andhung from its web forseveral days.The season of year was fall,one window was open yetand the invitingContinue reading “A Dead Spider”
Robert On The Air 