Days Dying

Now down to darkness declining and sleep,

the small death at the burnt end of each day.

Respite of wary, worried, and weary

minds beaten, broken by a care-worn world,

slumber, destroyer, creator of dreams,

afterlife of the living, yet to wake.

Don’t cheat me of time, of vitality.

One third of life unconscious? Enemy

mine, I will continue to fight and find

the way around the bleary-eyed waking

nettles of but a few hours respite.

I will scream and shout, raging against you,

and taking the consequences in stride.

Waking life persists when the day has died.

Holy Moment - Late Spring, 1996

pink rose silky sheen on open petals yellow center sun

shines from the morning clear late spring sky

movement in the air bright white with black lacing

flutter long-legged landing on the flower open wings butterfly

step away slowly heart swelling enamored reach for the camera

but none at hand panic frantic thinking high on the shelf 

plastic rectangle with the flip cover round lens and back

to the railing see a brief flash of wings sailing there by myself

one attempt to capture a flash of true beauty

a cloud covered the sun

America, 1942 to Present

the beauty of twice as strong goliath 

clonal aspens of the south west between 

forces of energetic nursery 

rhymes and twin forest-lost fairytales the

American dream a hundred dollar 

Teutonic apple pie in the gold foil

sky highway tourist traps papier-mâché

dinosaurs dead plants oil wells forever

separation of church and state in God

we trounce all others for free markets there’s 

no such thing as a free lunch communist

social system privatize public space

fiscal conservative no irony

surveillance security is freedom

Month Three

This marks the end of my third full month (a little more than that actually) writing a poem a day to post on this blog. There are over a hundred poems and a few other things here, for a grand total of 119 posts (including this one). Today’s poem will go up later and bring the total to 120.

I’ve decided that after a while – maybe six months, or maybe after the year is up – I will go back through this blog and revise a handful of poems for publication elsewhere. Perhaps I’ll look toward creating a chapbook of 30 or 40 heavily revised poems. I’ll make the announcement here if and when I make the final decision.

Speaking of books, my novel is about half way done. NaNoWriMo is supposed to get you to 50,000 words, but I started late and never fully caught up. Instead, after missing a few days, and not getting up early enough to put in the hours on others, I am averaging about 700 words a day for November. It’s still my goal to finish the first rewrite and contact readers before or just after the start of the new year. 

I think about the novel every day. It’s incredible how much there still is to do. Of course, the biggest part of that project is just getting in a seat for more than five minutes and writing. I have a couple of outlines to build on, and from there I am just spraying words on page after page. I have to turn off my monkey mind and just let the words flow. I keep telling myself I only have permission to make edits during the first rewrite.

Anyway, readership of this blog has taken a massive hit in the last couple of weeks, but I am staying off social media for now. I hope those of you who check in from time to time are still finding poems you enjoy. I’m writing everyday regardless.

The project continues …

Be good to each other.

MS

Sex

plunging forward into 

soft warm wetness

pressing hips downward grinding 

everything inside wrapped around

head tilts back 

open wet mouth moans

all swollen pulsing spirits skyward

sliding palms and fingers down

easing back pushing up

rocking like sea-salted ships

hands descend to hips

pulling pushing breathing quickens

moans high and long

hands sliding down outer thigh

then up the inside 

fingertips in slow circles

arching back from mattress bucking

slipping out 

thrusting in

then breath catches

moaning flowing

wetness rushing down and dripping

warm quivering 

sighs covered kissing 

open moaning mouths

tongues slide together

tasting very breath

lost in pleasure sliding 

pouring out spasming jolting 

running fingers through hair 

hips take their last dance

smiling spit slickened satisfied 

together

Devotion

kneeling next to the bed

psalms in the dark

prayers and supplications

to the child

to close his eyes 

and sleep

Thanksgiving 2021

The hazy, clouded midafternoon light

shines through the condensation on windows.

The warmth of the oven, also keeping

cold, penetrating wind outside at bay.

The air rich and fragrant with roasting meat,

herbs, and vegetables, all lending their

moisture and flavor to the atmosphere.

We doze or sit and sip hot chocolate,

having nowhere to be but here and now.

The sound of you breathing slowly, softly,

as we read, and wait to gather around

the table soon set with its piquant bounty,

and meet each other’s eyes in gratitude.

After School

He steps through the door after school

dark unruly hair tousled further by wind 

face expectant, dark eyes worried, 

mouth deciding whether or not it’s right to smile

A litany of undone chores crosses my mind

I’m about to ask about his day

and how much homework

ready to rattle off reminders

But I stop and watch him step 

lean and long-legged through the door

lugging the backpack weighted by books

the violin in its ebony case bouncing

black pants black coat black hoodie

His face so much like that of his mother

whose death still haunts us two years past

How can one dwell on the disrespect

of even the day before

in the face of his fascinating 

many-faceted mind sometimes so unfamiliar

How can I feel anything but wonder

and gratitude that he is in my life

I miss his childhood 

and find myself thinking

I should have fought harder to keep him close

endured the misery and acrimony and risked 

dismantling lies with hard-won truth

He stands in front of me

all but flinching and 

says hey

and I say 

I love you

I’m proud of you

I’m sorry.

Two Haiku 11/23/21

Blue canvas of sky,

clouds of white, gray and yellow,

painted slowly west.

Wind-blown branches brush

atmospheric impressions;

invisible art.

Leaf Portrait

to be a branch full of yellow and russet leaves in the sun 

fuel for the warming flames before 

winter’s long dark chill

when the sky is made of sapphire and gold

inside I am already on fire 

I inhale crisp dry air and breath out smoke

I am melting in this month’s mouth

and will mourn when it is gone

in winter the sun hides behind the blue snow hill

rises weakly into icy branches

the sickly smell of gasoline exhaust

as tires slush along the roads and through the parking lots

before it sinks again behind the horizon

when the darkest day comes

I won’t long for summer

I desire the one light stand of November

on a bed of gilded leaves

Sunday Morning Son

In the morning he calls for mommy, 

but if I am sensible enough to rise,

I go because, even though it was only a night, 

I miss his beautiful face.

When he says good morning,

the sweetness is overwhelming.

I feel like the bottom of my heart 

can’t support its fullness;

like it will fall straight through my body,

through the floor. 

He leads me downstairs to prepare 

breakfast and my coffee. 

Chatty, his imagination precipitates,

his words tumble and flow

like a rain-swollen stream.

I listen to his dreams and love them.

I dismantle his nightmares with explanations,

and advice on confronting fears,

even those that sound silly to me,

because bad dreams can be absurd,

but he is still so new to the world

and should never have to be afraid.

Secret

No sooner spoken,

the encoded languages

decode the secret.

What is it? I

don’t need to

understand.

Home Is Where

half of our mother’s heart is not beating

the doc said there’s less of a rhythm than 

a series of erratic bursts of activity followed by

long periods of stillness and a growing dread

who knows how long this was the case

judging temperature by my brothers and sisters 

maybe just over thirty years give or take

she doesn’t have long now and lives alone

claiming not to care wondering who will come

wondering why the silence grows in her ears

Seasoning

ember fades and leaf curls

cold dark resolves in ice

icicle grows from eaves

lightening days lead to green

melt water runs and rains

grass fragrant blooms like sun

rising heat ripples on the road settle

light leans winds cool the ember

Sleep Walking

The knot in my chest

is made of unfinished work

and unwritten words.

Anxiety is 

a shattered fiberglass heart,

needles through my skin.

All I want to do

is escape in sleep or art.

Danger plays there too.

Distraction is all

unconscious made manifest;

sleep for the awake.                                                                                                      

Seedling

At four this afternoon

the nearly full moon sat fat 

on the power lines criss-crossing our street.

With the early ending November day

cold pinkening 

his nose and cheeks,

my toddler and i took turns

dribbling a ball with our feet

from fence wall to fence wall

in the backyard.

He paused to pick up leaves

and pappus-covered dandelion puffs,

and with his breath

sent their parachutes sailing

into the breeze.

Responsibility

an expression of regret

is not an apology

acquiescing to an accusation

is not responsibility

predicting resentful silence

is not absolution

piss in your puddle and swim

or drown in it

Familiar

however briefly grieving

guardians become inimical 

hypocritical cynical 

subliminal irritant corruption

leading to a feeding tube 

of assumptions

saying

make your life like mine you’re doing fine

go another way and you’ve been led astray

nobody has the answer

so when you tell me mine is wrong

you’re not the cure

you’re the cancer

there’s no need to prolong this agony 

end it

get up next to the unfamiliar

and befriend it

Why I Left Facebook (Again)

At some point in the last two months, I made the decision to get back on Facebook. Partly, I was following the advice of a YouTuber who also writes novels and self-publishes. 

The YouTuber talked about how authors today need put themselves out there, engage with people in order to bring attention to themselves and their writing, and how social media is a sort of necessary evil. He’s integrated managing his socials into his workday, and now enjoys engaging with his fans and people interested in reading and writing in general.

I have no doubt that I will eventually need to get back on social media. When my novel is done, depending on the route I take to publishing, I will have to market it, and “network”, and schmooze the socials. It’s something I’ve always hated and it feels dirty, but I recognize the necessity of self-promotion (I’m not going full Cormac McCarthy here).

That being said, I don’t need that now. 

I write because if I don’t my brain will crack open like an egg and spill its yolk out somewhere anyway. I’d rather have it on a page than on my face … and maybe it ends up there eventually anyway, but whatever.

Metaphor over.

I have committed myself to this poetry project and to completing my novel. The Dionysian Blunderbuss blog gives me a little more incentive to stick with it, because of course I love the idea of people reading my stuff, and maybe even being meaningfully affected by it in some way. 

I like that a poem can be a shot of whiskey, throwing your perspective into a bit of a tilt, and changing you somehow. Really good poems should have you tripping ovaries/balls … and I have tripped off of poems and other good literature before. I want that for my readers.

But readers will read, or they won’t. They will share the link to a poem on their socials, or they won’t. I leave that up to them/you.

Having a page on Facebook didn’t meaningfully change the level of readership I receive. Granted, I got daily pings instead of weekly ones, but I can’t dwell on those numbers when the point is to test my linguistic mettle a little every day. And as I said, I write because I need to write.

Thanks for reading. Be good to each other.

MS

Transfiguration

The rain was sudden and heavy.

The electric lights flickered.

The power pole crosses fixed against

the high wind that moaned around the eaves.

The tree across the street lost

more of its yellow leaves,

afloat like tiny toy boats in the puddle 

in the street beneath.

The storm resolved into a transfiguration

of that late afternoon.

The sun broke through, low now;

November evenings come early.

There was no rainbow,

but yellow leaves, painted in relief against the sky,

shone gold on Parrish blue,

like a votary’s vision of heaven.

Loneliness

There is nothing I can precipitate

that will bring me closer to you.

The irony: even as you read these words

I am already on your mind.

If I say “cumulonimbus”,

that probably wouldn’t 

have occurred to you before.

And even though now we are lovers,

raining my thoughts into you,

I am lonely,

my language is not.

Garbage Man

fat sad sack of stinking

mediocre ichor fetid

pallid fish skin wrapped tepid

bind me in zip ties

kick me downstairs

set me sickly on the curb

staple on the sign

do not disturb

out with the trash

bloated bag useless

nonsense in a case

wasted tissues

wasted words

wasted space

The Way My Mind Works

The way my mind works,

it doesn’t take much

for me to spin

a pretty stone

into a

talisman

that must 

be thrown

back

into

the stream

that imbued

it with old,

healing magic

to release it

from an ancient curse

that warped its purpose,

but the stream has dried,

so some brave soul

must take the quest

to restore

the waters

to free

the stone

and

restore

the land

from its dark

barren state

to its former

bountiful and 

transcendent beauty

for all to behold.

Weariness

cold through my skin

and tired all day

would curl up under comforters

close my eyes until night

opens the skies

who let this weariness in

it had no invitation

the guest list is very exclusive

only these words and i

and quiet longing

too much to do

so much to write

the coffee gasps

exasperated that three cups

are not enough

my eyelids cannot lift

my sideways tilting mind

slipping into dreams

Light!

this morning leaf-blown brightness

sunlight effervescent sing-a-long

follow the bouncing photon balls

hearts on sleeves should lead

on a day like today leaping in

joyous fizzy love

pull blinds open

cast blinders down

uncover windows foremost

of the soul

to bathe in brilliance

single puffball remaining

chloroplasts still blasted

mightily above the yellowing lawn-grass 

dancing with the breeze

casting an enormous shadow

both a reminder and forecast 

of springs

in our cells we too are

tremendous light and power

today before night falls

let yourself effuse into

your self-same element

burn bright that lucent love

earn your night’s rest

I Have Been

i have been

a baby

a toddler a boy a brat

a fat kid an adolescent a weird kid

a singer

a boyfriend

a bully a friend

a runner

an actor a local celebrity

alone

a stream and a bridge

ice on the falls in the winter

mud dried on boots in the spring

a tree and mycelia breaking mulch in the soil

at its roots.

a fly on the wall,

a fish a cat a dog

a pig an ass 

a horse a goat

a barrista

a man

a pugilist

a student a teacher

a drop-out a graduate

a conman an artist

a husband a father

a loser a cheat

a has-been 

a professional

a boss a coach

a jerk

a lover

a gamer

a dragon a harbinger

a nerd a hobbyist

a debtor

a nomad a trespasser an outcast

a customer service representative

a stone from which no blood could be squeezed

a guide a trainer

a mourner

a writer

and I would say 

this time I want to stay here 

but after so many changes i know more

are inevitable because change 

is how you know you are

alive

Conversation With A Rock

I tried talking to a rock.

It complained about the mud

and said the rain was tearing it down.

It was cold at night, and

when the rain got down in the cracks

it froze.

Now the cracks were spreading

and pieces were falling off.

Sometimes someone would come by

and cover the rock with a blanket

and a tarp to keep the rain off,

but that made it hard to breathe, 

and there was still the mud.

So, the rock said it didn’t care,

and would just sit there

suffering and complaining about its plight

until it was rubble.

I felt badly for the rock,

but knew the most I could do

was come by in the spring

with a shovel.

Friend

A winter rain was rolling down my face

as we were walking homeward from the bar.

My drunkenness had left me short of grace

and stumbling I would not have made it far,

but for my friend on whom I could rely

to catch me if I slipped or tripped and fell.

For him, if needed, I would surely die,

and fight beside him to the throne of hell.

There never was a truer friend to me

than this who leads me now to hearth and home,

though senselessly I blather drunk decrees,

and nearly falling face down in the loam.

Eventually the threshold waits for we

comrades in kind and brothers endlessly.

November Runners

november light lay like melted candle wax

glazed all in hazy afternoon gold

shadows fell dark and deep and blue

stretched luxuriously long-legged eastward

we ran on a shining strip of asphalt

young and fresh and wanting

cold air cooling sweat between fingers

ruddy noses ruddy cheeks

when she laughed

she laughed fully richly given over

peals sweet from deep down

and she scrunched up her freckled nose

we sat on her steps and drank orange juice

ate cold cheese pizza

and made plans

for tomorrow

Library Haiku

All it takes is one

coronal mass ejection,

and libraries win.

Of Hawk And Home

In the bright rising morning light 

I watched a hawk launch

from a tall tree with strong, reliable limbs

though its golden leaves were going brown. 

Keen-eyed, brazen, the predator flew

away, then arced, I was certain,

to return to its lofty bower, 

but it beat its wings and kept on into the blue

until it left my frame of vision. 

I apprehended then

the human fixation 

with watching these birds in flight. 

Fierce and graceful, 

independent and free, 

with such space to fly, 

where the air alone is enough 

to hold you safe and high;

where the wide sturdy arms of home 

are always waiting 

upon your choice 

whether to return.

Rituals

a moment arrives every moment then 

passes forever into oblivion

for each solitary life

the advent of a break in worldly concern

adheres in every second

but the constraints of routine 

prevent questioning its continuance

for each chain broken 

a new set of chains

each courageous escape emerges

into a new fortress

with its own arbitrary rules

some call it tradition and pass it 

from generation to generations,

regeneration sometimes

fragmented never forgotten

the oldest most valuable

genetic disease

Waking Dream

amber streetlights leading

down leaf-littered lanes

lonely night strider

daytime somnambulist

doubting the destination

would sooner be couch bound

pajama trammeled

awake and urged 

out into autumn air now

mulling the emperor’s dream

in which he was a butterfly

flitting from flower to flower

unaware of the sleeping self

then upon waking wondered

which was the dream

which monarch am i

but the closer he travels to town

fragile and feather light blown by

a host of human voices

the dream bubble breaks

admitted through the door

forcing on a face for friends

living a dream