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Saturday, November 30, 2013

First Things




we call him
Morning Report, and he is  
frailer than I remember,
  
he taps
the open gourds
with his cane
tells me

where the elk went,
how many golf balls
he held, quail
how many
and how young, do I

recall the wildfire
that peaked the ridge
and the goats
imported to clear
the underbrush—was it
willow? did I know

a tree can still burn
underground
creating a bowl
of embers, like
a heat puddle
capable of cooking
a javelina, step
carefully—even days
after the smoke clears

but the roses
did so well
that summer, 
the ashes
do it

daybreak’s
watchman walks  
with phonetic
patience
past the Pioneer
Cemetery

eyes the stones
like a bachelor
pondering
his dance card,
building
tomorrow’s
report should he be
blessed 
with one more
morning






















Walking in Gratitude, Poets United

Sunday, November 24, 2013

Someone must be searching for you



with a quiver 
fashioned from
a cardboard tube
my son 
advances
on the straw bale

Five arrows
into the neighbor’s yard
 
he suspects gravity 
is an abandoned god
pushing his prayers 
back to earth

oh, ancient one








reworked a small poem where the title functions as the last line
posted to Poetry Pantry #177



Tuesday, November 19, 2013

Free: Search Your Area



I told father
I wanted my stout legs
to slip into nylons. Miraculously,

he nodded and planted
velvet flags around
the house. The earth

opened, femme fatale. Strangers,
can keep to their sidewalks,
            their filthy eyes and awnings.

I have the sound of my father
laughing in eyeliner, wiping away
his tears with blooming rivers.

Before he died, he waved
his steelyard hand, in prayer
for the Pleiades to watch me in his stead.

He gave me Lou Reed, the strength
of all-weather flesh, and a full heart

to see
and work it.























found this poem from the opening salvo of Dreaming in Satellite, original since removed

Friday, November 15, 2013

Credit Score Center



I follow the split wall
down through the cage bones  

there is an urge to cup
the entrails, to bewitch

feel the carcass flow
in union with the downslope grass

meat relaxed, unlike the numbers
pressed into the casing   

snow in dialog with sun, an equinox
of hunt and hunger

shows how good it is to struggle
to redden, like indebtedness

the hammer of a final zero
its empty mouth quantified

or the revelation of three digits
quivering in the still warm cavity

rolling dice, stirring tea
spending a Saturday stacking rocks

so I can clear my throat and step
into the black, throwing it over my back

taking it to the vault to cool, and breathe
where bliss is golden


 ________________________
my response to the prompt of something quite ordinary