Anno Domini

I sprinted for juxtaposition, swore

to shelf & page, by god, I’ll go blog

something keyboarded & scratch

my dreams in satellite 

then cops knocked & Belfast

not to mention all that being

married & to do, ta-da, the grind 

the cemeteries & signatures, certainly

there were long forms buried

in Tuesdays & saturnalia

& so much shorthand loafing

for daily crumb to bomb/bread 

& nada, again resolving to the work

before the blasting caps

then, it’s December &

what have I done: 

stargazed & grew

one heirloom tomato

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dVerse: Poetics Tuesday - Looking Back

Snow Drift

pillow pace rhythm
hibernus cicada, when last 

did gauge packed inch
did dog shit? metformin?

allwhite den, eye glue
the group mute
11 Photos You MUST See
2 Believe, where bees
what gentle leaf, leitmotif

what atonia creeps 
yawning symmetry

not one ever 
identical

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dVerse: Quadrille #238

This Present Labor

maritime fog envelopes stuff 

full O slow train, O head lamps 

O workers decked out 

in reflective orange and hard hat 

safety trained, bobbing breath

O, Oceanus breathes wet

slips away to blue, to gulls, O bellow 

horns, drywallers crack jokes 

below, the concrete men

screwing around between task

and the wrapping up, resorting

to resolve, spending time

through yule and aching hands

the open present

O children, behold!

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Friday writings 207: in between

A View

pools of light puddle, collect

on banks, on bars, the business district 

in grounded constellation, to gaze down 

for lode star, to see signs never fixed

always fixing, aquarius laying 

out words for us on soft knit 

we nest, backlit 

who sees us settle 

behind paned storm glass, a veil

threats to tear, or so we seam

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dVerse: Come sew with me

The Lost Tablet of Enkidu

softly running waters never 

question whose cold body 

is that, or why the tears

or reveal what game 

horror froze the deer

lake mirrors seldom 

reject reflection, untamed 

virgin eyes break 

surface tension

as washing 

not for slaughter, fleshlier

shredding pierced pelts to bend 

her hunting ear, she stands

dripped to the waist

nose to the sun

when the pouncing is done

the daily grind, reduced 

to old predation 

by spreadsheet

she blinks 

dry, holding an empty 

pink hand soaked 

in perfume to milk 

the mind, disrobed, then 

in quick epic feat 

we meet a god sweating 

over luxury brands

_____________

This started as an attempt to sonnet (something I never do), but I hated it. 

So, I gave it the old line break treatment, and made peace with it. 

______________

The Lost Tablet of Enkidu

softly running waters never question
whose cold body is that, or why the tears
or reveal what game horror froze the deer
lake mirrors seldom reject reflection
untamed virgin eyes break surface tension
as washing not for slaughter, fleshlier
shredding pierced pelts to bend her hunting ear 
she stands, dripped to the waist, nose to the sun

when the pouncing is done, the daily grind
reduced to old predation by spreadsheet
she blinks dry, holding an empty pink hand
soaked in perfume to milk the mind
disrobed, then in quick epic feat we meet
a god sweating over luxury brands

_________________________________

Friday Writings #206: Everybody Scream

Salad Days

the garden is a racket
of praise, worms whistling

through roots, tapping 

a jaunty compost tune

it’s delightful to hear

such industry at work

the soil echoing 

their anthology

of scrap, peddling

under the bedding

chanting grounds

shells, skins, shavings

these are salad days 

feasting on once

energetic flesh

serving to sing

and teach muscle 

and shovel, a song 

to make it 

abundantly clear

that no body 

goes unsung

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Open Link Night 397: Abundance 

Coleman Stove

a little pitter pat of getaway romance

in melting yellow sun, we rolled together

each in our olive drab flannel bags

close enough that the stray tentacles

of your strawberry gray hair

flirt with my eyelash and nose

we stretch and roll 

out under honest purple mountains

that majestically mirror lake 

and sky and butter stick packaging

our field guides open in morning’s

grass pasture, goldfinches too

are here for salted songs and delicate 

footfalls by the AM’s cooing light 

downy milk pours from white hilltop

sweet cream churned by antler 

soon, a blue flame will tickle

the underbelly of the old

green two-burner

Coleman stove

and as from a magic 

black top hat, I will pull 

peppered eggs

and buttered toast

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Friday Writings #205: Food as Ritual