Crows circle over windrows
on black wings wet with dew,
seeking seed among stalk corpses
waiting to be baled.
One last feast
before the culling,
a final bite before the cut
of coming cold.
Tag Archives: poetry
Walking Home
Lights line the river on both sides,
the air is tourist cold, comfortable.
A late boat arrives to chase away
a daring bit of darkness.
I stop to fix my hat
then continue on my way.
Pulling Weeds
Sister fair,
Can’t you hear the storm a’ comin’
don’t you feel the touch of winter
on the fingers of the wind?
Brother strong,
Don’t you know the tide is turning,
and the weight of rising water
will be more than we can bear?
All Along,
we indulge a pleasant blindness
as we tend to fenced-in gardens,
ignoring heavy weather,
pulling harmless weeds.
Yield
Pluck the fruit of summer labor
before first frost
and crows claim corn.
Give over sleep
for one short season
and face the winter full.
Sick Day
I’m sick to death of morning:
Rude ringtone in a loop,
a smartphone challenge,
“Go ahead and break me, fucker,
go ahead and find the snooze.”
Bad Breath
Vent sweet fury
in a burst of halitosis,
fling “Fuck” at reason,
and revel in rage.
For Mark T.
Into stark night frosted black with fate we slip,
conditioned to deny the western progress of the sun.
Awake but for a while to wonder,
we fan our fleeting passions to flame
and embrace each day in willful ignorance,
blind to the inevitable—
Love’s sweet prelude to loss.
All In
I tripped and tipped
my cards too quickly,
well before the call.
No bluff, no draw,
no cuffed-card option,
two plays remain
and I won’t fold.
Home
This is my home,
settled in the saying—
a common abode
and comfortable:
A foreign sensation,
for years unknown.
Passersby,
Do you notice?
Do my windows leak light?
Do silhouettes dance
their way to your eyes
in the glow?
I think it, but
I think it, unlikely.
I imagine you pass,
and I go unnoticed
as you make your own way
along your own road.
Skyscraper
A tower stands among a fist of smaller structures,
middle finger to the sky—
Man’s “I am” answer to the world,
set against a lake and manipulated river,
immune to the wind.
What bold madness moves our hands
and drives our actions?
Surely there is no need,
no evolutionary imperative—
This is pride, pure and magnificent,
a child’s name carved in a tree.
Let the earth reject geometry,
let her bear our straight-line scars
and structured insults—
let her send her vines of promised reclamation.
We all know how this ends,
but by God, we are here.