Tonight the wind is a runaway train
set to music with kettle drums en masse.
Tonight our bosses are kitchen knife and
can opener, flashlight and water jug;
and the crown-royalty we'd bring back from
exile, snowplow and city power grid.
Tonight we decorate the dark with scraps
scissored from the memories of life before
the lights went out; amazed to find there is
something new, this night of a perfect storm.
AFTER ALL THAT RAIN
(sonnenizio on a line by Patrick Kavanaugh)
The bright stick trapped, the breeze adding a third
voice to the water-flow that sticks on curves
of bank to make an eddy—sticks a-swirl
with dead leaves sticking to our slicker-legs.
One stick, stuck aslant, can plug a culvert,
with mud, grass, and leaves for sticking-plaster.
One stick can stop the flow; creekwater pools
across the road. And we are stickit, stuck.
We stick and prod with shovel and rake as
if to move water. But we lack stiction.
We might as well be armed with sticks and stones
and swear-words. “Stick that, you storm!” is useless.
But stick-to-itive we are, together—
A guest has let her tabby loose in our
house—hissing standoff with our black cat. Dog
nudges himself between, and stares them both
down. He knows what's allowed. Later,
guest-cat gone, he finds his black cat sleeping
on the bed. He stands atop her, mouthing
her, ever-so-gently, on the head. She
purrs, until he presses a bit too hard.
She shrieks. He sighs, takes an old stuffed teddy
by the ear, shakes its life out. That's allowed.
The ground trembles
beneath my feet
as I ascend to my
among the gods
soon I will be
seated on my throne
scepter in hand
I don't see my car,
did I take the
It's a busy day and night for poetry readings in our area. Be sure to watch the blue board at the right for all the details.
Did you know there is a
To come up with that name
they had to borrow
parts of other words:
So now one has to
saute the fag
in pubic paces