Happy Birthday Parker

Free and Easy

This is a simple poem
That requires no explaining
It's about how I admire you
For using an umbrella when it's raining

This Way

What happens
To the choices
We leave behind?

They are picked up,
Put in the pocket
Of a fearless child.

They are mined
and excavated
By diligent hands.

They are brick walls
Head on
With no warning.

Most of all,
They end up
At the Y.

MSG Coma

Drowsy passenger
Glutton of King Buffet
Sleep on the window
And defrost your dreams

Turn On

I support the war
If I don't have to fight
I am against the war
If I don't have to fight

I will feed the poor
If it feeds my soul
I will laugh at the poor
If it feeds my soul

I will draw from the well
If it makes me clean
I will spit in the well
If it makes me clean

I will flirt with hell
On the day I am born
I will be stolen from hell
On the day I am born

Room 304

Please note, that beginning with this post, I will begin posting a series of photographs that I have been working on. They may or may not be related to the poems. I suppose that is up to you.

I am sorry to be the one
To tell you this depressing news
Your bark is a plastic composite
Your branches are held by screws

Your moss did not grow from water
It was made by a machine in China
And placed by rubber gloved hands
With hot glue you mistakenly thought was sap

But take solace in this fact
There are trees in real parks
With real bark and no people
Sitting beneath their friendless branches

Three Coins

1999, 1995, 1972
Three copper pennies
Three brothers Lincoln

'99 and '95 won't listen
To the patina of millions of fingers
To the advice of small change
Because they are shinier
And inflated

Someone Should Tell You, You are Not As Good At That As You Thought

I suppose it is the utmost evil,
I wish you would enter
That one contest,
And do
Poorly.

Can you feel it when we hug?
My smiling knife, thrust
In your fleshy back.
Ill will,
Hello!

Widow and Widower

Badminton naughtily,
The thought of you and me,
Dancing a jig in the water,
Skinny-dipping our old shells.

Morning Drive

Nevermind
us,
wind
blown
white
flaked
cloud
dust.

Confessional Poetry

I
Am the
Only one

Recital

Carmine
We dropped
Green bills
On your swan white legs

Stand on your toes now
Bleed gracefully
Sneak the smallest smile
Let it fly down here

Let it flutter
Over the stage lights
And rest on my cheek
Like a postage stamp

Poor Thing

How long have you been there,
sleeping in nothing but your fur and skin?
You are flat and mummified and
I am taking a breather here on this bench,
the yellow ball pinging and ponging on the clay.

You are beyond the breather, little rabbit,
you are the cigarette box
smashed to a rainy pulp on the road
and then photographed
for a coffee table book on artistic garbage.

Bun

This poem
Looks better
With its hair up

Forgive Me

The sun rises again.
Another day for another poem.
The sun rises again
And I write again
About the sun
And another day
For a new poem.
And you
Tolerate my simple surprise
With your hand on my back.

Ron Of Japan

I respect you, reader,
For not reading,
For lack of proper time.

One hundred years,
You said yesterday,
To read Whitman’s epic.

One hundred years
To sip on words
And slow the skim.

8:16

Hundreds of miles inland,
The rolling shadows of the Atlantic,
Cast on my Virginia sky.

Heaven’s Poet Laureate

Who is heaven’s poet laureate?
The Holy Spirit?
Christ Jesus?
God?

I believe it is the Spirit.

Holy Spirit Poet Laureate of Heaven
........write us a poem
........another saint
........another martyr
........you will sing it softly
........with perfect rhythm

Holy Spirit Poet Laureate of Heaven
........are you a thieving poet
........an eavesdropping word snatcher
........did you overhear Whitman
........and all the others
........feel free to take what is yours

Holy Spirit Poet Laureate of Heaven
........where do you write
........do you have a favorite window
........or park bench
........a booth at IHOP
........smoking or non

Pretty Tree

My first manuscript hangs on my office wall
With a 3x5 index card reporting confirmation.
Confirmation of reception and ultimate scrutiny.
Confirmation of a basement dwelling self esteem.

The manuscript hangs to test my shifting faith,
A persistent question asking me to lay my hands,
On the copied face of my enthusiastic exposure,
To funnel Power through my mustard seed sized hole.

Daily I touch the cover and pray that they be gentle.
I ask the Lord for unmitigated editorial favor.
May they pass all blunders and smile when appropriate
And may they stay awhile on one certain verse.

Then one day as I pray I drift, and wonder,
If the words I have written matter at all.
I wander off the small path and on to the highway
Of self and the denial of words formed in His image.

Ruled Journals

I bought a set of three ruled journals
Three sets of three ruled journals
Nine miniature notebooks
For me not to journal
But stack perfectly
As a book end

Dr. Penaranda

Distant family
Discovered family
Brothers and sisters
Treasured mother
Beautiful mother
Honored father
Peaceful father

Words are a luxury
Not a necessity
I understand you
Standing next to you
I understand
A smile
And bright compassionate eyes

My brother
Read these words aloud
And make it understood
I found something important
I did not know
Belongs to me
Discovered family
Beautiful family
My family