I
he looks at the parched soil intently
crumbling, falling through his fingers
like grains of sand in an hour glass,
around his lean countenance a sea of
corn stands three foot tall and the
year was barely nineteen eighty-six.
II
Photographs on the wall bleached and faded
bent by the years and tinted, recall soda
fountains, malts, outgrown clothes, and
buildings too worn out for their repairs,
streams and creeks whose waters once flowed
through wooded areas now harvested to
build our dream homes of brick and stone.
III
behind the framed glass, watercolors calmly
recapture our youth and economies of scale
provided cheap loans with scarce monies,
wall street bankers found new ways to keep
their fingers discreetly in everyone's pockets.
IV
and as our years cease to be marked
off by discernable ends and beginnings,
they flow from one season to the next
like herded sheep bound together by
mutual and unforgivable incriminations.
V
when did we grow so old
that the misfortunes of others
seemed so horrible to hear?
Cherokee
we was just coming out of Cherokee
all the bottles was thrown in the back
of the truck when all of a sudden like,
I heard this whoopin' 'n' ahollerin'
and I just knew we was in fur trouble;
the bottles they begin commencin'
to breaking and all that precious liquid
just flowed right out the back... and I
seen my face in the rearview and some
kind of gawd awful expression I looked.
Outside
out the window
and through the glass
a world of strangers I see;
new generations
changed with their
influence and opinions;
souls who belong to each other
and those who do not
seem to belong to anyone at all;
shared qualities whose
differences radiate enchantments
for those who participate.
Attraction
in an alluring light quietly she sits
a balance soft and sensitive
in harmony with only herself,
spun silk falls around her shoulders
like a habit of darkness,
she hears with her eyes
her heart feels her pulse and
the warmth of the wind sweeps
oh so casually about her face.
Imaginations
down through an emotional valley of
insecurity like flailing with a topsail torn,
we drift unattached in our casually held
ship of beliefs adorned with faint relics
of our turbulent past casting sunless
shadows resting under an imaginary bridge,
where water flows in a persistent trickle,
a calming motion of tranquility
a forgetful cleansing surrogate.
No comments:
Post a Comment