Ankle Deep at Dusk

I wrote a song for a band I was in back in the day called Mr. Underhill for which I was the songwriter.  (You're welcome Syntax, Grammar, and Redundancy)  The song was called "Ankle Deep" and had that in common with this poem--it not even having precisely that much in common with this poem notwithstanding.

The song is lost in time amongst power chords and better ones; here is the poem:

Ankle Deep at Dusk 

The lake is mottled, calicoed 
By the oil-slick ooze of poplar
And pine—spill of shadows on 
The crested surface.  Doves
Regret the dark in harrowing
Contralto.  Walking ankle deep,
Pant legs knotted at my shins,
I relish bits of shell like glass.
You thought I was made of stone.
But now, between my sockless feet,
By glints of fractured light,
I notice features of my face
That waver in the lulls and heaves.
I smile and see me smirk.  I nod
And watch me disagree.  So much 
For being solid.  See me now.
Or better yet, remember when
We waded out, up to our necks,
And spat the penny taste of mud
Into each other’s eyes?  
You made a wish for us to stick
Forever in the leafy muck,
Then held your breath and swam below.
The final crimson lobe of sun
Is slipping underneath the blue
Horizon.  See it now. And hear
The dove’s adagio refrain.
Come up for air and look above
The trees.  A cuticle moon glows
As two.  One hinges on a late
Arriving cloud, the other smiles
And smirks on this spilt lake of ours.

(first appeared in Weave, Issue 9, Summer 2013)

night class

Here is another poem recently published in print and now at my copyrighted electronic disposal.  I know, fine phrasing for so-called art, right?  A modern concern writ small, dilution and saturation in one fell-swoop. Be assured, though, this is not a soapbox I'm not genuinely on because: [1] soapboxes require calisthenics and I'm tired, [2] so-called artists are as indiscernible as ever from bona fide artists with respect to the beggarly-chooserly maxim, and [3] if I was an earnest purist, I'd spread my stories and songs in the wise of this old man man.

Night Class

By campfire, under the useless umbrella of embers,

Listen to the hoary man when he says,

Never confuse how much sky

you can cover

by your hand

at arm’s length

with how much

of it you can hold.

When he starts in a palsied A-minor to sing of wolves

Through cigaretted teeth, red-eyed, listen:

She was white as snow, a snow wolf, that is,

            hiding in the powdery drifts

            she sniffed and I knew I was

            a goner.

The flames will settle like restless children as the concave

Belly of space hulas in its spangled skirt.

The tree frogs will concede their limbs to sentry owls,

And the cricketing will crescendo.

The hoary man will stand, dust bark from his pants,

Pour his coffee on the fire; but before he retires,

He will hold out his hand, erect his thumb and say,

No matter where it is or how seemingly big,

            you can cover

            the moon, but

            from your eyes

            only; and you

            can never ever

            squash it.

And you should listen.

Let damp morning do its worst and listen,

Even as he snores.  

  

(First published in Bacopa Literary Review, 2013)

a seasonal offering

The first poem is a timely one because 'tis the season, and I have included the second one for being the first's equinoctial companion.  For their simplicity and precision (if I may humbly congratulate myself), I am often jealous of these poems when I look back at them and I try to emulate the effect as often as possible though mostly without success. 

Easter

My family at church,

I watch the birds again.

How they flick millet

and thistle, hunting

sunflower seeds.

Chipmunks forage

under the azaleas.

The maple leaves

are splayed and jazzing.

Everything moves—

Grows through loam,

Flies and feeds.

I should join in.

Find crannies

For the candy eggs,

Filth my fingernails

Unearthing weeds.

Anything but this:

Sun-shy on the deck,

Watching from my

Rocking-chair—

reach, retreat, reach, retreat—

waiting for the bells

so I can close

my eyes and sing.

(first published in Steam Ticket, v. XIV, spring 2011)

Jacket Pockets

Autumn is a time to feel things in our jackets we haven’t felt

            For at least a year—

The folded five

And the coffee shop receipt,

The peppermint in plastic

And the crumpled reminder to self—

When, from the warmth of pockets, we hear the crackle

Of a dead leaf

And feel its dusty bones.

(first published in Muse and Stone, Summer 2011)