Begin Again   Wednesday, January 09, 2013




Posting just a little early. It's nasty out, cold and wet,  yesterday, today, and probably tomorrow. As soon as I finish this, I'm heading home for a long nap and may not  see the outside again until tomorrow.

In the meantime, still clearing out holiday baggage.

As that proceeds, my anthology this week is Best American Poetry - 2003 published by Scribner  Poetry and edited by Yusef Komunyakaa and David  Lehman.

Other poetry this week includes selections from my library, some of my own stuff new and some of my own stuff old, from last year, since it's is now officially over. Actually, once  again,  more of my poems than usual. I got to the end of the post and decided it was  too short so took the easy way again and used my own stuff rather than hunting down someone else's poems.

The photos are a mix  of stuff from old fashioned 35mm prints to the latest digital, from the Grand  Canyon to my backyard, from the late 1980s to last week.

Quite a mix.



Me
eastern sky
 
Susan Dickman
Skin
 
Me
guardian of my better nature
 
Paul Muldoon
Medley for Morin Khur
 
Me
she the teacher
 
Rita Dove
Fox Trot Fridays
 
Me
I have a secret
 
Charles Bukowski
peace
the barometer
 
Me
off-ramps
 
Linda Gregg
beauty
 
Me
poppity-pop
the woman weeps
 
Robert Lowell
For  Sale
 
Me
Siberia Anxiety
 
Jonathan Aaron
The End of Out of the Past
 
Me
upon seeing my first redwood in person
a sullen sun
 
John Poch
Expecting
Winter Song
 
Me
the story of our times
 
Me
the skin game
 
Erika Meitner
you are invisible
 
Me
circuit rider
 
Me
who don't think it's great idea?
 
Me
to the mother
 
Me
an instruction in the grander scheme of things
 
 
 
 






We've had  generally lousy weather  for the past week and a half, a circumstance reflected in the first several of my poems.



eastern sky

eastern sky
    red
like  an angry rose
by any other hue
would it sweet
    so smell

end of  days
    of 2012
approaching
a new  year's ending
    beginning
        in two
         days

and I  have no reflex
for  an old year
a new year
    an in between year
        a sky
            red
as an angry
    rose
        the hue so sweet

no reflex
to  measure
the new number
    the old number
just a day
    you know
like any other
    day
no reflex
for  seeing new
what I've seen
    before
       or new days
       or old days
             or roses
                         angry red
no  matter how  sweet
    hue
    the smell
it's just another damn
    day
in another damn
    year
just another damn
                             moment
just another damn
    angry
             hue

and I have no reflex
to understand
or teach it

just another
   momentary
        rose
            angry
                    then gone
               like
                      me

hasta la vista
    huesome
                  rose








The first poem this week  from The Best  American  Poetry - 2003 is by Susan Dickman.

Born in Chicago in 1963, Dickman majored in English at the University of Illinois and received an MFA in writing at the University of California. At the time the anthology was published, she was  teaching  in middle school.

Her poem was first published in Rhino.



Skin

and what are they do  do with pieces of it that lie in the grass
or  waft down afterwards, floating through the atmosphere

like feathers from a featherbed in the tale about the girl
who disappears down  a well and returns

in a shower of gold? What to do
with all the minute pieces, the shreds?

The air at times turns violet, the sun neglects
to warm the grainy strip  of sand we lie  on

waiting to be touched and transformed. And the body
falls apart like hair unloosed,returns element to   element,

distills itself.We are only bone and water after all.
Skin covers the gray-tinged grass like  the oldest balm

to  heal sickness. The air corrupts, dries it,
breaks it  down into its former life  of cells

to  join the inert world of  soil  and leaf.
They say Da Vinci's  molecules

still orbit the globe,that the air he breathed,
we breathe today. So that when  blood is spilled

when skin rains down  on this dry earth, perhaps
somehow, the earth remembers

          Jerusalem bombing February 1996








People who know me know that  I had to put my dog, Reba, down last year. My faithful companion of nearly 20 years, and,  even though I  have  another dog now, a beautiful blond named Bella, I miss Reba still  and probably will for  as long  as I live.

This  poem, written in January, last year, for shadowed the day I knew was  coming, preparing  myself, in a way, for the inevitable.



guardian of my better nature

I read yesterday
that a famous  soap opera actor
who I had never heard  of - hardly unusual
since  I seldom watch TV and never watch soap
operas - anyway, this famous soap opera  actor
I  never heard of killed himself
in a fit  of  grief
after having to put his dog down

now
people who have never  bonded with a dog
will never understand this, people who have never experienced
the deep emotional and intellectual and spiritual ties
between man and such a faithful companion will think, what a stupid 
man, this famous soap actor I never heard of,
must have been

and I suppose if I were one of  those emotional, spiritual, and intellectual
stunted through lack of the best friend every dog wants to be, then  I
suppose I might find it stupid as well

in fact, I admit it, even blessed as I  am  with my dear  Reba, I think it's stupid,  too

but I understand it

it reminds  me of  a poem the actor Jimmy Stewart once wrote and performed
on the Johnny Carson show many years ago

it was about his dog, recently deceased, a  long-time companion to both his and his wife,
and the loss of his dog,as he wrote it, was  as deep and  wrenching as would be the death
of any of his human friends

it was a beautiful poem, as beautiful and deep as any love poem ever  written, misting  my eyes
as I read it,
a truly rare event

later  I  bought a book of Jimmy Stewart's poetry that  included this poem, which as  it turned
out,
was the only good poem in the book

(though I admit the poem was not harmed in any way by Mr. Stewart's reading of it)

it all reminds me of the faithful and presence and bond I share with my Reba, my dog,  the gentlest
and most loving of  all the creatures that roam our earth,very old, deaf,
arthritic and mostly blind, yet eager to please,
to be close to comfort and sustain my me in my low  moments and
celebrate with me the times when they are good

if I were writing this at home, she would be lying beside me now,
asleep,
yet intent  on every keystroke,
her ears twitching
with every swish of my hand
as I move my mouse,
rising to gently lay her gray whiskered muzzle on  my leg, brown eyes,
cloudy now,  but still  deep as she engages my own eyes
if she senses I am  troubled

(and she senses everything that passes through my mind,  reads my mind, and if her
joints allow, be where ever I think of going before I get  there)

she is the angel of my better nature
and I know someday, even someday soon,
she will not be beside me
and it may be I who, like the famous soap  opera actor  I never  head of,
has to  deliver her to her  inevitable end

and,  though I will not kill myself or even write a poem as touching
as Jimmy Stewart's. I know a part of be hollowed with lose as I am left
wandering in the shadow of  secret  despair,
some part of me  lost without her, my better nature's gentle guardian












My next poem is by Paul Muldoon, from his book, Horse  Latitudes. The book was published by Faber and Faber in 2006.



Medley for Morin  Khur

I

The sound box is made of a horse's head.
The resonator is horse skin.
The strings and bow are of horsehair.

II

The morin khur  is the thoroughbred
of  Mongolian violins.
Its call is the call of a stallion to the mare.

III

A call which may no more be gainsaid
than  the jinn to jinn
through jasmine-weighted air.

IV

A call that  may no more be gainsaid
than that of  blood kin to kin
through a body-strewn central  square.

V

A square in which they'll keep the horses' heads
by the heaps of horse skin
and the heaps of horsehair.









I'm always fascinated when I start  to think about the circularity of all things. This poem from last week.



she the teacher

out walking
in a drizzly, misty
rainy day

dog
doesn't care
so why should
i

have my hat,
felt,
not  good in rain
but as the would-be
military leader
might have said - you
don't go  into  the wet
with the hat you want,
you go into the wet
with the hat you
have,
plus, have my
excellent
raincoat given tome
by the most  generous
UnitedStatesAirForce
January,  10, 1967,
on a day much like today
wetly grey and miserable
for  man and beast
except for my dog who
doesn't give a whit
about ugly weather
as  long as she gets to
walk  in it, my own
weatherish preferences
of no interest
to  her

but that's
beside
the point because
what I  was  thinking of
was not the dog,
but the miserably appropriate
weather
on January 10, 1967,
standing in a wetly grey-bound
line
at the chow  hall
on the first day of an
unsought
four-year
gig
at places inscrutable to my
farm-boy
wits at the time

the circularity
of things so much in evidence
this wet and foggy day,
a few days short of 45 years
since another wet day
soaked in fearsome anticipation,
differing mostly
in he details, instead
of following a line to pretty good
chow, I'm following a dog
who finds her inspiration in the out
and the wet, neither of us
particularly
fearsome no  in an anticipatory
frame of the mind,
me, the only one of  us
thinking
of 45 years past, she
happy with the day
as it  is...

she the teacher
from whom every day i try
to learn









The next poem from the Best American Poetry, is by Rita Dove.

The poem first  appeared in Callaloo.


Fox  Trot  Fridays

Thank the stars there's a day
each week  to tuck in

the grief, lift your pearls, and
stride brush stride

quick-quick with a
hell-ball-to. Smooth

as Nat King Cole's
slow satin smile,

easy as taking
one day at a time:

one man and
one woman,

rib to rib,
with no  heartbreak  in sight -

just the sweep  of  Paradise
and the space of a song

so count all the wonders in it.









Here's another old piece, but not so  old, from January, last year.



I have a secret

I  mentioned
Ma and Pa Kettle
in  a crowded room
yesterday
and no one knew what
I  was talking about

this,
as in a couple of weeks
I complete  my 68th and begin
my 69th year on this earth,
a reminder of  the things  I know
that those still  struggling with the
challenges of youth
do  not

important  things
not restricted to  Ma and Pa  Kettle
and The Bowery Boys
and Boston Blackie

important things,
like,
I can see,
for better or  worse
the string of my life fraying
and know  the string  which frays  will  someday
break

an epiphany
denied to the young of 28
or 38 or  48 or even
58
who never notice
the string  of life
they traverse
in the humdrum of their daily
day
until  the day
its  sorry state is made clear to them

until then,
death is an unfortunate event
affecting  others,
never them in all  their glorious
immortality

not that they ever think in those terms

mortality
and immortality,
issues, like the price of potatoes
in Cambodia,
that just don't apply to them
no matter how many they see
laid out cold and still in a box,
no  matter  how many they follow
with their eyes as the unfortunate
are lowered into the earth, no matter
how many losses of  those  they know  and those they love
they experience in their  lives -

the idea  of one day it  will be  them lost,
them cold and still,
their  physical essence beneath a mound of fresh-turned  earth

an abstract
like the collision of galaxies in a faraway star system

the relevance  of death to all living  creatures,
the inevitability of decay's deconstruction,
is the shock that comes unbidden
on a birthday like the one I have coming,
notice of the candle that  flutters
and dies, this flesh and blood recognition of  the fate
of our own flesh  and blood
come only with the fatigue of age,
it cannot  be imagined before the dues are paid -
innocence must be lost
before the loss  of innocence can be known

this is when
some,
like me, begin to face
the all we  still want to do
and the uncertain  time we have  to do it









Here's a couple by Charles Bukowski. They are from his book The Flash of Lightning Behind the Mountain. It's  captioned as being a collection of  new poems (meaning previously unpublished from the massive archive of work Bukowski left behind after his death)and was published by Harper Collins imprint ecco in 2004.



peace

in the night now thinking of the years and the
women gone and lost forever
not minding the women gone,  not even minding the years
lost  forever
if
we could just have some peace now - a year of peace, a month of
peace, a week of peace -
not peace  for the whole world - just a selfish bit of peace
for me
to loll in like in green warm
water, just a bit of it,  just an hour of it, some
peace,  yes, in the night in the night  while thinking
of years  lost and the women gone  in this night in this very long
night.


the barometer

your critics are always going to be
there
and the more successful you become
the more  criticism  you'll
receive
especially from those
who are most desperate
for a taste of  the same success
you have
achieved.

but the thing you  must always remember
regardless of the criticism
is to try to continue to get
better at whatever it is that
you do.

I  think what bothers the critics  the most
however
is  to see someone succeed
after coming out of
nowhere
instead of from  their  very
special circle  of  the waiting-to-be-
anointed.

critics and failed creators
dominate the landscape
and the more you successfully harness
the  power of your
art
the more they are going to
insist
through intrigue  and
through their  rankling
pitiful
malice

that
you were never very much
to begin with
and that now, of course, you're even
less than
that.

the critics are always going to be
there and
wen they stop, if ever, then
you will know
that your own brief day in the sun
is over.








off-ramps

there are at least
a thousand places
in this town
that serve a better
Mexican breakfast

but it's New Year's Day
and we're at Mi Tierra,
in the Mercado
on the west edge
of downtown, just east of
the University

t's a TRADITION...

for spontaneity
instead,
take the next off-ramp


raptures
of  unexpectation
await
and roses upsmelling so sweet
and monkeys riding coconut
trees like caballeros
on a bucking
bandy,
and an old man
who walks with a
cane
shouting -

"Tradition
be damned,
let's have some fun
amigos"









My next poem from the best of 2003 anthology is by Linda Gregg and was first  published in The New Yorker.



Beauty

There she was on Entertainment Tonight.
Someone had caught a glimpse of Bardot
after all these years.  Brigitte Bardot
running through the trees, across a meadow,
a dog running with her. The hair still long.
Then another part showing her on the patio,
aged. (Sun-damaged, we say). The  violation
of beauty never  happens just once.
When my father heard his beloved dog
had chased and killed the rancher's  sheep,
he went right out and shot it. Because,
he said, once they ran with the pack
and tasted blood it would never stop.










Here  are  a couple of my older poems, both from  January of last year, poems that could hardly be more  different from each other, except that both are  short.


 
 
poppity-pop
 
getting back into
the daily poetry poppity-pop
frame of  mind
requires a step back
from the maturity grind
 
so,
time to put on
our play boots  and
dance
till the cows
come flippity-flopping
home
 
your turn to do the milking
my turn to lick  the
cream
 
 
the woman weeps
 
the woman weeps
 
the coffin lowered slowly into the open grave
 
women all around weep  as well,  women
who  haves sat where the weeping woman sits
and women who someday will
 
the men, watch, knowing
there is a box waiting for them
someday
and a hole being dug
a little deeper
each day
to  contain it
 
 







Here's a poem by Robert Lowell, from the collection, Robert Lowell, Poems selected by Michael Hofmann. The book was published by Faber and Faber in 2001.



For  Sale

Poor sheepish  plaything,
organized with prodigal animosity,
lived in just a year -
My Father's cottage at Beverly Farm
was on the market the month  he  died.
Empty, open, intimate,
its town-house furniture,
had an  on tiptoe  air
of waiting for  the mover
on the heels of the undertaker.
Ready, afraid
of living alone till  eighty,
Mother mooned in a window,
as if she had  stayed on a train
one stop past  her  destination.








Siberia anxiety

it's
like a damn Siberian winter
out there...

well,
not  really...

but it feels  that way,
after week of  cold, damp
dark days...

vampire weather

that  sucks the blood-life
right out of me

weather  that  slows down
to a turbid slug
the synapses that might
in better days
come up with a new idea,
some spark of creativity,
some little flash
of  a phrase
that  might link lives
one to  another,  conjoin  hearts
one to another, something  to spark an idea
that leaps  the gaps of time
and space, a spark  that might
open  minds  bound
tight one from  another,  minds
closed  in distrust and confrontation,
each against the other...

that's what this weather
takes from me
for I  am a clear sky
bright moon warm sun
type of person, sometimes  a rain person
too, not rain that  hangs frigid
in the rain,  but rain  that  I can  watch
fall,  rain that  I  can hear come flooding
off the roof, rain that causes the  creek
rise and roar...

instead
a  week of dark days
and I  can  feel that same dark
rising in me








From  the best American poetry of 2003, here's a poem by Jonathan  Aaron. It was first published in London Review of Books.



The End of Out of the Past
    (RKO, 1947)

"I never told you I  was anything but what I am," she says.
Black and white, the sunset behind Lake Tahoe  looks spectacular.
She turns and goes upstairs, his chance to light a cigarette
and dial the operator.  She  slips  a pistol into  her  briefcase,
gives the bedroom a cursory final glance. A moment  later,
sitting on the couch, he hands her a shot  of brandy.
"Thanks,"  she says. "Por nada," he answers, pouring one
for himself.She  says she thinks  they both deserve a break. "We deserve
each other," he replies, and wings his glass  into the  empty fireplace.
She's unperturbed, strictly business, already in Mexico.
His sleepy expression shows he knows  exactly where they're going.
Night has already covered most off the country. The airwaves
are vibrating with the strains of "Sentimental Journey," "Satin Doll,"
and "String of Pearls." As they get into his Chevy stationwagon,
I could be five and just waking up from another nightmare.
Half  the world is lying in ruins.







Here are two more poems  from last year.



upon seeing my first redwood tree in person
 
this  tree
grew
when Christ's cross
was virgin timber
 
continues
to  grow  as millions
have come to life
and died
 
false gods
and their believers
stricken
from the lists of the living
 
while
the true God
if she exists
lives here
still
 
 
a sullen sun
 
a sullen sun
rises
through urine-yellow mist
 
fog
slithering through high  grasses,
winding around wet-hanging trees
like a snake
in the garden
 
the morning
long
and darkly
sour
 
a morning
 
another one
to  add to all the  ones
before
 
a morning
 
victory over dark conclusions
one more time
 
 
 
 









Next, I have two poems by John Poch, taken from  his book, Poems, published by Orchises Press in 2004.

The book includes no information about the poet except what can be assumed from his work.



Expecting

The cattails nodding  above the marsh in autumn  breeze
fluff at the edges like buffalo fur.This is the ease
with which the prim girl  says of the pregnant farmer's daughter,
she let  herself  go. This round loneliness, this tatter
whitest on  the hem of  cotton light must  be  open
to gossip, pitying the truth inside it, hoping
the red-wing  blackbird will make  a cattail metronome
to  a music of evening wind,  knowing chickadees come
to line their  winter nests with the down of a  failure's bed/
Think of the daughter standing in a doorway, her head
against the frame, her  hair in tangles across her face,
fire light in the strands' inadequate embrace.


Winter Song

"At Christmas - dead time of the year -
When wolves eat wind, and nothing more"
                                                           - Villon

I walk  down to  the lake.While the cold  is shocking,
a peace descends in gusts and somersaults
through reeds - the hiss and whistle interlocking.

Tonight the sky's a dozen layered cobalts
awash with flecks of  God and angels talking
over whether you're one. So  nearly salts

are stars that melt the cold of space, unlocking
warmth like footsteps in a solitary waltz.
Along the shore, I count the threes while walking

the sidewalk  home. I pass the darkened vaults
of late  doorways as if I were a king.
Like this, I chain a whisper  to my faults.













the story of our times

so,
I heard of this fella
down where I  grew up
who bought a restaurant
in the country...

the restaurant
had three very tall palms
in front, so naturally,
he named his new restaurant
"Three Palms" -

that was right before
he cut down
all three  palms...

make of that
what
you will, I'm not  sure
myself
but am suspecting
it  might be a story of  our
times

---

sleet
on the northside

snow predicted
for this evening

I'll stay up late
to watch it

maybe 8:30 or 9:00 o'clock

anything that happens after that
is not part of  my
universe...

make of that
what
you will, I'm not sure
myself
but am suspecting
it might be another story of our
times

---

ducks
on the river
huddle in the cold

not smart enough
to get out of the river
and go  someplace
dry -

the comfort
of the known
trumps
good sense every time...

make of that
what
you will, I'm not sure
myself
but am suspecting
it might be even another story of our
time

---

I write  poems
even when I  don't have
anything to  say

but work very diligently
to  not say it
well...

make of that
what
you will, I'm not  sure
myself
but am suspecting
it might be just  one more story of our
times

---

so
many stories
of out time, you would think
at least one
would make sense...

make of  that
what
you will, I'm not sure
myself
but am suspecting
that
the story of our time
is that none  of the stories
of  our time
make any sense
at all









 
Here's another old piece from early last year.
 
 
 
the skin game
 
it's
not just he bag
we carry ourselves
around in -
 
it is an essential
organ,
the wrap
that holds together
all  the requisite parts
in all their proper places,
gatherer
and processor
of the natural sun-baked nutrients
every body needs;
 
it is a sociological
ad cultural mark of genetic
geography,
dark
or light,
a mark of long-dust
ancestral  origin, less so now
in the modern world
of connectivity
in all  things, a melding of skin
to the universal  tone
of coconut butter-swirl;
 
it is a tactile
and visual affirmation
of the essential elements
of art and pleasure
that affirm us,
the soft slide of skin on skin
in moments of passion,
the round curve
of a woman's breast and ass,
the probe of a nipple
aroused in a moment of anticipation
the impatient skyward thrust
of an erect penis,
the tender pleasure
as your fingers caress a baby's cheek,
the rough hard calluses
of  a cowboy's hand,
the soft tickle of pasture grass
on bare feet, the pain sometimes of parts
abused or inflicted,  such pain
as  important to the pleasure of skin
as all the softer sensations -
 
many things is skin
in this  game of life, soft and smooth
or hard and rough, the most  human of all beauty,
much more
than the bag we  carry ourselves  around
in
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 




Here's another poet I didn't know before from my second-hand book store. The  poet is Erika Meitner and the book  is Ideal Cities, published  in 2010 by Harper  Perennial. The book is part  of the National Poetry Series, established in 1978 to ensure the publication of  five poetry books annual through  five  participating  publishers. Publication is funded by Lannan Foundation, Stephen  Graham, the Joyce and Steward Johnson Foundation, Glenn & Renee Scaheffer, and the Juliet Lea Hillman Simonds Foundation.

Meitner is the author of Inventory at the All-night Drugstore, winner of the2002 Anhinga Prize  for Poetry. She is an assistant professor  of English at Virginia Tech and is completing her doctorate in religious studies at the University of Virginia.



You Are Invisible

and everything is tucked in twice.
It is night-time at the Waffle House.
It is night-time and the Food Lion parking lot
is mysteriously full. All our durable goods
roll  like marbles down truckers's corridors
flashes of neon, void intervals, a clock
that doesn't keep  time but loses it instead.
Memory vanishes like an inside-out room
shaken over a trash can: the naked space
beneath the bed, the decorative throw pillows,
paste brooches and pockmarked shoes.
You are a city of resin, of negative space,
of chalk. I am the rupture between past
and future, a TV  antenna with crosshatched
arms outstretched. I write your name
in new cursive on the condensed glass
of the bus window, erase it with a trace of breath.
The floor here is littered with black gum,
with chicken bones, and flattened wrappers.
I am hurtling through transparent distance
beyond which there is no other.
All over town is not that far from here.
I can tell you where to find it.
You can't go into the dark alone.









Sitting at my normal table near the back at my normal coffeehouse,  watching it winter outside. Just came back in from walking my dog, Bella (of course, she didn't want to walk; she wanted to run and jump and play). It's cold, officially about 35 f, but feels at least 10 degrees colder, with spits of rain and sleet.



circuit rider

I could write
a weather poem today

it would be easy

I could take any one
of a number of recent poems
and just add sleet
and rumors of snow in the hill country
to my complaints about the dismal dark and cold
days during this particular  seasonal
cycle and, voila, a new poem

but, overtaken by the ghost of Richard Nixon
as many my age occasionally are, I ask,
 would it be the right thing to do?

better that this mention
of a seasonal cycle
lead me deeper, or at least
different-from-the-weather
thoughts

the circle of life,  perhaps,
the collection of spinning atoms
that joined to produce
the  circuitry
of me
and their eventual dispersal
as the fact of me becomes a fiction
in the cycles of the universe, atoms spinning again
that had made  me, forgets me, then
joined into another  circuitry of something else

like the spinning of my top
when I was a child,
thrown from a tight-wrapped string
to the dust, to spin, to make circles
in the dust, until the dying wobble
and the tipping over,  inert in the dust,
needing another throw to begin
another cycle of circles

like the traffic round-about
on San Pedro, where three streets
come together, where cars must circle
to go straight, like the circle around
the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, multiple lanes
circling, each packed with cars  seen
from the  top  of the monument as  a mass of
disorganization, the true and purposeful
circuitry of the cycle apparent only after study,
like the spinning of atoms may seem
random and  purposeless,  until the larger structure
of  organized circling and cycling is seen,  a rock,
a flower,  a cricket in the grass, you, me, spinning
inside as we, in our temporary form, ride the circles
and cycles of the universal circuitry of creation
and destruction, the waves we ride until
we are overcome by its inevitability...

and we end up on a winter day, the normal
season cycle on an arc between  summer and spring,
and a poem like other poems, differing only
by the addition of sleet and rumours
of snow in the hill country








Here's a poem from early spring, last year, a fond memory on this cold, wet winter day.



who don't think  it's  a great idea?

legs are out
again

in shades of pasty white
to ebon night

according to ethnocentricital
elaborations
on the basic and original  design...

all  that winter-chilled
skin
thrown open to
warming sun,
arms and shoulders
and bellies
and the beginning swell
(and sometimes more)
of peek-a-boo
breasts

good god-amighty, man!
ain't it  a glory-smack-straight-in-your-face
great
time of year

Spring!
who in the world don't think  that's a helluva grand
idea?














Here's another from early last year, a subject I could rant on for hours.



to the mother

to the mother
of the kid
running around the coffeehouse
screaming...

oh, dear mother,
I'm truly sorry, but you
and grandpa and grandma
are wrong,
your precious little prince
of the ravaging,
rampaging,
barbarian horde
is not cute,
he is  a pain in the ass,
and I'm glad  he's not my pain in the ass,
though I assure you
if he  was mine
instead of yours
he would not  be a pain in  the ass,
even if  it  required  a tiny bit  of
persuasion
on  his little squirmy behind

I raised my kid,
now,dammit, raise yours
and leave me alone










Here, last for the week, a little instructional from me.



 
 
an instruction in the grander scheme of things
 
in the grander
scheme
of things
the world is
wet 
today
or
at  least  my part of the world
is  wet
which is wet enough
for me
since non-wets
in other parts of the
world
don't  affect
me
here
where
wet is
the grander
scheme
of me and mine
and
your not-wet
has entirely
no affect
on my wet
which is the
grander
scheme of my thing
today
which
you may have guessed
is wet
and it is cold too
which is another part
of my grander
scheme of things today
and if you're hot
and dry
in the Gobi Desert
well
big fricking deal
 
since I can't see
how  that  has anything
to do with
me
since
cold and wet
is my grander scheme
of things
today
and searing desert
sands
have not  part in
it
 
any questions?






Starting all over again with a new year, hoping  to get it right this time around.

As usual, everything here belongs to those who made it.

You can have my stuff - just say where you got it.

I'm Allen Itz, owner and producer of this blog and seller of fine books here:



Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony eBookstore, Kobo, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, and eBookPie

highly reputable places all

Poetry


Places and Spaces




Always to the Light




Goes Around Comes Around





Pushing Clouds Against the Wind



And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio


Seven Beats a Second





Short Stories


Salvador - The Dreamer


























 

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