Habits of Mercy   Wednesday, August 09, 2017






This poem is from Goes Around, Comes Around, my second book and first eBook.










habits of mercy

I was thinking this morning
about what I want to do
with the rest of my
life

and decided
it's the same thing
I want to do
with the rest of my day -

kiss
my wife
at least once or twice

eat
some good food

write
some good poems

sleep
a nice nap

communicate
with my better nature

&
forgive myself
for all recent sins, known,
as well as secret, even to me

easier for some
than for others, those

with no true love
to kiss -

no food to
eat -

no bed to sleep
in -

no poetry
in their soul

those
with no key
to unlock the door to self,
their true self unknown to them
as a stranger passing dark
on the street -

and most difficult of all
for those who can't even find
within themselves
forgiveness of themselves

poor
miserable
ego-obsessed
creatures that we are,
sinners almost from our first thought,
if we cannot forgive ourselves
how will we ever learn to forgive others,
how can we ever live in this world
that needs cleansed hearts
as much as it needs clear air and water?

habits of mercy
are what will same this world;
human sins forgiven
by human
sinners








The usual stuff, me, old and new, and poems from my library. And another poem for remembering Alice Folkart.



Me
habits of mercy

Me
hotter than a cowboy in $300 boots

Alice Folkart
The Voice in the Room

Me 
as the moon through its tides demands

Wendy Barker
Saturday Night Requiem

Me
small-time big bang

Annamayya
from God on the Hill

Me
city of slow flowing water and beautiful women

Shirley Kaufman
Cineraria

Me
our secret night dreams

Larissa Szporluk
Occupant of the House

Me
the rose

Bobbie Byrd
What Happened on My Front Porch

Me
not about our neighborhood skunk after all

Margaret Atwood
from The Two-Headed Poem

Me
diorama

Andres Montoya
from Contemplations from Concrete: Nine Movements

 Me
being the normal lifespan of a boom in the oil patch

Thylias Moss
Five Miracles

Me
hobos

Rosario Castellanos
Speaking of Gabriel

Me
random thoughts and scattered memories

Robert A. Fink
Hobos

Me
tiny birds













Here's the first for the week, from a couple of weeks ago.











hotter than a cowboy in $300 boots

flirted
with the young girl
at Whataburger
yesterday
and she flirted right back

boy-howdy,
I was thinking,
what a sweetheart
of a pretty girl and
I'm thinking
I'm really hot today,
hot as the
Chihuahua Desert
in full summer sun,
romancing, I am
like a stone-sharp
cowboy
in $300 boots

then another old fart
was ordering his burger,
just a-flirting like 
crazy
and the pretty young girl
was flirting right back
just like she flirted with me

damn two-timing
hussy!












It's been a year and a half or more since the passing of my friend Alice Folkart. I consider myself lucky to have so many of her poems to remember her by.

This piece is from September, 2011, some years before her own time came.








The Voice in the Room

There's nothing I can do.
Maybe nothing anyone can do.
She lies askew on the
rumpled hospital bed,
half asleep, wheezing a little
as I read to her.

There's much to say to each other,
so the book is our lifeline,
the touch we need to coax life out of its cave.

I read and read and read
without knowing what I read.
She sleeps, not knowing what I read.
It doesn't matter.
It's only important that there is a voice in the room.













Here's an old piece from early 2014.










as the moon through its tides demands

a thin crescent
moon
holds its own
in a pale, barely-born
morning sky...

errands to run,
my day breaks from
its regular ruts

variety,
such random interruptions
to routine
are supposed to invigorate
stale and rut-bound
brains

not for me

it's the ruts
that bound the parameters
of my reality, my excuse
for sanity...

a wild and crazy
used-to-be,
my hot blood
long cool and congealed
into regularity

routine
my regulator
and my reassurance
that if it's 9:00 a.m.
and I'm where I'm supposed to be
my grip on sanity
is secure

and the day will happily proceed
as the clock unwinds,
as the moon
through its tides
demands










The next poem is by Wendy Barker, taken from her book Winter Chickens and other poems. The book was published by Corona Publishing in 1990.

Born in 1942 and educated at the University of California, Davis, Barker is poet-in-residence and professor of creative writing at the University of Texas, San Antonio.







Saturday Kitchen Requiem

      (for James Hathaway)

No dishes in the sink this time,
just feathers and claws.
Plucking roosters, breasts still warm,
soft as fur. No more crowing cuts
the air. Death smells stronger


than bacon in the kitchen, a smell of thick,
wet feathers. This morning
you are far north
and I am south, and today, in Ithaca,
you bury your father.

Last night I watched my son sing
his first concert, third grade sopranos
gave their regards to Broadway,
Chicago, places they've never seen.
My son looked younger than eight,

as if he might forget the words.
On this steaming morning, I know
only feathers, black and white
feathers, plump thighs underneath
hardening to bone.













A memory poem from two weeks ago.









small-time big bang


I remember

the sun-shining South Texas day
When my brother's old bike
was handed over, mine
now, and the world expanded
in that instant, a small-time big bank
when the range of my being and doing
grew from my tiny neighborhood
to the wide confines our small town
and all the country roads behind our house
and like Columbus sailing the ocean blue
I pedaled off on my own voyage
of discovery

and Columbus, the intrepid explorer,
never felt a greater burst of anticipation,
never felt such a burst of freedom as I felt
at that moment








Born in 1408, Annamayya (AKA Annamacharya) is said to have composed 32,000 songs to the god Venkateswara. Very popular in his own time, his work was lost and forgotten for many years, until he was mentioned in 1849, then, subsequently, 12,000 of his songs were discovered etched on copper plates and hidden away in a small room in a temple. His entire family, including himself, his wife and his son and grandson, were poets and composers. The first English translation of 150 of the songs were published in 2005.

The book is God of the Hill, Temple Poems from Tirupati, with translation by Velcheru Narayaa Rao and David Shulman.

Trying to set aside cultural insensitivity, I seek beauty and purity in this poem, but I'm sorry to say this seems creepy to me, like reading the diary of a stalker.




SCP 2, 5:5

She heard that only silent sages see him.
She won't talk anymore.

He loves people who fast for him.
So she was told.
Since yesterday she's stopped eating.
She learned that people who pray in the woods
are his closest friends.
Now she won't leave the garden.

Thinking about god is best of all,
so she sits there with her face in her hands.
They said he's a master of the gods,
so just like them, day and night,
she never blinks.

They told her you an find him in water,
so she no longer wipes away her sweat.
This good god is the god of the hills.
She presses against him
with her breasts.












This piece from July, 2013, anticipating next year, San Antonio's 300 anniversary. The city never lacks for a reason to party. Next year's going to be a party worth waiting 300 years to celebrate.








city of slow-flowing water and beautiful women

San Antonio women
long legs
like liquid cinnamon
flowing,
muscles flexing as they
stroll the Riverwalk, languid like
the soft-shell turtles resting
mid-stream,
triangular heads
breaking
the mirror surface
of dark green water

placid afternoon
on the river's Museum Reach,
great pecan trees
a'twitch with squirrels
playing frantic games of chase up and down
wide trunks, across, tree to tree, full-leafed branches
that overhang the river's flow, blanketing the rumble
of cars and VIA buses
crossing the St. Mary Street bridge,
the summer heat of the city above near-forgotten
to the river-walkers like me and Bella
and those San Antonio women, long legs,
under short summer dress, like liquid cinnamon
flowing, muscles flexing as they walk
beside the quietly moving
water...

````

this city of cinnamon women,
city of multiple revolutions
and many flags, city
where history like its green river
flows slowly through it, this city already old
when the first July cannons
sounded
half a continent away,
celebrates again on this July afternoon
with those who came late
to it










Next from my library is this poem by Shirley Kaufman. The poem is from her book, Rivers of Salt, published in 1993 by Copper Canyon Press.

Kaufman was an Israeli/ American poet and translator. Born in 1923 in Seattle, she died late last year.








Cineraria

I sit in his Delhi garden
drinking beer before lunch.
"You start with one toe
and let it get heavy."
He tells me he learned to relax
each muscle and let the pain go.
I lived in San Francisco
in the sixties so I'm right
at home. His porch is lined
with pots of purple cineraria.
Little imperialist flowers
from my own back yard.
Once he went to visit
Ginsberg and Orlovsky
in Benares. He wanted
to talk about poetry,
but they kept asking him
about the Ganges. "Peter
served tea like a Hindu wife."
Not exactly, I'm thinking.
Whatever we're sharing only
seems the same. Parvati
comes out of the kitchen
with ten arms and an extra eye.
If I wore my viridian sari,
if I had a tiny diamond
on the side of my nose, I still
wouldn't know about the next life
or the transmigration of souls.














This one is new from a couple of weeks ago.









our secret night dreams

it is the pride
of poets and philosophers
that they find the truth of things
when, at best, their fictions
are approximations

like
I make up stories about people
I see and think my poet's eye has found
their essence, such a prideful
fool am I

for 
all my 73 years
I have struggled to understand
my mother and father...

I know
the stories of their lives,
or at least the parts they chose
to tell me, and I remember their moods
and their preferences
in matters large and small

but
I can never know the secrets
of their inner lives
as no one will ever know mine
for my self-revelations in poetry
and elsewhere are as fictional
as any story I tell about
someone else

we all have our secret other
we'll never reveal,
choosing instead the lies
we tell ourselves
in secret night
dreams

I don't know you
and
you don't know me

but we can still lie together,
tell the stories
that serve our mutual need








This poem is by Larissa Szporluk. It's taken from her book, Dark Sky Question, winner of the Bernard New Women Poets Prize, published by Beacon Press in 1998.

Born in 1967 in Michigan, Szporluk is a poet and professor educated at the University of Michigan, the University of Virginia, University of Iowa (Writer's Workshop), and the University of California, Berkeley. She teaches at Bowling Green  Sate University.





Occupant of the House

Someday the phoebe bird will sing.
The sword grass will rise like corn.
I will be free and not know from what.
Like a pure wild race
captured for science, to wronged
to go back, to strange to be damages,
m fierceness had disappeared.
If it doesn't end soon, the pain will dilute,
the sin turn to sheen in the garden,
your routine a genial rain
And I would get up from my special chair
and swim through the soundproof ceiling,
its material soft and blue,
a threshold to mobile worlds.
I wouldn't know about my body.
If it were winter, winter would tingle,
summer would burn,
like the lamp in my ear that bristles like fire
when you examine the drum -
is it hot? I don't know.
A shell malnourished by darkness,
a great fish charmed into injury, I swallow
the wires, the hours, the shock.
You knew what the sky would mean to me.













This is from August, 2013, an unusual day for August in South Texas.











the rose

I saw the sun
rise
this morning...

half of a rose-colored disc
resting on the horizon, clear in the soft morning light,
the contradiction
of cold flames roiling its pastel surface,
no suggestion
of heat, not like the burning orange-red
of most morning's rising,
soft
instead,
like the petals of a rose
rising round
to take the sky...

a sun
for a soft and easy
day,
a good day for garden
dreamers









Next from my library, Bobby Byrd, with a poem taken from his book, White Panties, Dead Friends (& other bits and pieces of love).

A poet, essayist, and publisher, Byrd grew up in Memphis, then moved to El Paso in 1978 where he and his family have lived since. He is co-owner, with his novelist wife, of Cinco Puntos Press.









What Happened on My Front Porch

Last night Allen Ginsburg waved goodbye
forever. Several bees, a scorpion and a butterfly
joined him i his departure, although I didn't
see them go off together. Their disappearance
was purely speculation. Before saying goodbye
All murmured that he doesn't believe
in a world of things. Why should he?
The end has never been the end,
and the universe is an open field of play,
a way of breathing. Here we don't know what
is going to happen one day to the next.
Except we will suffer. Except we will change.
Allen smiled and blessed me.
He doesn't want to be bothered anymore.
He was wearing his beard long again.
He seemed very much at peace.
I was sober. The moon
navigated in and out among he clouds.
I listened to the trains on Montana whistling
and I could hear my neighbors two houses down
drinking beer and singing and chattering
about nothing. None of us will ever
know how wise we are. Inside
the house my wife was asleep,
she who for over 35 years has studied
the human geography of who I am.

Allen had tied his boat to the juniper tree -
a light boat with short oars - he climbed
aboard and sailed off into nowhere,
happy to have saved us all.










Again, from a couple of weeks ago.

As a side note - on this morning's dog walk through the neighborhood, saw two skunks. Meaning, I guess, it's only a matter of time before I have to watch out for a passel of little skunkachitas.










not about or neighborhood skunk after all


I was going to write

about our neighborhood skunk
who I've spotted furtively lurking
during our morning dog-walk,
never actually certain
it was a skunk because of
indifferent markings, at least
not until last night when
I turned on the patio light
to let my dog out and spotted
the for-certain skunk cleaning up
left over cat food at my back
door. but, come to think of it,
the above is about all I have to say
about our neighborhood skunk...

luckily,
a fellow poet wrote about
a trip to the beach, a grander
beach on the Pacific than I had
on the Gulf of Mexico
when I was a kid at the far south
edge of Texas...

but still it was a beach with all
the sandy, surf, foamy waves
like white handkerchiefs breaking,
scuttling crabs and the sheen
of jelly fish flat on the beach
accouterments of a respectable
beach and as a kid I have fond
memories of it but it's been
a long time since I was a kid
and nowadays, beach mostly
means to me salty humidity,
sunburn and jelly fish...

but that doesn't mean
I don't like going to little towns
on the beach, places like
Port Isabel or Port Aransas,
or Rockport-Fulton, Port Mansfield
and even tiny Seadrift...

large or small, they all have
the same end of the world feel
to them, like people came on a long
journey to a new life came
up against the water and, exhausted
by whatever hardships their travel entailed,
looked at the green openness
stretching before them to the horizon
and said, well, hell,
might as well just stop here...

and so a town grows up with
lost dreamers, end- of-the-world people,
and a port for the boats they make,
a tiny port with shrimp boats
and yachts and little dinghies, and
even deep-water ports like in Corpus Christi
where great vessels come and
go as part of the complicate business
of world trade...

and the thing is, they all smell
the same, the closer to the water
you get, the smell of dream dust denied
and salt water and unused bait
and passed-over fish, left
rotting on the pier and great nets
of shrimp off-loaded into refrigerated
trucks and the smell of boiling shrimp
at dockside restaurants and the sweat,
always the sweat, of deckhands and
tourists gawking on a humid afternoon

and always the sound of birds
squawking, always hungry gulls
mobbing anyone who makes
the mistake of feeding even
one and the sound, if you sit
right by the water of a fish
jumping and landing back in the
water like a slap of an impertinent
face

and always, young girls
in bikinis and cut off shirts
and rump high shorts smelling
fresh from sun-block and chlorinated
hotel pools...

don't so much like the beach
where fishes and crabs and
great white sharks and god only
knows what else
nibble on dangling toes,
but beach-front towns, that's
another story...








Margaret Atwood born in 1939, is a Canadian  poet, novelist, literary critic, essayist and environmental activist. In addition to her literary successes (author of novels and fifteen collections of poetry) she is also an inventor, creating "Long Pin" and related technologies for remote robotic writing of documents.

This poem is from her book, Two-Headed Poems, published in 1978 by Simon and Schuster.




from Two-Headed Poems
          "Joined Head to Head, and still alive"
                                               Advertisement for Siamese Twins,
                                        Canadian National Exhibition, C. 1954.

The heads speak sometimes singly, sometimes
together, sometimes alternately within a poem.
Like all Siamese twins, they dream of separation.

i

well, we felt
we were almost getting somewhere
though that place would differ
from where we've always been, we
couldn't tell you

and then this happened,
this joke of major quake, a rift
in the earth, now everything
in the place is falling south
into the dark pit left by Cincinnati
after it crumbled.

This rubble is the future,
pieces of bureaucrats, used
bumper stickers, public names
returnables as bottles.
Our fragments made us.

What will happen to the children,
not to mention the words
we've been stockpiling for ten years now,
defining them, freezing them , storing
the in the cellar.
Anyone asked us who we were, we said
just look down there.

So much for the family business.
It was too small anyway
to be, as they say, viable.

But we weren't expecting this,
the death of shoes, fingers
dissolving from out hand,
atrophy of the tongue,
the empty mirror,
the sudden change
from ice to thin air.












2013, a winter morning.










diorama

morning

north wind
blows hard against me,
cold hand
on the nape of my neck,
trickles under my coat
down my back

clear blue sky
sharp as a diamond's cutting edge

bright sun
like broken glass falling

long night's sleep,
waking
to a fiver year old's
diorama
world,
construction paper
city
construction paper
world
bright colors
sharp corners








This poem is by Andres Montoya, taken from his book, The Iceworker Sings, published by Bilingual Press/Editorial Bilingue, in 1999.

Montoya, born in 1969, earned his MFA at the University of Oregon. Widely published in literary journals, he also published several poetry collections, including this, his first one. After his death in 1999 from leukemia, a poetry prize was created to honor him, including a cash prize and publication by Notre Dame University Press of the first book of a Latino poet.





from Contemplations from Concrete: Nine Movements

#1 scar

i was born from concrete
and sea salt. my hands
are tree bark and my mouth
spews the stench of the sewer.
you are so beautiful
i am afraid to speak about it.
how will you love asphalt
            cracks and dust
smiling up at you?


# 2 fear

i don't know anything about love.
i know about the bus schedule,
how poems are written on the backs
of seats like a law accusing me
of my own pathetic limp.

i know how to stare a man in the eyes
just to say, "i'm ready for you, punk!"

or how death looks
lying on the street
under a white white sheet.

i tried to love once
but ended up punching
everybody.

what can you
do for me? see?
even my questions
come out wrong.

your breath is too sweet:
             go away.


#3 voice

"come 
lie with me

the gunshots
will still be there
after you have learned
the lesson of my kiss

rest with me
here on the floor

i am singing to you

isn't it more beautiful
than the thrown rod
of a Chevy
stumbling lost
through the neighborhood

come 
let me
pronounce 
your name"


#4 tell me

you know me
too well.
the map
of my scars
you have already
charted

tell me you name

so I can
whisper it,

weeping,

with my eyes
closed.














A couple of weeks ago, a bit of South Texas wisdom.










being the normal lifespan of a boom in the oil patch


starting my routine

late today

the earliest part
of what would have been
my normal day
spent amid that congregation
of the aged and infirm
called labs day

an early morning
every three months
when a portion of the essence
of me is drawn
to make sure that
which is keeping me alive
is not killing me

I'll discover my future
prospects
next week when my doctor
announces my probabilities
for paying off any outstanding
long term loans
or at least the likelihood
of continuing to walk the earth
until the bill for today's
blood-sucking comes
due

I am hopeful,
though I continue to try to follow
the advice I gave to oilfield workers
when the shale boom started -

"don't buy anything you can't pay off
in three years"

that being the usual lifespan
of booms in the oil
patch








Next, a poem by Thylias Moss, taken from her book, Small Congregations, New & Selected Poems. The book was published by The Ecco Press in 1993.

Born in 1964 in Ohio, Moss is a poet, writer, experimental film maker, sound artist, and playwright. She was educated at the University of New Hampshire, Oberlin College and Syracuse University and has published a number of poetry collections.






Five Miracles

1.
We were cutting corn from cobs,
separating pied kernels
into red piles, yellow, black.
We weren't told to do this.
We took it upon ourselves
to make distinctions,
showing off our mother wit:
red into bowls,
yellow into jars with dated labels,
black into the scuttle
by the stove.

2.
Lutie Watson swallowed a snake
when she drank at the creek
that lynchers sank Jo-jo's stone-filled
body in the last year;
that snake must have been
a soul transformed
because now she's pregnant again,
way past the age of possibility.

3.
Went to a gypsy.
Gypsy had never seen a lifeline so long.
Stretches from my thumb on to my shoulder.

4.
He may be a buck-toothed
ugly dude
but he ain't a sawed-off runt.
Shoulders so broad
looks like his head
sits on a boxcar.
I go walking with him
through them I-talian sections,
them Polish and what-have-you sections,
people damn near bow.
His T-shirt (special made) says:
Homegrown in Darkest Africa.

5.
What's a nice colored girl like you
doing in New England?
Thinking about changing my reputation.













From outside my old coffeehouse/music school, 2013.










hobos

two youngsters,
old enough, maybe to be traveling
hobo-style
across country, but not so old as to be worn
by the game,
stopped by the coffeehouse last week,
walking down Broadway on the way to who knows
where, in their mind, wheresoever's next
I suppose, stuffed backpacks
and three large dogs on homemade leashes,
well-mannered hobos well-mannered dogs..

skinny-as-sticks kids,
the young man tattooed
and shaved head the young woman,
thin-featured, almost ferret-faced beneath
hair that hung low long over her face,
ordered coffee inside, then went outside to sit
under the trees with their dogs...

they were arriving as I was leaving
and I noticed as I went to my car that the young woman
was reading a book as she set under the trees,
apparently a book she carries with her
in that stuffed pack...

a flash of title was all I saw,
just enough to know this wasn't light reading,
some kind of philosophy/psychology, something of that nature,
not what you would expect from a kid living on the road...

so pleased to see such a determined reader,
I went back inside and got one of my
books - my compliments, I said as I gave it to her,
I hope you like poetry

```

another poet today
wrote of the meaning of sanity,, of insanity,
and remembering those two
young hobos. I wonder about my own definitions

how would I describe the life they chose?

it is an adventure, or a kind of restless insanity?

I don't know,
but I did see the young woman reading my poems as I left
and maybe it is my own particular kind of insanity
to find such pleasure in seeing that








The next poem is by Mexican poet, Rosario Castellanos (born in Mexico City in 1925 - died in Tel Aviv in 1974) from the anthology, The Defiant Muse (Hispanic Feminist Poems from the Middle Ages to the Present). The book was published in 1986 by The Feminist Press at the City University of New York. It is a bilingual book, Spanish and English on facing pages.

Along with other members of "the generation of 1950", Castellanos was one of the most influential poets of the last century.

Her poem was translated by Kate Flores.





Speaking of Gabriel

Like all visitors my son disturbed me,
taking a place that was my place,
existing unpropitiously,
making me divide every mouthful in two.

Ugly, sick, bored,
I felt him grow at my expense,
steal his color from my blood, add
a weight and a secret breath
to my own way of being on the earth.

His body begged me to be born, to cede him the way,
to give him a place in the world,
the quota of time essential for his history.

I consented. And when he came through that would, through that
hemorrhage of dislodgment,
there departed as well the last I had
of solitude, of gazing out from behind a window.

I was left open, receptive
to visitations, to the wind, to presence.














Last this week from 2013, a mix of memories and observations.











random thoughts and scattered memories

the guy
on Facebook
complaining
about how his privacy
is being taken away by the
government

am I the only one
who thinks that's hilarious?

````

barrios
in South Texas,
tiny frame houses,
a homemade fence in front,
a home where abuelita y abuelito
have lived for sixty-five years,
visited every Christmas
by their children and grandchildren
from Detroit or Chicago, Minneapolis or
Los Angeles, all points north, the house
stuffed like a pumpkin empanada
with children
sleeping triple on every bed
and swarming in the back yard, hanging
from a low limb of the mesquite
older than the house
they are visiting...

in front, a garden
fit for a queen, flowers, glorious
colors, broken only by a narrow gravel path
from gate to front door, a sight for
eyes sore from the cold winds
blowing off Lake Michigan,
swirling snow
of the north, and the dinge
and drab of dead cities
moldering in their urban jungle graves...

welcome home
in Technicolor for the wandering
tribes

````

random thoughts
and scattered memories
on a Saturday
morning

like the rag bag
where my mother kept
little snips of cloth
saved for the next quilting bee

```

girl
with me
in the back seat of some kind
of large vehicle

both fifteen

she at fifteen,
going on twenty-five;
me
still trying to assimilate
fourteen


we could have had a great time
but I was scared
and she was
bored

````

drinking the morning brew
here at m coffeehouse/music academy,
listening to the proprietress
croon a sweet Mexican ballad of love and loss,
watching her and the emotion
she puts into each line and phrase

thinking,
what a great air singer
I could be
and what a great air band we could have
if I could only find the right air
guitarist and air drummer
and maybe someone
proficient
at the air accordion,
the toast of South Texas
we could
be

````

my friend
comes in, will sit with me,
have coffee with me,
work together
on our computers, doing the things
we do separately
together

a fine Saturday morning

in the balmy month

of June








Last from my library this week, a poem by Robert A. Fink. The poem is from his book, The Ghostly Hitchhiker, published in 1989 by Corona Publishing Company.

Fink, with a BA from Baylor and a Ph.D from Texas Tech, is author of four collections of poetry. Since 1995 he has been professor of English and Director of Creative Writing at Hardin-Simmons University in Abilene.





Hobos

are passing in the night, regular as rain
dripping through our sun porch roof,
secret as the smell of thunder.
They are back from 1951
when my mother whispered not to make a sound
or else they'd mark the house.
She said they wanted food
The back door rattled slightly at the knock
Soft. An angel's touch.
My mother's hands paled against her ears.

Tonight I hear them pass. In between the rain:
the smack of cardboard soles
soaking up the street, the cadence of wings
brushing past the house. This time they do not stop
by chant Come Out. Come Out.
My wife and sons toss in dreams.
Tomorrow they will ask about the storm,
the sun porch roof, why my ears are red.













Last new poem of the week.










tiny birds

two little boys
playing in the shadows
outside the bookstore, their laughter
like a chatter of sparrows
gathered
under a mesquite tree







As usual, everything belongs to who made it. You're welcome to use my stuff, just, if you do, give appropriate credit to "Here and Now" and to me



Also as usual, I am Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and a not so diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:


Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony accusatory, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, Oyster, Flipkart, Ciando and Kobo (and, through Kobo,  brick and mortar retail booksellers all across America and abroad

 I welcome your comments below on this issue and the poetry and photography featured in it.

  Just click the "Comment" tab below.






Poetry

New Days & New Ways


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






Fiction


Sonyador - The Dreamer





                                                            


  Peace in Our Time




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