Black and white movies,
old even when I watched them
flicker still on an inner retina.
A hero turns conspiratorially,
staring into my future;
what he said into the camera then,
is silent now
but I see his lips move
as if he were predicting this moment.
A heroine hikes her skirt over her thighs;
blood fills the flesh of memory,
a dialogue recalled by younger nerve-endings.
I remember I love her, but it is too late,
she is dead and she did not die young,
her ancient hand seems to
grasp my fingers now,
seeking closure.
King Kong lives a broken life in my hall closet.
At night I hear him weeping still
for that little platinum haired women.
He is no longer tortured, angry,
and confused,
but he forgets stuff,
Nightly I still have to explain to him
that the sound of buzzing biplanes
is only the air-conditioner kicking in.
Eventually we both slip into sleep.
Categories:
biplanes, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Very soon marmosets and moose
will get their vaccines.
A lone gnome fishes in a Koi pond.
The light of the moon
has been dimmed by a Chinese switch.
Elite bands of cockatoos
fight for free speech, but just for themselves.
Preening jackasses bray in the green rain
and the songs are all the same.
A fearful old man stammers in the dark.
So far the greater apes are in ascendance
however, a turtle and trumpet alliance
has formed a combo of resistance.
Four masks a day and a cup of instant propaganda
keep us hiding behind a surreal subterfuge.
Afghan warlords wander empty streets
handing out relief packages.
Birds rent-out tree space to killer bees.
Belfry’s are bankrupted by fleeing bats.
Harpies and stool pigeons
turn in their stools for further interrogation.
King Kong whimpers inside a skyscraper closet,
too shy and lonely now
to swat even the smallest of biplanes.
Categories:
biplanes, poetry,
Form: Free verse
That Tat
Well there are a few more tattoos planned,
I’m getting some coverage.
Bit by bit.
On my legs and more to go.
Since May I covered my arm gaps,
full sleeves! Roundabout way of doing it.
No full story here, top to bottom.
All sorts of crazy stuff:
stars, dots, Pixie tarot card art.
My legs are full of planes.
Biplanes winging their way south,
WW2 fighters looking for each other,
bomb laden Lancaster off to Germany.
My collage of Luna moon lady,
her nuclear rockets and a fiery star gal.
What more will grace my skin?
Full coverage beckons, courtesy of the bakery.
Each week a new bit of ink.
Equal to a two week Mediterranean holiday and a small car.
My reason to live, ink on my skin.
Ongoing art project till I’m done.
Care to design me an arty tattoo?
Categories:
biplanes, art, beauty, image, imagery,
Form: Free verse
Seven Post-its,
a constellation not unlike the Big Dipper
guide travelers through a deskscape
of escarpments and promontories.
Out beyond the half eaten sandwich
dotting the horizon
are The Spires of Mountain Dew,
monuments of deadlines never met.
Rumor has it that beneath
a sedimentary strata of folders
and never-read reports
are Fed-X artifacts
and a 1990 desk calendar.
Four Post-its,
yellow green fuchsia and pink
like Burma Shave placards,
line the bookcase less traveled.
“Fix car”
“Pay bills”
“Workout”
“Orlando”
In a screen-saver sky
biplanes aimlessly fly
back and forth
back and forth
back and forth.
Categories:
biplanes, funny
Form: Free verse