Senescence ongoing
Biological to the core
Cellular and systemic
Even genes mutate
Creeps in on you
Like a thief at night
Movement deliberate
Your thoughts too
The new kids run
Outpacing you
The final stretch
Never ending
Energy flagging
Redeemed by love
Unconditional and true
As you kick to the end
Dreams
sweet flow
hue’d treasure
cocoon one’s sleep
spells
dreams
fond wish
rapt vision
spot on target
spells
spells
bewitch
and taunt
flagging psyches
charms
hues
bright daubs
on pallette
Tincture limp eyes
shades
Only you can draw the map
Without contours the uncharted
Ocean of surprise you need to
Buoy your flagging dream
Let it O! Let it arise
Serene on the crest
Of morning: the
Subsiding
Fury of
Your
Self.
Christopher M. Swan 2008
Love is a corpse,
a slab on table and a checklist of finds,
6’ 2’’, rich, educated, white, slim,
a post-mortem on a body still fresh
Love is a casino,
a gamble in bright lights,
a bargaining of chips falling where they may,
an under-table sleight of hand
Love is a firework,
a hallucinogenic bonfire blaze
that spirals and swirls with a forever
waiting, a waiting for the bang, the explosion,
the sizzle from cosmos down to earth
Love is a house
with a cupboard for stale secrets
and a creak in an old spine staircase,
flagging passion hung out to dry above
yellow grass in need of water, can rusted
Love is silence is shout is cry is shake
is laugh is let down is let up
is cloud is volcano is dormant is erupt
is triumph is disaster is trust is tryst
For Angela Voras- Hills
As work inches along the highway you’ll
be standing next to a field the breeze a song only
you’ll hear as it whispers but you remember
life’s a song your life a collage of all the
experiences your heart holds such joy
to behold as the season passes as the
passing sun bleeds into the sky as the days
slip from your hands but that’s the way it goes
as your hold your sign as moments go by
and a voice in your head says it is so
now an open road as a car rushes by fast.
You’ll only remember the joy the days go by so fast.
a line from a poem by Angela Voras-Hills.
Flagging socks in worn-down boots
shiver in storm-soaked suits
wriggling worms cast as prey
off ghostly piers, rods bend and sway
dawn awaits her cue to enter
grouper and bass flash front and center
solitary rowboat far from shore
kerosene lamp lit no more
Pink Flamingos
The only bird of the family Phoenicopteriformes
Is the “flame-coloured” flamingo, so named by the Spanish.
A wader on long legs with an arcuate filtering bill;
An eater of shrimp and algae that pigment feathers pink.
Posed confidently, balanced on one leg to conserve energy,
They display beauty and grace under an aura of innocence
In a relaxed atmosphere, appearing flirtatious,
Congregating in pats, and exhibiting social behaviours.
In spring, the birds participate in mating rituals
Of synchronized dance steps, marching in unison
With necks stretched, heads flagging, and wings flapping
To encourage nesting and pair bonding.
***
Notes:
Phoenicopterus: "Phoenicopterus" is the Latin name for flamingo. Flamingo comes from the Portuguese or Spanish meaning “flame-coloured.”
Pat (aka Flamboyance): A "pat (aka flamboyance)" is a group of flamingos.
Shadows of the day leaned against the wall
applauded the bug which made you fall
A search began for the healing balm
and called to arms ways to calm the storm
Heaven was warned and the Earth informed
Life must work for a prize if death is armed
with aches and pains sharp as an arrow
its bleary eyes piercing through every window
formed grey clouds to hang over the meadow
But see, how refreshing the sprightly rain falls
Upon holy grounds where snow-flakes thaw
The running quake subsides and withdraws
dissolved in a ray of hope and welcome joy
And savor every moment your heart employ
With every twist of threshing sinews and nerve
The flagging weight goes lighter in a rare view
When bright moons break through the gloom
Your exhilaration see how happy children play
Admire great faiths when frenzy people pray
Dark atmosphere fades into the ever-glades
Recite praises with the gracious healing balm
The healthier days are coming to you again
Each step is victory in the journey you create
On the realm where healing virtues await
The dryer hums,
and my clothes are drying.
It rained earlier, but now
the sun is peering through clouds.
As I awaken, the morning is still.
I sit at a table in the front room
and it creaks.
When sifting through my poetic lines
I remember that each day
begins with a whisper.
I remember that around each turn
in the highway lies a surprise.
My thoughts turn to my days as a flagger
as if it is a previous life.
I remember
when there was one lane road
I turned my sign to control
the flow of traffic.
Some people I stopped
waved and smiled,
but in time I learned how
to let them go.
Each evening after work
I’d write a poem
and the librarian at the front desk
was a confidant, a friend.
They’d always offer praise
of how I could make a page come alive
while my fingers danced over the keys.
But now the quiet side street
in front of the house is broken.
I’ve called Public Works
but some things never change.
Now I’m back home
and learning to live again.
As a bird flies past my window
I think I’ll heat some leftovers
and go for a drive.
Wispy clouds pass like dreams
over cornfields near the shoulder
of a highway where I stand.
I have many homes, but here
in Sigourney I’m staying for the week
to control traffic in the countryside.
The farms that lie along the road
each have a story to tell,
and each day I talk to the clerk
at the hotel and show her a poem.
The clerk says she’s getting
another job at a nursing home,
and we’re drawn together
when we say we’ve both known
people who had dementia and died.
I tell her on a clear day
I can look to the south
and see the place
where the spread of fields
touches the sky.
This day, the skies grow heavy
when draped by dark clouds
and a linesman says
a storm is on the way
and I think of how fast
life can change in a matter
of hours,
but we continue to work
under a patter of rain
and later hear a tornado
formed south of us
and tore through
the north part of Missouri,
we’re saved.
After work I savor
conversations with the clerk
and the waitress in a diner
who says she’s married
and living on a farm,
the friendships I needed
while working on the road.
forever fragrant flowers
freshly frozen French fries
frosty frigid French pie
frightfully frumpy frogs
F is frolicking, having fun
frilly frisky Frankenstein
freezing frivolous frazzled fried flies
fruitful frustrated frankfurter finches
fragrant frizzled frocks
Frisking friendly fruity F
flirty fleeting fishes
flaky, flashing, flaming flashes
flawlessly flagging flip-flops
floundering in fleshy, flaxen, fluff
Flamboyant F, flavored fruitfully
Shook up shaking
the bigot tree
loose nuts crushing
they them me
crosses bashing
crosshair fit
I should know better
but I just can’t quit.
I am known
for all the subject and matter
that I will never know.
At first light a cool breeze
drops the small humming bugs
from flagging brush and tree.
The stabled horse and I have not met,
yet in a distant stall I hear him wake up
from his statuesque reverie,
shuffle and fart – become a part of
this harkening.
The fields are covered in cuckoo spit
where the dew strings it droplets,
fungi creak open, spores dust
a fecund earth in heat.
I am unknown yet
just as the sky is, as it waits to be painted.
Listening, I hear through a keyhole
drilled through an echoing skull.
A cat wants to come inside
so I let myself out.
I was walking in the streets in the country
Flagging down for any car
I was out of breath because I walked too far
A woman in a jeep stopped for me
I told her I want to call ol Jeffery
I am without my phone and car keys
I was glad when ol Jeffery answered me
I felt like I was losing my hair
however, he was there
I walked home worry free
Knowing he will be back for me
Yesterday was hot, the dry air
seared, it peeled away
a breathy vapor from parched lips.
It nailed down a flagging density
to a baked earth.
This morning
there is rain falling, but it has yet to land,
the sky creaks, wizened blooms rustle
in their dry terracotta shelters.
The electric background fizz of insects
scratches at the windowpane.
If I close my eyes
the land might catch the rain by surprise,
mouths may open everywhere.
My fat dog might chase its stubby tail
for the first time this summer.
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