Long Trundling Poems
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Their one lone cow has broken down the fence;
we see her trundling down the dusty lane.
Milo's mind remembers 'bout the milking.
Dad's face, a fiery-red, storms from the shed
where feisty kittens spat and sparred o'er cream.
Milo's feet meander back to the scene
as words of fire enflame dad's bulging neck.
"You'll wear the shoes that spooked the cow!" he roars.
So Milo moseys off to dad's bidding.
The cream a'squish-squish-squishes from the seams
of shoes like steam escaping old train wrecks.
Milo mumbles, "Guess I'd best be moving
along that dusty road to bring back Cow,"
with no concern for who will mend the fence.
written March 13, 2018
The Greyhound reels over creaking axles.
Northern Kentucky puts on weight in summer,
a green mélange thickens,
yet inside our trundling tube,
joints rattle,
gears burn through paunch and muscle.
We lurch over a crest down into a holler
An old Shaker Hymn booms across the radio:
When we find ourselves in a place just right
'Twill be in the valley of love and light.
I have often longed to be 'in a place just right,'
to be at ease in these bucking bones,
even when breathing this smother
of body odor and diesel.
Then we dip down into a valley.
At a wooden store advertising cold beers
we stop.
"Is this the right place?" I ask.
"It’s as close as we get", says the driver.
~~~~~
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all.
The Greyhound reels over creaking axles.
Northern Kentucky puts on weight in summer,
a green mélange thickens,
yet inside our trundling tube,
joints rattle,
gears burn through paunch and muscle.
We lurch over a crest down into a holler
An old Shaker Hymn booms across the radio:
When we find ourselves in a place just right
'Twill be in the valley of love and light.
I have often longed to be 'in a place just right,'
to be at ease in these bucking bones,
even when breathing this smother
of body odor and diesel.
Then we dip down into a valley.
At a wooden store advertising cold beers
we stop.
"Is this the right place?" I ask.
"It’s as close as we get", says the driver.
Your Long Angular Feet
You don’t know me, but
I been riding here in this trundling lounge car
for two hours now, watching
you and your long angular feet,
while rumbling over these burdened tracks,
to silent Garden City, up there in Kansas
on the high wheat plains, sky bound!
I been wondering what your name is.
Alas, it is really none of my business,
but your silent intuitive look,
your expressive knowing gaze,
has intrigued me with repentant ambivalences, and
guilty acknowledgements within my mind,
far beyond any understandable explanation,
far beyond the passing distant New Mexico mountains,
as they inertly move with silent dogged violence,
out there, in the whirring passing blur,
beyond these curving airy Amtrak eyes,
of blue tint and orange penetrating glare,
wrought with distorting apparitions of yellow
and green wheezing monsters of morning light,
with the Super Chief masticating eastern miles,
like a termite boring ferociously, slashing
into the railroad ties of unyielding time;
And so we sit, staring out this bubble window in the sun,
and I been wondering about you.
I been believing you’re educated, I can tell,
by the look of your pursed lips,
indicative of past heartbreaks and meltdowns;
and I been believing you’re a democrat,
by your descending, unhearing stare,
indicative of past arguments with fools
who sleep near obelisks, set in old stone.
And as you gaze far away
through the lounge car windows,
deep into New Mexico, its heart and rocky soul,
I wonder what you’re remembering there,
smiling, at peace with your intended purpose.
It was really nothing to me or anyone else,
nothing earth-shaking or profoundly circumstantial,
but you got off in Albuquerque,
you and your long angular feet,
and you walked away, like a dead person
in an old film reel.
I
Continued from Part 1
The Beggars ’neath the balustrades,
and broken Children, Chambermaids,
are running wild from wraiths, afraid
of dreams where death redoubles.
They fritter time with tattered threads
(from ragged clothes they’ve left in shreds),
crocheting hoods to hide their heads
and faces, full of rubble.
But many things will not remain
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
when goblets filled with cool champagne
evaporate in bubbles.
The White-Robed Maid adorns the trash
with charnel urns awash in ash,
then fumbles with an untied sash
while pacing in the Palace.
Her hopes congeal in coffee spoons
with memories adrift in dunes;
yet, still she smiles with teeth like prunes
and lips of painted callus.
And long before the midnight drains,
the Saviour wakes, the Loser gains,
the waters of the Hurricanes
will fill her empty chalice.
The storm (behind the clarinets,
the silver flutes, the castanets,
the foghorns belching in quartets,
the bagpipes, puffed and swollen)
is keeping time to tambourines
while Tom Thumb and the Four-Inch Queen,
pick up the shards and smithereens
of moments lost or stolen.
They’re trekking through the Dim Domains
(where fountains weep, the mountain wanes),
yet can’t escape the Hurricanes
with trundling eyes patrollin’.
The Crowds (arrayed in jewels) in jails,
stoop, peering through a fence of nails
while light behind their eyeballs pales
with plastic flame that sputters.
They huddle there because they must
(with eyelids hung like peeling rust,
their tears, palled pellets in the dust),
behind the bolted shutters.
They’ll reawake without their pains
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
without their sores, without their stains,
their agonies will fill the drains
and overflow the gutters.
End
Under a silver grin of moon, he shuffles past the tide,
His cane clicks like Morse code—C-A-N-E, not C-A-N-T—in stride.
Salt air tames his hair around the balding head, still stubbornly spry,
And in that tap-tap rhythm, a rogue star leaps in his eye.
Wave surf offers applause, gulls pretend they've never seen a groove this hot;
He nods a courtly greeting to a lady’s heart his steps have caught.
With a wink he tilts the cane—epinephrine meeting moonlight’s glow—
“Cane?you?feel?the?love?tonight?” echoes back from the seas below.
Eyes soft as driftwood meet trundling cane below waist:
He whispers jokes to moonlit foam, confessing past youthful haste.
He has hips once worth a dance card, now requires stabilizing support—
Still he swivels on one leg, as if each grain of sand were a court.
Seagulls halt their gossip, waves lean in for that sly wink,
Each embered foam-cap brims: they’d lunge for her if they could think.
He strides with a regal hush, the beach becomes ballroom and stage;
She laughs and claims her bosom warm, her pulse half his age.
He tips his cane like a top hat and makes low bows to her feet,
Promise lies in crooked wood, varnished, aged, yet resolutely sweet.
Moonlight carves their silhouettes, applause in each breaking wave—
Their love is not shiny youth; it’s the swagger of the brave.
In the midnight strolls, old man dancing with sticks and sea,
Love that leans on folly, memory, and one-second dignity.
Long after sand erases footprints and the tide forgets its rounds,
Your cane will still be tapping: “Can’t stop loving you,” it sounds.
The loss of the known
A sudden flash occurred, a moment of a forgotten past
walking down a wide road that only had a few cars trundling along to the left, where the road winds to the right, a café
I thought of going in for a beer, but the dog, if left outside
would fret
A fine day, not hot or cold, must have been early spring or fall
tried to remember what I was doing before the curtain was drawn, but I was left with an unfinished memory, one I had to make up for to fill in the blanks.
Something sad about the scene of a sole man with a dog
walking down a road he had never been to before, his mother
had died, and the point of reference was missing
now
DOLPHIN
Dolphin! Cheerful funny sea-animal.
Amusing cute under-water mammal.
frolic and fond of music,
witty creature to mimic,
tumbling, trundling, toppling, phenomenal.
Most attractive type of wonderful whale,
can be properly trained to behave well.
Dolphins like human being,
make sound like giggling,
breathe in Air, yet choose Water to dwell.
The loss of the known
A sudden flash occurred, a moment of a forgotten past
walking down a wide road that only had a few cars trundling along
to the left where the road wears to the right, a café I thought of going
in for a beer, but the dog if left outside, would fret
A fine day, not hot or cold, must have been early spring or fall
tried to remember what I was doing before the curtain was drawn
I was left with an unfinished memory, one I had to make it up
to fill in the blanks.
Something sad about the scene of a sole man with a dog
walking down a road he had never been to before; his mother
had died, and the point of reference was missing
now he was alone and lacked a compass.
Once I have been to that city-
the city of ritzy splendor and hoary grandeur,
a gargantuan pile of steel and granite.
It stood an enigma on the banks of Hudson,
lulling the waves to sleep in the garish light of neon bulbs
with an eternal tumult heating up its nerves.
Walking down its streets, eerie scenes scurried past-
men and women- of all climes and continents
all ethnic denominations, all shapes, sizes and colors,
blonds, brunettes, blacks and whites,
tourists and nomads, in flashing styles
outlandish costumes, tonsured, dyed and tattooed,
speaking different dialects, trundling down busy streets
that never go still with sleep and awakening
where each day is an eternity and each night- a New Year’s Eve
a banal hubbub- a hoarse discordant clamor!
Broad roads that stretched endless seemed to lose themselves
like the mazy tangle of complex minds,
and pavements littered with a thousand moving feet.
In this hurricane of faces with fleeting passions
or fixations of their own, what chemistry could I discern?
A zest for life--or its absence? A search for a life lost in living?
a fight for survival or a passive surrender to the inevitable?