Inexplicably silent in choir
being unusually quiet
not a word from me was heard
neither spoken nor sung
so as not to cause a riot
when jibes bad vibes at me were slung
and I was asked, 'Cat got your tongue?'
I replied, 'Here's the thing,
really and truly, I cannot sing,
it's been this way for all my years,
whatever it is I appear to hear,
and between my ears to me audibly sits,
tho' quite right there, when on the tongue's tip,
it's not the same music my mouth emits.'
Over six decades
slinging dirt around
reckless hearted one
over six decades
having dirt slung at me
Time to get out the bleach
scrub things clean
Join me?
The weight
He had written two short books
needed to show her his work,
Not now, she said, I’m watching TV
Around the beam that keeps the heaven’s roof from falling,
He slung a rope fastened to a scrap iron drum using
Himself as a counterweight.
He hoisted the drum up, but he was too heavy
He carried too much weight of pride.
He cried in the night, struggled to get rid of unwanted feelings
The drum becomes lighter and descends until
He was lifted to the top of the beam, feeling free
Of false pride and ambition.
Why did you cry so much in the night? they asked
He smiled and was at ease with himself and didn’t answer.
Cheap ale pools in a Styrofoam cup.
She’s barefoot in gravel,
anklet flashing beneath the floodlamps.
Pickup window ajar, radio blaring
“Friends in Low Places.”
Her jeans slung low,
hips marbled violet on the porch-swing,
ash winnowing across her thighs
from last night’s guttering fire.
I watch the buttes flatten at gloaming,
a silo blinking red—
a wound stitched into the earth.
She speaks of leaving at firstlight.
I say nothing,
fingers tracing the stubs of dead cigarettes
between her knuckles.
Coyotes keen beyond the barbed-wire.
The stars loom Pendulous
We do not lift our gaze.
In the Garden of Beginings
Projects failed or flowered,
Left to grow or to wither
Many being overpowered,
Each an experiment,
A blending of force
Each left to follow its
Own individual course.
None were culled
Without good reason
Flowering and blooming
For season after season.
Experiment of dimensions
Matter, time, force, space
Some rising to exist briefly,
Some at more sedate pace
As the Universal Gardner,
Glorying in the sight
Of destructive darkness
And brilliant creative light.
Used the lightest of control
To keep things on track,
Moving from place to place
Its tools slung on its back
disloyal lovers plot to bring you down-
betrayal thrives in every shallow sea
satanic verses slung by caustic clowns
have hurt your heart and brought you to your knees
please take my hand and stand upon your feet
now raise yourself erect, embrace the sun
its light can give you strength to bear the heat
together we will face each storm as one
remember all those pleasant nights of yore
when stars would dance a jig and croon their songs
while Old Man Moon would spin his tales of lore
enchanting us until the break of dawn
I promise to be there through sun and rain
forever by your side to ease the pain
no cowboys in stock on this side,
but acrid fishermen provide
marine lifelines, hamlets sustain.
Spineless seas they ride, shark's terrain.
pre-dawn cowboys of Waves arise
early wranglers trawl for the prize
through murky waters or in plain.
Spineless seas they ride, shark's terrain.
catches of chub, snapper, and sword
concoct dinners we may afford.
praise the fishers, saddled with strain.
Spineless seas they ride, shark's terrain.
rank as sins, veiled in ocean scum
nets shoulder-slung, descendants come
off the tides, firm ground to regain
Spineless seas they ride, shark's terrain.
A day in Cascais
Storms and rain have blown away
Green grass grows on cracked pavement
This place was once a low-slung hill
With small farms and animals
The landscape disappeared under concrete
Apartment blocks and shops
A tree-lined avenue, the town’s pride
Up-rooted trees from somewhere else
Re-planted
The trees found rich soil, have big leaves
Looks great in spring
Is this progress, but the struggling grass
On the pavement’s cracks
Will one day make a landscape rich and green
Melodic notes often bring
Jazz singers a bit of zing
Dancers jump in with a swing
Elvis is the Tennessee king
50’s make me want to sing
Partners slung out in a fling
Tempo from an angels’ wing
Music is a most wonderful thing
I am floating through my world of dreams
Searching for the perfect story.
There are three-headed dogs and stranger things
Mixed with exaggerated memories of past glories.
There are dead people, once again alive;
High school courses that must be repeated;
A recurring dream I've had since I was five
That I wish could just be deleted.
Lots of naked woman desiring me,
Many more than the actual amount;
I'll file those under sexual fantasy,
More than I could ever count.
Over in the corner trying to hide
Behind the nightmares and the absurd
Is the girl who will become my bride
In a dream that actually occurred.
I can hear her snoring in my ear,
With her arm slung over my chest;
Having my wife laying with me so near,
Is the dream that I love the best.
The dog is barking for me to take her out,
Seems my night has come to an end,
Later this evening, I will no doubt
Return to my world of dreams again.
The store is a low-level spaceship
in a starless lot.
The sparsely parked cars
have leagues of loneliness between them.
No one comes or goes they merely slipstream
through a personal invisibility.
Beyond the gliding glow
of glass doors
the anchorless roam
between the high stacked
and glitter wrapped.
Anyone that matters in the daylight
is not here,
Then he sees her,
moons slung from each ear,
she with the dragon tattoo arm sleeve,
her small, half-cupped breasts
daring anyone to be kind.
He wants to be near to her,
yet he only an itinerant broker of bad news.
The few that are here will leave separately
to tunnel into more makeshift hours,
and he must drive far enough away
to be a distance from himself.
The students couldn't wait
until the fat lady sung,
so some heaved rocks
while others slung dung..
Bonded by the beat from
an umbilical drum,
protesting in the streets
as one, Hashina's authoritarian regime
was overcome.
For some reason the radiator is on
Some sun skimmed summer
Our ties slung in varying disrespect
Head resting against palm to feign the guise of awake
My desk scrawled with the names of ones before
some etched some gouged
A slug shaped excuse for a mammal gurgling on about that and another
As I watched glints of sunlight skip together outside
like some ethereal game of tag
For some reason the always called me mister followed by the abrasion of my second name
You are hear to learn
Like a cue my head swivelled in unison with my sigh
What can I say look at my teachers
My hands already grasping the denim straps of my makeshift bag dragging the contents and scrunching it within
Deliberately squeaking my chair to watch the vessel in his neck just a fraction more as I rose to leave the room
He still thinks he’s punishing me as I head towards the outside and what will be
The humidity was doing a good job of keeping pace with the temperature. Until around 10 AM when the thermometer pushed its way past 100. That’s when 176 frightened kids and a few old hippies staggered out of the crowded cattle trucks. “Alright you maggots, RUN,” voices screamed from beneath wide brimmed Smokey Bear hats. So, we ran…and ran, duffle bags slung over our shoulders. Hours passed before we finally came to attention under the blistering Missouri sun. All the while, the bears circled. Sniffing the air and grunting. “Don’t show them any fear,” one of the old hippies whispered, “they pray on the weak.”
Like nature intends
Survival of the fittest
Do not show weakness
He sold penny whistles
From inside the little sack
Slung over one shoulder
And hanging down his back
And he filled them full of magic
So for one whole day
Anyone who bought one
Learned how to play
And he taught them to dance
And he taught them to sing
And he taught them jazz
And he taught them to swing
And each penny whistle knew
One hundred tunes and songs
So each whistle player
Never got a note wrong
And when they were happy
And had their timing right
He’d pick up his sack
And disappear into the night
And not one of them remembered
What they had seen
And not one of them remembered
That he’d ever been
But they kept the music
Though they didn’t understand
When or where or why or how
Each held a penny whistle in his hand
And he’d walk away unnoticed
Still carrying on his back
One million penny whistles
Loaded carefully in his sack
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