I walk the halls of ghosts.
Of all who came before.
The memories of the foundry floor
Reverberate in my mind.
I remember silhouettes of friends;
See them smiling there.
I see toolbags, slung up on their backs.
Hear their crazy laughs.
Their grunts of strain. Their eyes in pain. As bolts found home.
As my mind wanders these halls, still entrenched in work,
Thoughts loop large to previous days.
Wishing for days gone by—to reach and grab a piece.
Stuck in the here and now—more in back than in front.
Training new by old. Futures to reveal.
Fresh hands to shake, and smiles to share...
Toolbags of their own.
Perhaps a sign of times, as future comes and goes.
Perhaps a sentimental fool in hallways, I suppose.
- Debra
Sisters swinging,
running,
catching.
We mean business,
as adults,
don’t erupt
like a jealous teen.
But,
she did;
I called her out.
She picked up
dirt, at home base,
and slung the particles
into contact-covered eyes.
To my surprise!
You know,
as a fully evolved adult,
you suck it up,
just like when the ball bounced -
smacked me on the chin.
Sisters swinging,
running,
catching;
they mean business
when they exact revenge
on the she-devil.
I didn’t see,
but I was told,
“We got her back!”
They had my back.
Be careful slinging dirt;
my sisters will call you
“O U T!”
When in the cradle
or a boat that rocks
life's lessons are learned
at the school of hard knocks
where these things are taught
you didn't oughta
1., stand up in a canoe
when it's in the water
as you may pitch
overboard
go down
and nearly drown
&/or,
2., stand up in a hammock
slung between the trees
as you could fall
all out
but merely skin your knees
unless you land upon your head
and then you may end up dead
Shirley is a confident seven-year-old
with sky blue eyes and fantastic natural curly ginger hair
her curls walk ahead of her
they are outstandingly pretty
today she is dressed in casual kaki pants
with matching sneakers and a huge leopard polka dotted bow
a matching purse is slung over her shoulder
she has no idea how adorable she is
a walking picture that others appreciate
her second-grade classmates surround her
they like everything about her
especially her confidence
Shirley fearlessly stands up for everybody
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
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 has an otherworldly glow
in a starless lot.
The few parked cars
have leagues of loneliness between them.
No one comes or goes, they merely slipstream
through a personal invisibility.
Beyond the electric slide of glass doors
the anchorless roam
between the high stacked
and glitter wrapped.
Anyone that matters in the daylight
is not here.
At the check-out he sees her,
dark 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 is 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 some 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.
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