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The Poet’s Tattoo

A windblown anchor made of feathers
and straw. Exquisitely drawn.

Inked in the poet’s blindspot.
Right between the shoulder blades.

He believes the image is bedrock
anchored to the core of the earth,

though to be honest
        – he’s quite sure it’s not.

…

Written for Desperate Poets OLN.
Inspired by Bob’s, “A Poet’s Style” at naïve haircuts.

Summer Night

I’m not one for longing or plumbing depths
in the review mirror – but that memory

– a gasp of sheet lightning. Lucid. You and I.
1980. Side by side in a Dodge pickup truck

bursting with tomorrow’s seed. I was there again.
Then right back. Here and now; staring at the ceiling

between this bed and the summer sky. Eternity
tap dancing through the open window, chuckling.

I want to weep but don’t know why. Downstairs
the grandchildren; smiling in their sleep.

…

Posted on Desperate Poets Open Link

Power Buttons

This week Desperate Poets were challenged to a high-noon slam with the Ai oracles who appear to be forcing their way into the neighbourhood. It would seem that robots are starting to write poetry. It’s true. No, I don’t know what they hope to gain.  

…

I was strapping on the guns, kick-boxing the heavy bag and nun-chucking the nunchucks when Poetry came strutting in. Rattlesnake wrapped ’round her finely curved neck and a crown of fireweed gracing those lightning white locks. 

What’re you doing, she asked. I faked a few jabs in her direction. She rolled her eyes, did some fancy-pants thing and put me arse over tea kettle dumbfounded in the corner. Totally in love as usual.  

Prepping for the big battle, says I. Desperate Poets bustin’ chops, head to head, eye to eye, puttin’ the boots to the gang from Ai.   

Her laughter was geese at night through an open window. A little stream mumbling away. One firefly in the woods. Lucid silence. She parts her lips and the wind blows warm. 

Intelligence doesn’t write poetry darlin’. Artificial or otherwise. It’s just one part of being human. And if you look around, it seems to be a very small part these days. Your lot appear to be struggling just understanding the workings of a power button. 

We love you, she says, looking up, down and all around. But you are just a season. A fine little moment in time. Tipping the balance a bit much though. A dangerous, hungry bunch. Blind as newborns. 

For one long and lonely heartbeat she became a black hole and I was just a man. Then she helped me up, brushed me off and growled; if never a word was written – I’d still be around. Now, don’t go getting yourself hurt.

…

The Picnic

No one notices as you slowly drift
beyond the river’s bend. A friend looking up
almost in the nick of time, misses you.

Later, folding lawn chairs, your brother
mentions your name; a shame about something.
Distracted, searching for the car keys

your wife nods. She agrees. Red-winged
blackbirds sway on the bulrush, speckled trout
flickering the shadows, follow your wake.

…

This

There is nothing on this path to hold onto. Nothing to commit to heart or memory. One hand on the smooth bark of a young poplar stretching skyward, roots crawling deep down, creature of darkness and light. Forest of fallen ancients at my feet, a moss blanket of moist promise. Nothing dies here. Nothing lasts.

My mother forgets
that I am her son; holding
hands by the window.

…

For dVerse Haibun Monday. Alluding to memory.

Love Songs and Such

Sitting at the side of the road pitching pebbles in the ditch, yakking with Poetry about love songs and such. She asks if I remember falling in love with her.

Roses are red, violets are blue, I imagine. Or a Limerick. Someone from somewhere rhyming with something. No, she says. Not what the teacher told you, or romancing your mom with crayons and paper.

That would probably be the haiku about sitting alone with the stones then. No. That’s when our eyes met in the college bookstore. We touched. You were infatuated. Love happened later.

Of course. I remember now.

Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes. Rilke. The deep, uncanny mine of souls, blind lake hanging overhead, that long slow march and the infinitely gentle touch of the god which hurt like an undesired kiss.

I saw that entire landscape was but a single breath. A batted eyelash. I knew then you were well beyond my meagre self, but if I hung around, made myself useful maybe, well something.

Roses are red. Violets are blue. Sugar is sweet, my love. But not as sweet as you. I am here for the dance, not to pay the bills or make you popular. I’m not about tomorrow, the next day or somebody picking up a pen.

She chucks a stone into the runoff, smiles like ten million daisies bathed in the light of the first born; reaches over and takes my hand. She says I’m not much of a dancer, but a good fella to have around.

…

Written for Desperate Poets

The haiku mentioned is by Mizuhara Shuoshi, from the book “Modern Japanese Haiku, An Anthology. The Rilke poem from “The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke” translated and edited by Stephen Mitchell.
Honourable mention to Jack Gilbert and “The Dance Most of All”.