Loss
In a field of fresh
cut clover
summer sun,
noon high,
beats down
on open farm spaces,
3 dependent children,
and somewhere
she has lost
her shadow-
and now
she stand still-
with nowhere
to go.
Willow Tree & The Rain Falls
Willow tree where the rain falls,
2 loved pets beneath the roots,
gray sand like dandruff
packs them in close and tight.
Thunder at 3:37 am Thursday night
wonder of my dream mind loves
thunder rain.
It is just a part of me, loose with wind.
I know in the a.m. blending in the
moisture birds will chirp sounds
blasting echoes against the surface
of the sun.
Before the dawn light, small minds like my own
become active gearing thoughts toward work.
Economizing each part of me, loose like the wind.
This is the willow tree where the rain falls.
I am self-employed in my primitive occupation
selling pens, pad of paper, calendars, vintage graphic tees men (lắp đặt lưới an toàn) shirts
with your name customized on them.
It is just a part of me loose with the wind.
Life as an author is a daily man grind
to coffee grounds & leftovers.
With the thunder, & lack of sleep,
well deserved.
Casket of Love
This moon, clinging to a cloudless sky,
offers the light by which we love.
This park, grass knee high tickling bare feet,
offers the place we pass pleasant smiles.
Sir Winston Churchill would have
saluted the stately manner this fog
lifts, marching in time across this pond
layering it’s ghostly body over us
cuddled by the water’s edge,
as if we are burdened by this sealed
casket called love.
Frogs in the marsh, crickets beneath the crocuses
trumpet the last farewell.
A flock of Canadian geese fly overhead
in military V formation.
Yet how lively your lips tremble
against my skin, in a manner no
sane soldier dare deny.
My Own Puppet
Beaten down my
my own puppet
drawn my own strings
I don’t know what to do
with myself but hang loose.
I am a swinger of words, & loose conditions.
My fingers hang limp like impotence.
My puppet bows her head with nothing to show.
A curtsey before her king who has somehow
misplaced his private crown of jewels & golden rings.
Such a humble act, a dance of sacrifice
lacking joy, but long term the commitment.
Gallant of her victory in void she
smiles with disgust.
Nothing drips from her face.
I am a swinger of words, & loose conditions.
April, I’ve Been Fooled Before
I blink, the electricity is off.
The day has brought
night to an end on top of me.
Lamp oil and flashlights save me
from myself.
I walk in darkness.
In this darkness I don’t
see my shadow.
When the wind goes still
cold chills down my spine
don’t feel anymore.
I walk in darkness like this
but I’ve been fooled myself before
at Halloween, fears of April thunderstorms.
April thunderstorms have knocked the lighting out of me.
Pulled the electricity out of my sockets, pulled plugs from my condo.
Lying in bed with only this conversation to keep me company.
I feel like an ice tope insulated around in my words,
Looking for images in shadows, quiet corners.
I creep myself alone.
Here I lie on my back in bed, think, try sleep-
with ghosts, witches, spiders, devils,
and all kinds of nasty things.
Nothing brings Christ out of closed wilderness
faster than darkness being alone.
I blink, and electricity is back on.
April, I’ve been fooled like this before.
Catch On The Fly
Full barrel
up the black asphalt
highway,
53 north
heading to Lake Zurich, IL
Christian talk radio 1660
on the radio dial,
crisp winter day
sunbeams dancing down
on the pavement like midgets.
85 mph in a 65 mph zone,
just to aggravate the police,
black Chevy S10 pick up,
shows what a deviant I am
in dark colors.
Running late for a client appointment.
creating poems on a small hand held recorder
knowing there is not payment for this madness
in this little captured taped area of words.
Headlights down the highway for a legacy
into the future, day dreaming like a fool obsessed.
Working out the layout of this poem or getting my ego in place,
I will catch up with the imagery when I get back home.
This is my life, a poem in the middle of the highway.
Scampering, no one catches me when I’m speeding
like this.
Face On A Bus
Faces On A Bus ©
face on a bus,
passing by,
nameless,
stares out the framed window,
frozen like skeleton bone-
boredom nibbling away at his time.
write by jones
