fire ferries

fire ferries float upwards

born from crackles and pops

they ride weightless upon

plumes of heat and smoke

and the smoke is in the forest

and the fingers of the forest

reach into an april sky

pointing to a long goodnight

tiny treats

dogs do eat blueberries

my half brother Jack

likes to lick them from limbs

after seeing me gingerly pluck

several by the tiny stems and

carelessly toss a handful into

my mouth

then he looks at me

and I think he thinks

what’s all the fuss about

Untitled

A bit of flesh lies upon the rooftop.

Neon lemon haz-mat bags, like a trick-or-treaters

            pillowcase blows nearly empty

            in the desert wind.  Tiny fragments

jingle hidden in the bottom.

The smoldering fiberglass ceased to smoke yesterday,

            making it safe for you be begin cleaning up.

            The smell of burning flesh no longer remains, but

            the scent of burnt plastic lingers.  Like the bottle

            rocket tipping over in your childhood, instantly melting

            the empty plastic twenty ounce Cheerwine bottle

into the Virginia crabgrass.  The burnt patch of

grass forever remains.

Perilous Haiku

I’m going to write a

sonnet by this weekend or

else I’ll quit drinking

Eavesdropping

Man, I never thought I’d be cutting wood still in April.

Sometimes I just stay in bed and read all day.

I got that gardens meeting about my community plot tonight.

I got a plot at home.

So do I; this is just how I meet babes.

I was reading about civilizations on Mars, it said there was civilizations there like 70,000 years ago.

Most kids come to know Jesus when they’re like 11.

Oh my God, let me see your engagement ring.

Did you hear about the zombiefest on campus, like 200 people signed up, it starts with one, if they tag you, you’re a zombie for the day.

Can I be a zombie in class?

My midwife’s on Facebook, if you’re looking for one; she’s not warm and fuzzy, but she’s supportive and good spirited.

I didn’t mean to pass judgment; it’s ok if you don’t want a midwife.

There are only four people in town that make it, and they get together on Mondays.

You know my ex-wife, she was a real bitch, but she remarried, she found this rich guy, I met him, and now she’s pretty happy, actually, she’s not much of a bitch anymore, at all, I was thinking, money can buy happiness.

Falling-in Behind William Stafford's Guidon

Protagonists can so easily vindicate an antagonist

on the primetime television news,

while announcing the death of thousands

without shedding a tear;

but I will fall-in behind another guidon. 

Our bugle cry is silent,

yet we still shed tears for the fallen

while keeping hope for the enemy. 

Hope not for their peaceful submission,

but for our complete surrender

thinking violent vengeance is the only solution.

Hope that our leaders will look

into the faces of the dead

and find not reconciliation but regret. 

Hope that a yellow ribbon will

symbolize the liberty of freedom of equality

through universal protection from bullet and bomb. 

Hope that the granite

standing ready

to bear the names of the dead

will no longer be needed,

and that the bugler forgets his sad song.

Our parents didn’t teach us all to fight;

tonight, if but a few

can stretch the bounds of imagination,

to reach out an unarmed loving hand to all,

all shall not be lost.

Sneaker Creek

A box full of extra kicks,         

who knows where Mammy got them all,

just search for a size that fits.

We wade into maroon waters running over graying shale,

         like torn pages of books laying partially open.

Meandering slowly across Erie County,

         it had no other name to us.

Summer sun and precious time with a grandmother,

         splashing, laughing, watching;

         faultless recollections from younger days.

Blueberry stained fingertips looked        

         like sapphires just beneath the surface,

crystalline water tickled my bare ankles.

Wishing a day in Sneaker Creek would never end,

         we float leisurely back downstream, innocently,

         never knowing what lay beyond Porterville bridge.