Barrellofart Poetry (50)

Thirteen years- is it so much difference
Between a man and woman?
Perspective, perhaps.
Needs, wants.
Desires.
Readiness.

I professed adoration, and she reciprocated.
Oh, but this thing..
This eternity, that she wants..

I expect that she might find it
And thought I somehow offered it
Though as fragile as we are- we humans-
Eternity is only just a short while.

Foolishness, I thought, that I might want
To share our lives, in my words
"If only for a while."
Deep down, deep down
I too longed for eternity,
Even if it were but for such a while.

I lean back now, forlorn, to sigh-
I imagine this, sinking from my chest
This exhalation rolls along the ground
For miles, for miles
To wake her from sleep in restlessness
So she sits, I see, as if offended,
And soon again is sleeping, if only for a while

Strange how I had known her
Her soft smile, her restrained laugh
Her requited breathless grin
In those intimate ways, if only for a while
And now they insist to bare their mark
On my own eternity, on my own short while

Patiently waited,
Pleasantly sated,
A single action makes
The mind almost melt
Even at the thought of it
So simple, gravity fueled
Simply sliding down-
So doing, in repeated fashion
Generates awesome power
Which rises up, along
Resting on the shoulders
Until, drawn from the whole
This concentration overloads
Dumping itself like water
From the pail, reformed
The bursting of energy
In conduit of flesh
It is the moment when
Beneath long flowing hair
Holding the arc of her frame
Which now falls away from me
The strength of my arms
Is concerned instead
Not to be firmly pressed against
But all, simply to keep her near
Lest she might fall away
For what strength has she left
Of her own, but mine?

only three lines long
five, seven, five syllables
join disconnected thoughts

Every day, now, is rain
Every day is rain, every day is rain
Every day is overcast, glum, and gray
I can feel my face sag, emotionless
I can smell the toast, black
I can smell the bacon, black
Is it really my slack posture
Which puts these holes into my slippers
Or possibly this weight in my heart
Some leadened spiritual sinker
That pulls me down and drags my spirit
Every day that I can't learn
How to love you again
Or every day that I can't muster courage
To tell you that I don't, anymore

What strange irony, that
After years of admiration
Of that dark harbinger
Which fosters abysmal notions
I write of elegance found
In their decided slowness

Irony, not in the writing
But in the experience soon after
In all my life, not fifty feet
Or less, has ever separated us
Except on this strange day

Late for work, and swiftly through the door
[House guests often upset one's schedule]
Out then, to that vacant country road
Where, found feasting, and lifting away
The Raven cannot alight fast enough

First in my life, I can almost touch
Only six feet away, perhaps less
But sadly the encounter happens this way
There, at one hundred miles an hour
Ensuring this, that Raven's last day

And on a sunny, summer evening
With hardly a cloud in the sky
As I pass by that black roadside lump
Traversing my path in reverse
There is thunder overhead
And rain begins, randomly, to pour

That dark black bird
All stolid attitude
Perhaps indifferent
Or simply composed
Knowing what is worth his while
Casually disperses on the threat
Of less elegant, fluttering birds
Who are more nuisance than danger-
Both lifts and alights
On bended wing

Dear Santa,

I know it's only November, but damn
Things aren't quite straight around here
I don't ask for a lot
And I know you don't usually bring much for me
So this year maybe I thought I could...
Call in a few favors.

First, if you could make dad drink from the cans
Instead of those big glass bottles
He seems to act a lot nicer that way
Sometimes he'll even play catch with me

And bring a bunch of stuff for my mom, too
Because she's always having stuff delivered to the house
And when dad finds out there are delivery men here all the time
Boy, does shit ever hit the fan

Maybe too, you could bring something for my sister
I'm not sure what, but anything will probably do
She's usually in worse trouble than I am it seems
Between boys and smoking and whatever she stays out until 2AM for

Me, well, maybe a couple A's on my report card
It's not that I'm not smart enough, its just that
Its so hard to pay attention to math or english
When there are so many other exciting things in the world

Sincerely,
Little Billy Walker
247 Hanover St
The house with the big red chimney

I find myself sometimes in the garden, on bended knee, like time spent before God, in times past, to service prayer and contemplation.

My toil in the dirt, in something like a self-imposed penitence; As if it could really be believed, this, a disciplinary labor? No- Not labor, at least not without fruits, which then is not discipline at all, in the sense of justice, but more akin to labor that is work for pay.

What payment I receive for my efforts, well that's as much between He and I as anything else, I guess. About two weeks past budding, the colors begin to bloom. Vibrant and impressive, in both color and form, striking one to awe.

I wonder sometimes, while watching the smaller animals which are more brazen and scurry about, what great difference there is in life, in consciousness, being, between us and them. It's easy enough to see, well, you know, here is an animal, here is what it is capable of, endowed by it's biology, this is the way it acts, which is pretty much just what you'd probably expect in most situations.

But here, probing the soil, I wonder what He must have done when first bringing forth such things. The thoughts although similar take on a whole new feel. What worth is a plant? What loss is there when it is gone? A plant is quite clearly alive, and so what more harm is it to be omnivore or herbivore- You take a life, either way.

These things I consider while working the soil, struggling with the separate thought that there is no 'just right' here at the ground level, there is only 'Good enough' or 'Seems OK'. It isn't so much a matter of fulfilling predetermined criteria as it is devotion of time and compassion.

And I try, I do. And I think again, for a moment. When each blossom opens to expose the intimate delicacy of it's most alluring regions, might they, like hatchlings, have impressed me as their own lifegiver? I tend to them with diligence, and while they all equally impress me, and I delight in their elegance, each and every one, two things, neither knees, anchor my daydreams to the ground:

First, that I have misjudged their intent, and second, that as I pride myself on each and every one, they each ideally desire my sole attention, the full extent of the resources I might provide, and all of the time I can spare to offer as labor.

I lay on my back and smile
The sun's warmth is upon me

Below shade of a great oak tree
I take my place and close my eyes
The noon hour light pierces the clouds
And shines through in plenty

I imagine
Though easily I could look
Those diaphanous white ribbons-
Sunbeams hung upon the clouds

Which, as if suspended
Weightless in the air-
In that Ethereal liquid-
Hang down from the heavens
To drift across the earth

I'd like to think I've been useful
With all these thoughts on papers
It's not just a bunch of loose bull
More like adventurous wordy capers

Stories for entertainment perhaps
Morals not insinuated, interpreted
For a moment in time, silent lapse
Contemplate these things I've said

Life which is simple, is also beautiful
Enjoy the simplicity of natural things
Hardly could they be anything dutiful-
Just smell flowers, sprouting in spring

Don't think, just feel, about the natural way
Feel the very reality of the nature of real
At least one moment, every passing day
It's a high payoff for a minimal risk deal

Feel the sun bathing your face
Or the shade, clouds given by
And a lover's timeless embrace
After having cooked together, then dined

I plead not for my own fame
But for richness and fullness in all your lives
Stand tall, and discern against shame
Know well the smiles of your children, your wives

Penguins are excellent swimmers
But they lack the technology to fly

~

Who knows what they're building, though
Under that cold, dark water...

Tiredly he falls into a chair
Poised somewhere between flowing borders
Where the tide readies, and breaks

The ocean laps his feet
His heart sinks some
Along with the sun-
Both are red
And ablaze

He leans his head back;
Now to the side,
His neck falls carelessly-
The man is tired

But he'll make love once,
So much at least,
To memories and dusk
As he lifts this drink to his lips
The feel of rigid glass beneath his tongue
And the tang of salt reminds him-
Of the taste of skin
Of all his bygone lovers
Under the setting sun