Plagerize, Plagerize; That’s Why god Made Your Eyes

4 beautiful lines stolen from Cuz!! and a tip of the hat to
 Dylan Thomas, Andrew Marvel and countless others who's
 epaulettes display dung scrapings from my barnyard heels.

What do we know my dumb dears
how long the days, how quick the years.
How shadows cast in morning light
are brief compared to those at night
(villany ends )

you lift your chalice, hold it high
with wine to to toast a grim goodbye
and mask the longing in your soul
that kept us ever from our goal

those songs we sang by light of day
then softly in the dark gave way
when streams reflected from our eye
rent that chiaroscuro sky

and tore through holes in cloth we wove
those feckless threads our spirits rove
our sprung rhythms, our voices died
and left a tuneless eventide

then trees made cracks in forest drab
the sun through which the night could stab
and flow the blood of earthly day
to cover all the hearts dismay

driven to ponder, dread and fear
those final tests we hold so dear
and to discover in the deal
not everything that's felt is real

those doors before us open wide
their secrets they no longer hide
and we; perplexed, dismayed, confused
our wanton fates lay bare: subdued

it ends, it doesn't and who might care
we're here for lark - for devil's dare
surprised, the sun knows we're done
and we the ones that made it run

the good day's gone and starry night
and gentle so we end the light
and pass it on without a rage
to write our name on that last page

Asperity Du Jour

Today I met myself coming back 
from being young…I was still happy - 
it was the wind, I think
Its gold-white, sunshine smell 
in fresh, green-breeze ripples 
across a mind that fields still wander

I eased along the crystal perceptions 
learning how to be taught, wishing to be loved, 
in desperate ways and sudden dreams
of interstitial pageants, those acts between sorrows,
made of space torn from the holes
In the tapestry our twilight spirits rove

across the chasm of conscience
I strode with new purpose
and subtle fears creeping at the edges
shaping my perceptions into realities 
I wished to never know
(The reluctant poet makes 
the most rigorous rhyme)

My Main Bag

Today I received a package in the mail. When I opened it I found 
a bag that was about 10 inches around and 16 inches long. It had a 
drawstring closure at one end and the string was tied with a 
thief's knot.
I immediately started to work the knot loose to see if anything was 
inside. As I opened the top of the bag a small white tag that was 
sewn into the seam of the bag's mouth became visible. The tag read: 
                 "Always Expect A Cat"
      "Do not remove this tag under penalty of law"

If You Had Asked

I would have told you

a penny saved is dead weight 
in your pocket  on the mountainside

that worry will keep you 
from important things
and love can interfere 
with almost all things human
(and is, sometimes, worth it)

That games are very difficult 
to win if you aren't the one 
who makes the rules
so most competitions devolve 
to rigging the game

it is important to kiss and not tell 
- word will almost always get back 
to the spouse and there will be a great fuss 

giving and receiving are not
subject to lex talionis -
a punch, kick or slight, given 
at the pinnacle of strength
will, most surely, be received
at its most inconvenient nadir

and when the days seem long
and difficult to endure
be patient and circumspect;
they will be much shorter
when you have the chance 
to look back on them

when deploying, against cavalry,
form the hollow square

What If November

What if November comes and I am still here 
and the dullness and lack of vision persists. 
The laughter only comes when I visit a place where it lives, 
like getting a New York parking spot by buying a car that's in one.

And if the days pass like flipping pages in a table-bound book 
and the edges and spaces and stories and pictures lace together 
In a halting video performance out of the early days of cinema 
and my cup doth not run at all; much less over

…and I still wait for Godot and find nothing in my shaken boot 
but the remains of last week's look there 
and a sad feeling that this will happen some more.

The days are shorter than I think I remember them 
and I look at the calendar and am not surprised but, dismayed 
at where the date has gone to and the month I know I'm in 
is the one that I was sure I would be over this in. 

So the fountains don't play anymore 
and I don't seem to care very much about them 
but I remember, with a pang - faintly, 
             hoping I would.

Voiceless

Ea Ipsa Loquitur
(as we pretend not to hear)
At first,
for us,
the silence has no meaning
– not without intruded voice.

But, as recognition shapes itself
around our understanding,
It slowly develops cogency
not otherwise available…
with voice –

The Ferryman’s song,
the full arc of a great bell’s clapper,
the inhale before an agonized scream,
the dead, flat unstirring before the first lightning flash,
the hush after your question: “You do still love me; don’t you?”

Happens amid the gaping sprawl of silence.

Fun – da – mental

What do they mean "we don't know how to talk to each other."? 

I say: "how about that weather?"
 And you: "some wicked heat!" 

…and we have talked. 

On Edge

Things without edges don’t exist 
and so, are products of the imagination, 
And the thing to remember is that if you
Don’t see one the most probable reason
Is that you lack imagination

Love, sometimes, and sunlight - maybe 
early in the afternoon 
                     …there! Your turn.

Tuesday –

                (If it Matters)

Life ran bitter on my face
And mind,
Dust on wind, rain on glass
Wind in dead trees -
Only there - Only me
Blue: for her, soft summer sky
                me, a darker winter lie

She stared through me there
An empty, unfocused stare
Like looking at the distant ground 
through a dirty window pane
Or a dusty, cobwebbed screen 
from a grey December room

I remember how it was - and is
            And wished


Somewhere in the Middle

A pendulum swing from existential to conjectural...
from mind in the pants to mind in the clouds:

Still Life of A Pear

           (as the artist remembers it)

it was green, as i remember it but,
not so green that it reminded me
of bile
or avocados
but, just green enough to make me think
it was a pear of the green variety.
 
sitting there alone in the fruit bowl
that made the table look too small
to be suitable for taking breakfast
after one's usual Friday night doings.
i managed not to let my stomach lurch
to the green's unsettling evocation.

Re modeling

Today  we paint the room
Not the red we were promised
But a yellow we forgive
It makes us feel… wish… think
It must be good
we paint the room with it -
And we were promised the red.

The Paradox of Agreement
                     (built into the  complexity of vague)

he said “red” thinking of battlefield blood
she heard “red” thinking of sunrise presaging a storm
he: “makes me sad”
she: “and uncomfortable”
Watcher: “they believe they agree.”
i: “It may well be true!”
Watcher: “That they agree?”
i: “That too.”

© 2017 What's That On the Road – A Head
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