Father

Father

It’s empty again

I’ve wiggled the plug once more

the bottle has given wing

to blurry shadows of my life.

An unclear childhood mixed

with a manifold of colors

drizzling down my eyes

it’s hard not to know

not to wonder

who fathered this hapless being.

Like Dogs

 

Like Dogs

There is no doubt the old gray dog

visited the deep caverns of hunger

not wanting to be chastised by important humans

he held his head low and detached from the mean streets

as dogs sometimes do.

Old gray hid in orchards and thickets of prickly bush

just to escape his smell and the smell  of his kind.

Isn’t it strange how we mimic sometimes

those so different than we, four legs

instead of two can run faster to ruination.

Warriors

Warriors

Ugly?  No one argues

with old ones in the camp.

Of what use are we,

growing creases and fault lines?

Not forgotten, not forgiven,

not named, we stand

crooked and unformed before

young painted warriors

riding horses made of graphite.

We are your future ghosts.

Our wisdom will haunt you.

You will repeat us.

Warriors never remain warriors.

La Macabre

There is a melody

in my father’s ashes

high above the pines

a yellow bird sings

surely with his voice.

There is a beating

in my brother’s corpse

wood pecking in rhythmic time

drilling hollow maples

for he is one of them.

My uncle’s waves

are spidering the sands

ebbing their way

waxing and waning

back to his mother’s womb

and he is one of them.

I watch my hands

gathering scales

for a joyous day

when we shall join

in Nature’s nest

wind god bless them all.

In the End

In the End

In the end man became calloused

from walking the tightrope of existence

thinking he was right and no one else.

Thus God said it was good

and man took a woman by her hair

beating her until she spit children

bloodying her hope, breaking her spirit.

God said so be it

it is good.

Let us give praise to the heavens.

Spell My Life

Spell My Life

Spell it out for me the quiet

in tombstone winds

sweat beads dribbling down

the squint of life

I am not who you think I am

not the good humor man

the loving guy with an erection

perpetually bent toward you.

Remember those long cold nights

white sheets creeping off our movements

nocturnal bluster beneath bare bones

breathing now beneath oak trees

your grave makes life gone in a wisp

spell it out for me the quiet

belief in something beyond the trees

beyond the final breath

spell it out in fiction tales of god

golden streets, golden rod and white lace

cover me now for I am the tombstone wind.