The Poetry Marathon

“Any fool can be complicated. It takes a genius to be simple.” Woody Guthrie

weaving complexity through the sack cloth and ashes makes it neither stronger or softer
perhaps prettier to some eyes or more satisfying to the overly wrought scholar.
the KISS, to ‘keep it simple stupid’ can push the limits more than
the winding trails of comprehensive collective comprehension.

So, I kiss my own toes, smile at my other self in the mirror
and tip my hat as I close door behind me.

Making a Mountain out of a Mole Hill

majestic mountain peaks perforating azure blue sky
requiring sherpas and oxygen tanks to mount its summit
while the hill of the mole is merely a marker
for what lies beneath the earth’s skin.

take glory in your peaks of success and accomplishment
not forsaking life’s winding maze to find home
digging in the dirt to find the places we got hurt*
Feasting on the succulent worms that filter and cleanse
all that we have been through and what really matters.

*homage to Peter Gabriel

Romantic Comedies

mid-summer, mid-afternoon,
mid-life, mildly middling
a pause, a breath, a realization

turns in the road bring the unexpected
frothy foam to the latte of life.
Belly-laughing happy endings
before we turn off the telly and head for our solo bed.

Krypto the super-hound has a new cape
Her soaring freedom flag replaced by a recovery shirt
curiosity and prey drive dulled in medicated half-life
lulling the body into restorative sleep.

I miss my perky girl and our forrest play,
grateful this is only temporary, unlike her final journey
when the warm puff of her sleeping breath upon my skin will only be a memory.
I cherish each moment with hearty gratitude.

Entangled

Fat strutting chickens
contentedly clucking songs to self
room to roam, company of the clutch
sweet seeds, like heaven’s mana, ever present.

A simple peace, deep easy breaths
til my gaze falls upon the broken body
little wild-bird trapped in netting
intended to keep the girls at home.

How long did you hang fluttering for freedom?
upside down, ruffled carcass, eyes now hollow.
if only I had heard your call, garden shears already
on the stoop. so easily I’d of set you free.

“Hey man when you’re singing it, it’s your song.” Townes Van Sandt

up,
down,
sideways,
time
tiny looping superstrings
shadows ripple on the river that only fish can see
all the while we feel the tidal pull of time
and when you’re singing it, it’s your song.

The old man was dreaming about the lions Earnest Hemingway The Old Man and The Sea

the old man was dreaming about the lions, while
the infant on his lap dreamed of creamy sweetness filling his mouth.

So many gates to pass through
the silken skin not ready for the world
the toughened hide had seen to much
Roar of protection, wail of need
one passing into fullness of morning
the other into the silence of night.

the 11th hour, sun not quite at its zenith
yet my life is past prime
once expected promise of fulfillment
has fallen from the vine
still able to climb the cliffs of circumstances
or press the fallen fruits into sweetness
aging gracefully, thick port sipped by fires embers

Scratching in the dirt

Fat strutting chickens
contentedly clucking song to self
room to roam, companionship of the clutch
sweet seeds, like mana from heaven, faithfully provided.
A simple peace. I breathe it in… deeply.

Time Passages

The period at the end of the sentence
or is it really a question mark?
days roll into nights as
suns set across rising moons
searching for the demarcation
I drain the tea cup
placed into the once clean sink of vision
and future promise
is the merger only. in my mind
or is it my yearning heart beating?