#poem #poetry #amwriting Prodigal


In part the feast, part seen in dream, returns
in the golden light of summer eve:
when through the elm tree avenue we walk.

Perhaps the drift, of slow cooked fish, caught
amid the clinking glass of chatter:
from the deck of the restaurant across the way.

Or the rain of breath, falling from the trees
to lift the step, and skip the eye
to those scenes we keep in corner sight.

There the table, white of cloth, with silver.
There the grapes, and hams, and breads.

For no more seen, than gone, that place
between the stone pillars:
atopped with urns, on which hangs
the memory of that rusted gate.


#poem #poetry #amwriting the god thing

On days when the shivering chill water;
seen though sap wet spines; glints silver
and puddles out as cascading pennies
at each scudding bounce of flat stone.
When barely whispered clouds hang
peeking from the moor heads, not daring
bleach the sky. And, pert leaves no longer
than a mayfly's wing have left the tree
as yet unformed to mar the view in shadow
in their drooping; open fullness.
In that moment, of breathless new heated air
- perhaps - it is what we feel.


#poem #poetry #amwriting red onion

The older I get, the more like red onions:
I'd eat them as apples, if I still had the teeth.
There's something beneath ourselves
that in losing taste, picks at smells,
and tries to make of simple pleasures
for what they are. When I drove I car
I always drove fast, or balanced on the clutch
between the urge to stall, and the biting of second,
lies the sweet point; everything else is speed.
That soft mush. like a death row meal,
less grueling to chew than the walk.


#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo ....

Only breath, of all that connects us to the stars,
when held gently on the palm will trace the past.
No swiftless season there: to ripen lingered day
to that we might call wisdom, in folly unto art,
that meaning might be found. Then let it stand.
And, let it slip away across those ridged whorls
like dried apples; never bought nor bitten
but handed out for healthy teeth and minds.


#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo Without Grand Claim

Without Grand Claim

This little lamp, unmarked by soot;
so coyly hides when asked to play
the game of belief.  Instead I send
a raven with a dove in it's beak
in answer as a hoped of peace.

But when the pale rider comes,
perhaps alone, without the pipes
and drums of transformed time;
this little light, of comfort warm,
without the need to mark me out,
will be enough, I trust.


#poem #poetry #amwriting #naporimo 2C 17 April


The unmoving couple sit and wait for the bus
that will not come. They sat there yesterday.
Tomorrow they will still be there: I suppose.

And, they are. In the same clothes, same shoes.
Though today, which is tomorrow, for you,
a magpie watches them from a nearby roof.

Just one. For sorrow. Yesterday the magpie
was not alone, but in a three. For a girl, perhaps.
But yesterday you did not see it, as two

because you cannot be happy with uncertainty.


#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo Found


How long the rain, counted out like cotton
from a dandelion, upon her face: she would not say.
The distant hills grew dark and still she stood,
not waiting for the past, but for a present change;
when the telephone would ring, again, but not
repeat what had been said. In the growing glare
of evening, her silhouette mined sorrow
with all the sadness tainted silver bares.

Had she ever banged her head?
Or chipped a tooth?

At the third undrunk cup of coffee,
when the stain upon her cotton dress
hung heavy at the hem, she let herself
be led from the rain of the balcony to her bed.
There to take communion, of wine and pill,
as fretful faces murmoured low, she undressed;
stiff as a doll, staring at the ceiling.

Did she have any birth marks?
Had she ever painted her finger nails?

At the closing of the door, and the flicking of the light.
she held onto the crucifix, she wore before
as decoration. And sinking from unthinking
a prayer played upon the lips, for children....