headline poetry

Crumbs and cobwebs
my dog has fleas
furry mane to catch things

Big as a house in my pocket
creaks the cracks running
Deaths and loves
that never catch up

Us. Oh, we ...
At last; the last.

Criss-crossing the day,
Stating our campaign;
Our hectic spending
Pushes away, pushes away.

Put it away, put it in a bin
Life is laden with accusation

secrets wafting spinal shaft
roil the core a wave, a toss
unlocking stories deep to tell
sockets free to crunch and grind
the bubbling days are yet to say
everything floats
eventually

fight the day to lie the ‘morrow
fight the bone to mine our sorrow
boxing years and boxing shadows
yesterday is fully hollow

There must have been a house
before the dishes were lost to the green.
My plates and my cups, a fork and a spoon,
these simple dishes I gather to clean.
I wonder why I chose to bring them ‘round
for the childish to scatter and stain.

There must have been a house
that held my all things, that held my own place,
for some long ages or during some race,
on some good firm land, at least an address,
a real part of my world, my time, my space.

There must have been dressers, closets and clocks,
night-stands and boxes of warm coats and socks,
tv’s and screen doors and shelves with fine dust,
stuff under the bed, a drain with some rust.

There must have been dinners, coffee and cake,
a kitchen table, squabbles, love and hate,
adoration, betrayals, promises made.
But a thing long past, I can't recover,
it must have been so unmentionable,
unbeautiful, unrememberable.

There really had to have been such a house,
a refuge where all these dishes were housed:
all these glasses and forks, scattered about
once treasured and handled only with care,
now scattered, forgotten (love is so rare),
dirty with crusted food and dried up drinks.

The dishes became unprecious,
meant nothing
to the hoard of prancing revelers,
finding sorry form only when left as refuse;
the forlorn remnants of shrill speech
giddy glances, boorish guests,
ignorant to the hostess,
that self-sanctified workwhor(s)e of
grace and plenty ...

There must have been a dining room table
where I honed my skills
of hospitality and longing,
that I exercise so well today,
chasing ceramic cups on cafe counters.

I certainly come from such a house;
though I remember nothing,
I carry it with me.

The shores are lined with hardened sons
with crystal clear eyes and stony smiles.
Behold a war to rage with muscle and bone
upon taught skin stretched over miles.

And in the wood we girls are weeping
tears birthing a mist that shrouds the land.
Our wailing stirs the beasts that were sleeping
and they join in the miserable song at hand.

And then, there she is,
still in the terrain
she tells me,
with her silky dress,
the good feeling stuff.

Said to me, a sweet moment's release,
lucky to feel so deep and so strong.
The anguish of ages, of love and of loss,
hold fast while it’s here, let go when it’s gone.

Ever more shall I weep the tears
of simple pains and joys that arise.
During the plodding of days and years
the bitter sweetness is the bind that ties.

Let me in to have you here.
I need you to need me,
even though I don't care.

I wander your airy halls,
alabaster floors
echoing the din of
those a-heroic youths who strain.
My false disdain drives me
to cling to these things I do not want.

This heap of beating hearts;
I will stand atop it even alone,
to say I was there
where
the winners go
on top
despite
all of
you.

To say yes every time
is to hear the pretty past the rank,
is to say it with the heart when its glow catches
the stream of wanting to be
someone, somehwere,

where someone cares.
Would you dare?

Proud to say,
“Here I am.”
Move quietly the day;
I say, “Yes, I do care for it.”
Though here is not
where I will stay
to echo more.

Pardon my exertion
that lumps and spills from the core of me,
casting odd protrusions
over the landscape of my skin,
each erupting with precious
little nuggets of currency

Earnestly I decide
where to spend these sacred coins
generally finding the beautiful,
the quiet,
the sweet
worth my weight in gold

And when the choices fail me
now I will to say
“not here,
nor this,
tomorrow's another day”