Behind the gawking throng

Behind the skirts and shirts

And pocket books

Behind the cameras, neckties

Behind the finger pointers

Behind the railing, fence

Behind the iron bars

Behind the safari hats

Behind the long whiskers

Behind the resigned eyes

There the wild thing dies

20200127 https://dversepoets.com/2020/01/27/quadrille-96-wild-monday/

And button or’s

Ok, let’s go…

I am cast adrift from myself
Like looking at something with
Crossing eyes. the way
The image doubles, splits and slides apart.
The dock line slips into dark water
There is no returning to this mooring


When I came screaming into the world, like so many of us, from the shock of it all, and they cut the cord connecting me to her, and bundled me off to a plastic bin with the others, little did I know how far they would go, how complete that separation would be, nor that one time she saw me, peering out from that hair, pouring such love over me, would have to last for forty seven years.

When I was king, and the usurper came and stole my throne, the strange conclusion that I had failed again, that I wasn’t good enough, insufficient, leaked it’s way into every facet of my young life. That’s when friends faded, surely driven away by this erroneous worthlessness.

The old wound not yet fully healed

There’s more to be endured

Before gratitude is revealed




Dipping his hand into the stream of fate

Ripping seeds from their pods

Putting them on a different path

Grind them fine

Make bread

(Not plants for you no more dear seeds)

Sown in stomachs

Fueling animal belly-fires

Quenching hunger

For now. For now.

Back to the hoe

Back to the grindstone

Back to the oven

Back to the table

(Say that prayer)

That bread

Stiff crust, soft inside

Doughy, squishy

Yet Warm enough from the oven

To melt the butter

(Back to the hoe)

Some will savor that

And say they are satisfied

The seeds of that will feed the body

The love of that bread

Is what feeds the soul

20191016 for my lady, and the prompt at http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2019/10/poets-united-midweek-motif-food-we-eat.html

oh, my lord!

what can match this restlessness
when all that needs doing is uncomfortable
and all the fun is empty.
when i turn and turn again
like a certain leopard in the 13th century

what can match this longing
these desperate please
for blessings, assistance,
to see you more clearly.

amid these mountains, the sea, great sweeping plains,
forests of mighty trees, yellowstone, yosemite,
there is no peace.

i’ll cut down that tree, burn the wood,
ten thousand plastic bottles for the sea.
These contributions are not so valuable

in all the wide world, the infinite expanse
there is in me a tiny grain of grief
that minute longing is majestic.

not these words.


dVerse Poets

The sun from Tabriz

Thus I spake

Before I knew of words

Robin and Arthur called

And I ran after,

Through those sun filled meadows

(Looking at the golden grass)

Near to the castle.

The dark forest beaconed though

I pretended not to hear

Satisfied myself with mere apple trees.

(Whence comes that sweetness?)

No idea that god was so near,

Like a snowbank north of the house.

College too receded,

Jobs and tools cane and went

As the computers filled in

Keeping the mystics at bay.

Until Heathers present one birthday.

Thus the sun came again to Konya.

And all the words I thought I knew

Became the babbling of an infant.

Oh god please teach me more!

20191011  – For the prompt at Poets United to respond to a collection that has touched me deeply. The first literary anything that moved me was the tales of King Arthur and Robin Hood, though i didn’t understand then quite how or why, i just knew what i liked.  The grass seemed golden.  In 2015 i found Robert Bly, here i reference his poem Snowbanks North of the House.  Most recently i’ve been infatuated with Jallaludin Rumi, who met his mystic in Konya in the 13th century.