On the Shelf: Revision

My last post…I wasn’t happy with it. I don’t think the short lines served the poem, hence the revision shared below.

Image result for messy paper and quill

On the Shelf

Those two books leaning to the right, poetry,
the green one with the worn spine,

Wordsworth or Keats, abbeys or urns,
tilted against the shelf wall and a red book

with gold letters, the Beats, Ginsberg’s Howl,
Rexroth and Corso, their streets and politics,

slanted against its green neighbor – two old friends.
Listen. You may hear them whisper.

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On the Shelf

Happy Saturday. Here’s a quick one I’ll need to revisit. It’s not quite done yet, but then again, perhaps it is. Anyway, my boy and I are off to the movies.

Image result for old books leaningOn the Shelf

Those two books
leaning

to the right,
poetry,

the green one
with the worn spine,

Wordsworth or Keats,
abbeys or urns,

tilted against
the shelf wall

and a red book
with gold letters,

the Beats,
Ginsberg’s Howl,

Rexroth and Corso,
their streets and politics,

slanted against its green neighbor,
two old friends. 

Listen. You may
hear them whisper.

Love Poem

Ready for this. Duck your head and hold on tight.

Image result for earth exploding

 

Love Poem

In the event the world ends today,
perhaps a meteor the size of Houston
will finally find the needed spin,

gracefully curve from God’s fingers,
and wallop Kathmandu, causing a blooming
eruption of boom. Or, maybe a child

will yank that one weed, its stubborn roots
forever gripping its earthy perch,
pull it free beginning the great unravel,

earth’s unwinding – a blue ball of yarn.
Of course, nothing could happen
and, this evening, when I return,

together, we’ll sip coffee in that cradle of silence
that comforts us both, but in the event
an alien horde of dragons sweeps

over the horizon, spitting hell,
snapping the heads off pedestrians
and dandelions, know that I love you.

Loneliness

Time rarely allows me to develop a poem they way I might if the clock ticked in my favor. I saw a boy toss a stone in a street puddle yesterday. Here’s what grew from that seed, that stone. It’s missing something, but I move on.

Image result for lonely man

Loneliness

A stone,
sugared with silt,
beneath the grandeur

of a bloated log
where the pond
slopes deepest,

fathoms the complexities
of turtles, the philosophies
of cold, and would shiver

if able to comprehend
affection’s embroidery.

 

Flowerpot

Image result for old flowerpot

Flowerpot

Heavy with the earth of last spring,
it rests on the stoop’s bottom step,
cradled by the snow I’ve shoveled

and tossed. The shriveled spines
of marigolds reach from its center
like arthritic fingers, but, now and then,

the stray cat, lurking in spaces
where most forget to see, abandons
its shadows, steps forth to nuzzle its head

against the pot’s brim, blessing the vessel
with new purpose, a bit of warmth.