Friday, August 28, 2015

Weekly Worded

                         The Spiders Never Sleep

                                       Waiting, yes,
                                   all spiders spend
                           considerable time waiting,
                    a posture easily mistaken for sleep.
           And yes, they release from inside themselves
        an intricate pattern we call a web, a weaving that
            reveals both life and art inextricably twined.
              The silver thread unraveling from within
                     originates in the deepest spirit, and
                       the pattern establishes a medium
                             for interpreting the world.
                               Oh yes, a spider knows
                                      as much as we
                                        know about
                                         expressing
                                           an inner
                                               self.

Friday, August 21, 2015

Weekly Worded


       High School Essay

She wrote, Who doesn’t take there wedding vowels very serious?
and I suspect I O U might be the words

she eventually mistakes for love.
If infidelity was her point

there’s a smudge of truth
between her pages,

that youth is more aroused
by passion than prose.

Sex and marriage, broken vowels,
the stuff of Shakespeare’s dreams.

Friday, August 14, 2015

Weekly Worded

        Imperfect Vision

I’m using big letters
because the world is going blind.
Every decade weaves
another cataract, one more
veil to see beyond, and the figures
lumbering across my field
only remind me
of shadows I used to recognize.
I’m composing with colossal characters
because I’m going blind
and my time is coming
to a close, my years
on this planet, seeing and not
seeing, picking up, holding,
and letting go.
I’m writing a massive missive
because one day
you will be reading this
and what I mean will be
reduced by time.
I’m writing
and the size of these words 

helps me notice
what I haven’t had time to say.

Friday, August 7, 2015

Weekly Worded

         
      
        For Those Who Live In Old Trailers

You know how it goes,
the bald tires lugged up a ladder,
arranged like a tray

of donuts in the sun,
their collective weight
so full of expectations

finally laid to rest.
One big black constellation
of holes staring up

at a universe still spinning.
It’s all because wind
gets under the tin

and sounds like theatrical thunder,
a shimmy that ripples
along the tapered hallway

as if someone is shouting
into an old-fashioned ear trumpet,
“The sky is falling!”

and the half-deaf man
at the opposite end
nods yes, it most certainly is.

Friday, July 31, 2015

Weekly Worded

        Fieldwork

Each time my neighbor cuts his field
the summer is that much shorter,
and as he gathers and stacks the bales
it calls to mind how much it takes

to feed the winter. It’s not so bad
living where I do, hope persistently rising
from twenty acres of stubble, my lungs
filled with the fragrance of his labor.

At haying time his combine clicks
like the beads on an abacus
back and forth against the horizon.
I am counting the days.

Friday, July 24, 2015

Weekly Worded

         The Other One

My left hand looks older,
first time I've noticed this century.
Naturally, I knew it would age,

those fingers opening and closing
like a chorus line, providing
a lifetime of stimulation.

So what did I expect?
Helping out, holding on
while the right one labors for both.

I'm surprised how the veins
have thickened, how the skin
puckers like tissue paper.

Clenched or unclenched,
it does mostly what it's told.
There, it reached

to touch my face.
See how it makes amends?
I forgive you, I forgive you.

Go wrestle with your brother
while I try to figure out
where you left the aspirin.

Friday, July 17, 2015

Weekly Worded

        Almost Human

Little known, the man comes home
to where he wasn’t missed,
unlocks his door, slips off his shoes,
imagines being kissed.

He waits a cautious moment,
inhales the stale air,
as if to little known, the man
could sense he wasn’t there.

He boils a cup of coffee,
he carves a slice of meat.
He says a little prayer
to always there, his feet.

He’ll watch a little football
before he goes to bed,
then hike the hinterland of his dreams
where little’s ever said.