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
                                           an inner

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.