Friday, September 25, 2015
The light this morning glowers
like a galvanized pail left hanging
on a bent nail just inside the barn door.
As the door opens the hinges creak
and the pail shimmies a little,
not enough to slip off the nail
and fall clanging to the floor,
but enough so the handle slides
along the nail’s length and stops
at that slight lip no thicker than
a breath where the hammer struck.
That’s how the sun was caught
as I started this day, in a swirl
of thick gray clouds waiting
to be carried across the barn
toward the other horizon.
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
“They say comedians are sad people beneath the surface. Is that true?”
“Do you realize you repeated the word ‘sad’ in your reply?”
“Would you have been happier if I’d said comedians are unhappy people?”
“I’d have been less troubled.”
“Then you would agree, that comedians are troubled people?”
“If by troubled you mean sad, then no.”
“Let’s start again. Is the right word important to a comedian?”
“The correct word.”
“Ah, another bad word choice, I apologize.”
“Poor word choice.”
“Are all comedians such sticklers when it comes to what other people say?”
“I listen to people like you, then imagine them as children.”
“People like me? Have I said something funny?”
“That first question was hilarious!”
“But it was a serious question.”
“That’s what made me chuckle.”
“Maybe I should have asked if comedians are simply mean people.”
“Some of them, but it’s not simple.”
“I’m afraid we’re running out of time. Is there anything you’d like to say before we go?”
“Why did the children cross the playground?”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”
“To get to the other slide.”
Friday, September 11, 2015
The horse corralled at my neighbor's
whinnies much of the night, a litany
laced with dissatisfaction and fear.
The horse goes unheeded.
Schooled in its beauty, we are
convinced the animal needs to be trained.
Through the fence the horse studies
our religion of harness, saddle, and hasp,
of steel post, buckle, and bit.
It believes by instinct, by the moon
that waxes and foals, and the sun
as it rises to sing to the pasture.
Friday, September 4, 2015
3 January 1892 - 2 September 1973
He's not buried in middle-earth,
but a mere six feet below
the ground where I’m standing,
his bones shed of that great imagination
for creating worlds, worn thin
as a thread-bare professor's robe
that slipped from his shoulders,
a puddle of fabric at his feet
shaped like the shadow
he chased his whole life.