floating and leaving no trace
i don’t know what
happened to the brakes
but everything seems to
require
more pushing of the feet
to effect
more slowing of world
maybe if we all applied
the brakes
at the same time
there might be some squealing of tires
the smell of burned rubber
–but the sweet silence after
I heard this song again on the radio (yes, that box in the car music comes out of) and I thought I’d post it. Yes, I had this on vinyl. When that was the only way albums came out. Well, except for cassette.
Let My Love Open the Door, Pete Townshend
a million bees
is what he said
a million bees in the
hollowed out knothole
of the old oak
in the rising heat
under the shade of its own branches
the sluggish bees crawled
around the entrance
to the hive
each bee
a drop of water in a wave
an undulation of apiary activity
we stood on the trail
talking in whispers
though you couldn’t
even hear them humming
in my neighborhood
you used to see them swarm
inside the water valve boxes
near the sidewalk
escaping the concrete covers
through little keyholes
to look for nectar or maybe
better digs
in the end the city
would send someone to remove them
i never found out if they were relocated
but the evidence of their broken hives
cracked wax chambers dripping honey
remained, drying on the sidewalk
swarmed with ants
the lump is solid and dead and wet
when you unsack it
you don’t even pull it out
just let it slide out on its own
gravity does the dirty work
you just guide with with your hands
watch it impale itself on a wooden stake
not that it has a heart
not yet
and you hear it separate from its skin
which you reserve
the peeling off of skin
the baring of red flesh not yet alive
after all, this is eden
you haven’t breathed life into it
not yet
as you take it apart
cutting with wire and knives and fingers
you save the pieces for later
keeping the bits in the old skin
keeping them wet because when they dry,
they are useless shards
Thanks for tuning into the Friday Haiku show. And now, a word from our sponsor:
blue sky hangs above
suspended by a cloud shelf
nothing holds it up
everything slows down
the hands of clocks
the stretching of shadows
the rustle of wind
the grumble of voices
the songs of birds
the roar of cars
the arc of planes in the sky
everything slows and everything takes a little longer
a little longer to get from a to b
from here to there
everything slows
except
except for the beating
the beating of the heart
it continues to race
threatening to burst
in place
and what a mess that would be
who would clean that up
and how slowly they would respond
still caught in that drag of time
that you broke free of
for a moment
not falling
down the
well
I don’t think I’ve ever just written a plain old post on this blog.
Well, there’s a first time for everything. First off, today’s poem was somehow inspired by reading the poem here and by following the link to her “inspiration.” I don’t know how inspiration works. If i ever figure it out, I’m going to stop writing and start teaching overpriced workshops.
Secondly, I have had three of my poems accepted for publication in the upcoming issue of Pomona Valley Review (PVR). The current issue is PVR8. PVR9 should be available at the end of July. One of those poems is on this site. I’m going to remove it for a while and replace it with a link to the magazine. The other two were written either before I started publishing a poem a day here or somehow didn’t make it on.
I want to thank my wife Lisa for always giving me time to write, and my friend Erica who continues to encourage me to submit my work when I usually don’t see the point.
if you put me in a crucible
and turned the furnace up to high
(i’m sure forges have settings like
my kitchen stove)
i would catch on fire, melt,
turn into a real mess,
but would i liquefy as my water
boiled away and my elements
freed from their captivity in my organs
would they puddle deep in the bell
their components seeking like to like
what gold and what iron
would be separate from the dross
and would the pearl of my soul
shine like an unbreakable diamond
among the slurry
it breaks inside you like your bones
and muscles and organs are blown sugar
like that candy you bought
one year when you went to disneyland
–years and years and years ago
when they had paper tickets the color
of crayons–
and that candy was clear like blown glass
always in a swan shape and broke like blown glass
in your mouth
it dissolved
and tasted like nothing so much as
sugar and syrup and summer and not like swan
and that’s how it breaks inside you
everything wears a skin
the hot dog
the businessman
the cat
the car that cuts me off on the freeway
the cheese
the pudding
the flag
the sun
the puddle
but most especially the human heart
Words and Feathers 