floating and leaving no trace
thick like the breath
of old men
the rain hangs around
long after it falls
a miasma in this heat
that gloms onto the clothes
and skin
kids begging for ice cream money
while the truck drives slowly
turkey in the straw
clawing at the brain
the end of summer storm
should have just kept raining
until all the water ran out
o, crimson worm
art thou sick
in thy dark secret, flies
does the invisible storm destroy life
that night
howling in his bed
thy love has found out
and the joy of life rises
—
This is a remix of The Sick Rose, a poem by William Blake, one of my favorite Poets with a capital P. You can find the original here. I’m pretty sure I used every word and only changed one.
turkey buzzards perch
in the tops of sycamores
their wings spread
drying in the morning sun
while their siblings
circle overhead
like me
lazy on a sunday
and working hard to find
a meal the easy way
nature is a mouth
longing to kiss
to force open our mouths
and drive in a frantic
desperate tongue
it runs its hands over
the sensitive parts
of our bodies
causing shivers
and tingles
and longing
inflaming the flesh
like a lover
bent on seduction
that sky
those clouds
even the hawk with
his breakfast
still squirming in his
talons
just fingers seeking
the quickest way
into our hidden recesses
there is no resolve to break
F-f-f-f-f-friday ha-ha-ha-ha-haiku
my eyelids close like
lazy clams destined for chowder
–a long sleepless week
the course
straight and narrow
an atherosclerotic artery
we squeezed our way through
shoulders narrowed and heads down
for years
it opened up at last
and suddenly
the sun beat down on our backs
too stiff to straighten
the ground remained our focus
seeing only broken feet
in lush grasses
in the pressing of wine
–a drink for forgetting–
and olive oil
–a balm for old wounds–
the angels’ hands
turn wheels
their feet stain
purple-blue
not with grapes
regret
despair
and unanswered prayer
we scan the page
but the map
is not the territory
here, some skin
the curve of a hip
and a long sigh
there is nothing
written down
in the instructions
the sky has assumed
a shade of blue
that hurts the eyes
with an intense
purity and clarity
if not for that one cloud
Today, in honor of the end of summer, I’m choosing a poet who is–gasp–still among us in more than just words. Here he is, talking about the end of summer. And of all things, really.
Edgar Oliver, reading his poem, “The End of Summer”
the last official day
of commercial summer
so many sales
and a day that feels like
a repeat of sunday
no one considers
that the second day of summer
the day after the solstice
was shorter than the day before
with less daylight
minute by minute
the light shrinks
and now, the evening comes early
and soon
the evening will come earlier
i long for autumn
and for a change in the leaves
and a change in the air
as long as you don’t change
as long as summer shines
resplendent in your smile
every tree on the planet
can change color
and drift like snowflakes
and carpet the yards
sidewalks
and carports
Words and Feathers 