The cosmos is an open clearing,
On no rampart, unguarded.
The cosmos is willing to be unsure,
Incalculable, even to the heavens.
Like a love note, unfolded, in the glow
Of the house burning.
And who rouses these symbols,
And the impetus to overcome themselves.
As the physicists would say,
Sometimes mass does funny things.
Author: Bob
Poem
How often does
Beauty start as an error
That finds its way
Again
In ambition
Of all that wonder.
Beauty is the set list
Of all lost
And gained
In a life, in a day,
After all these years.
Beauty annealed
By the wingspan and the walking shoes
And all that curiosity and cosmos
Templed
In the open fields.
Fable
We lost the moon in the war. No one remembers the name of the war. Kids spray-paint the nicknames of the moon. Only they know its whereabouts. Rivers are an expression of gravity. Spines too.
The paperwork, we burned it. I thought we should save it. But you said we should write it down afterwards how we remember it.
There is so much strangeness to this day. Like asking clouds not to comb their hair into astronauts, it can’t be done. Butterflies drink the same wine as volcanoes.
We met again, years later. To sort out what we remember. It was mostly poetry.
Lines Dashed Before a Meeting at Work
When a dream breaks the fourth wall.
Like the footsteps of red autumn leaves
Determined by the wind’s simplicity. At night
So much of what we haven’t done
Lies awake. And wonders. The walker
Visits roam. A ghost spiritually can no longer tie its shoes.
All ghosts have untied shoes.
Which is a tripping hazard when going through walls.
Handwriting is a cosmology,
An archipelago of inklings
Like the orbits of our footprints
As we walk through puddles.
Because the calendar still has one foot in poetry,
Outcomes, whoever simple in the moment,
Over time gain in complexity. The horizon is always
Present-tense,
Yet the clouds like coins
In a time machine.
Here and There
I ranged
I mapped crescents
Abolished the number one
Ridiculous poetry
On imaginary stilts
In a suit of daffodils
Hurdles an inchworm
And chews on Saturn's rings
Suddenly here
Is everywhere
For all of us
I plant a tree
First its shadow
Then its velocity
See you there!
Taking a Break
I will be taking a break from posting. I’ll probably start back up after the new year. Just need some time to recharge. Thanks everyone who checks out this blog and reads my poems. It’s much appreciated. And I look forward to catching up on everyone’s wonderful blogs when I get back.
Below is a bit of a goofy picture of me and my youngest. Somewhere in the Catskill Mountains.
Wear and Tear
The cloud-work for a tune. Cloud-work as formal
Attire. In a way, autumn moves away from
One, notice the red shift in the leaves. We
Talk galaxies and the cosmos. Of the hourglass.
The dance of masks.
And how the dance strips away the mask.
Infinity is pretty. The sofa is
From a garage sale. A soul is a crew of words.
Goofing Around
The night at the junkyard when all the headlights were kicked in, and a beautiful
Anarchy tasted like ice cream. And salad days, too!
We painted stars on the back of the cardboard factory,
And cut out rectangles of cardboard and wrote poems
On them. We posted and mailed them to addresses we
Randomly picked out of a 1993 phone book.
We endeavored for consciousness and more life. We took to the
Summer nights like an avalanche takes to interlopers.
Or a kid on a bicycle to a homemade ramp.
We seasoned the fields with our idealistic meanderings,
And filled the distances with our starry beards. Burned all
The self-help books.
Poem
The area of a cold autumn
Wind in addition to
A crescent-colored inkling
Equals some kind of infinity.
It’s squares and circles minus
Any parachutes,
And flighty parallelograms,
The wealth of a clown, the diameter
Of a déjà vu,
A rain puddle of kisses
On the pavement’s cheeks and ears,
And between the stars
The gossamer of the cosmos.
Three Poems
Ditty
Poetry unpauses
What can’t be paused.
If successful, implausibly.
For an Hour
Just wavelengths.
Just a covenant of daydreams.
No words.
Fingers pinching the wind.
Poem
A cratered pendant
The moon
Has a mass equivalent to all
The windows open
In the world.
Here and there
A forlorn afternoon
The heart
But it’s present nonetheless
The ache of genius
Autumn.
naïve haircuts 