The pursuit
Of siren-red
Stars
Blue radios
Nowhere
Stationed
A heap of autumn
Comets
Over an orange
Reservoir
A superb distance
To lean into
A superposition
Of poetries
Author: Bob
Short Poems #4 (Pictures and a Video of Low Quality)
Curvature Butterfly wings And gravity wells. Symbolism Before there were stars, before luggage, Before there were poems. Poetry whistles π. Lunch The same bread and poem sandwich. Wager On chance and beauty, rooftop alliterations, naïve symphonies, The words that thread the here and there, To gambol, dangling like a comet over a telekinetic city, On what the poem is to wear and how to seed its fusion, its gravity, To travail profound enthusiasm over the city fields in moon-red footsteps. Up To My Neck in Stars It's wonderful How it fidgets An anticipation especially in the feet That the heart can't fail An anticipation especially in the feet That the heart is full And ready for more
Old grain mills, now abandoned. It’s an interesting place to wander around.
You can walk around inside, though are are not supposed to.
This is the bottom of a storage silo. The grain would pour out of here.
You can climb in from bottom. This is a view from the inside where the grain was stored. It makes for a remarkable echo chamber.
This is a poor quality video. And it sounds so much better in person.
It’s takes a few hours, but it’s a nice bike ride to Niagara Falls from where I live.
Me and my youngest, looking for driftwood along the Niagara River. Across the river is Canada.
Short Poems #3
Autumn Sublime Apples Are nutritious and Deciduous. Today I walk all day along the railroad lines. Occasionally I stop to throw rocks at utility poles. Mostly I miss. I will do this again tomorrow. Notes #4 In this ninja sky An insomnia of love Is absolutely possible. The Whirlwind in Your Heart Make use of what you peruse. Aim was made to be wrestled. If not For the whirlwind in your heart The sky would not be round. The Poem A single note And prose-proof. Serious and Not Serious Blockheads of poetry, Concrete hearts Enamored of Birdbaths and barbwire. Look! An oboe jumping from a plane Imitating an asteroid. Unzip Space Darkness doesn’t come from anywhere. It never did and it never will.
The Asphalt Skies and Bright Blue Streets
To scribble out this uncanny dictation, Of futuristic leanings while footing graffiti high-wires, A steady diet of clouds and dusk ribbons, The poesy of winged chance presses for uncertainty, Late summer asters for a steering wheel, While standing on the handlebars of rocket ships, Err on the side of poetry, Like a full-grown beard on a butterfly, A pittance of infinity to push off from, Into the rummage of beauty and farewells, Swung into a metaphysical orbit Of awe inducing perspective, The weight of everything coexists With everything.
Is Cosmic
The self is cosmically real, And certainly, more fictitious than thunder disappearing Between the fingertips of the moon, A grave and magnificent contest drawn in the dust of stars.
The Wayward
Park bench, the library, a light lunch, and coffee,
Of each lay step amounting
Somehow to the heart’s brimming light,
The blue sky, suddenly thinking, “equipped with in each of us that part of us
That turns with the universe,” the afternoon is warm for late
Summer, the library was empty, I may have even
Said this out loud, “on the way home, I walked
To the river, and I stood
There till I couldn’t tell either from another,”
The trees are beginning to lose their leaves,
It’s 225 million years to make it around the galaxy,
I wrote, “Dusk like shadows in magic clothes,”
At some point during my supper,
In a letter and put it in a tree for the birds to look at,
I laid down and waited to feel the continental drift,
To hear the crickets at night in the garden through the kitchen
Window, and as quietly as the ant
Walks, the moon crosses the sky.
Short Poems #2
A Wooden Moon A trumpet in a time travel movie Of humans with tigers for brains. Snippet Late summer is a constellation, all stars and goldenrod, A sonorous field, of insects and the nearby highway. The first red in the leaves. Rocket-blue sky. The Void Plainly, in matchstick ash, On the asphalt. At minimum, What particles are in play In the dark. Of Ethereal Biceps It’s spring And the moon is the wick And I have only matches For wings. Observation The daft insect On the pane Like the photocopy of a verse. Notes #3 I spent all morning With A trilogy of daises, The Galaxy Between my ears. I spent the afternoon Feeding poetry To pigeons. And stars, depending on mass, May end up as holes In the ground of the universe. Distance is one of poetry’s geometries.
Short Poems
Dusk
The world is dusk and soiled collar, it is in the turn of a leaf.
The world is anxious, and who knows if the stars believe in ghosts?
I walk along the railroad tracks, the scrub, the flowers, across the scribbled trestles over city roads.
Astronauts and apple blossoms share the same haircut. Yellow birds sing.
The Graffiti at the Rail Yard
Arcade orange and gusto blue,
Even if the letters are indecipherable
Like a haiku in a smoke-filled room,
A cereal box of summer sky.
DIY
A simple record. Just guitar.
While standing in a pile of leaves.
Existential Crisis at Six Years Old
Like a box
All alone
Of crayons.
Reflection
The moon, white and moonlike, unearths a quiet evening.
A New Shadow on the Chess Board
The stars parody distance,
Says the universe.
Ice cream,
Says the philosopher.
The cat on the windowsill is aware of it too,
Says the author.
Note #2
How the poet, on a walk, leans into the rain, like a unicyclist in zero gravity.
There is Nothing to it
There is nothing to it, just the celestial waddle, the fathom And its resonations, and me in the field, coming out Just at the rail-lines, to the elm leaves dry In the wind, the insects happenstance to the point of Symphony, there is nothing to it, a sandwich and coffee, A thrift-store shirt, a universe untethered of linguistics, A yellow flower tethered to the sun, the sound of gravel And stones under my shoes, and everywhere Eternity and the void and immanence, Time parceled by our perceptual apparatus, The squeezing out of space in its expansion, The rivals of here and there, the fealty Of wonderous slam-dance-like verse stealing its vistas From the sinewy miles of summer afternoons, to traverse In mass and gravity and beauty and lost and spotting The horizon its distant due, and now the train punching Its own due along the lines and me standing Maybe too close that I feel its force pushing the air Apart, till it is gone and the quite field like an intermezzo, And maybe I’ll go to the movies tonight, afterwards, sit out By the Niagara River and think of the Falls and smoke A joint and just listen to the cricket song.
Throughout The Day
A strange moon surfaces,
Braces itself on wooden beams, on trestles of late afternoon bird-song,
Nest of graffiti branches, twigs of quantum fluctuations.
Along the railroad tracks, the summer flowers in their uncountable realness, stemmed and leafed,
Stubborn as celestial bodies, all neck and eyelash.
The world is magnificent and real
In all its handsome revolution, allotted in its terrifying vastness,
Plucked by chance verse, the seasons wobble, the sunlight on garbage day is bright and clear.
A strange translation in the mirror, but I don’t mind, consistency leaves me uneasy.
Between your tattoos and your poems, rustle the late August leaves,
Chime the endless being and becoming,
The last train, the missed bus, the walk home in the rain, solitary, and yet as the rain lifts,
The strides lift, like bloomed flowers in broken pots.
The first note, the second note, the third note, I guess it will be a song, a scaling of fences,
A scribbling of verses, of feral melodies on forgotten walls,
Of throwing wild seeds in the unkempt lots.
You are up early, such light mingles with the skin, lifts the self into a sheer beautiful panic.
Such thoughts jingle at the periphery in lasting meandering akin to a cosmic drifting,
Swallowing mouthfuls of summer afternoons,
Tracing the edge of the moon with finger and one eye closed.
naïve haircuts 