Hello again.
The light from the lamppost reflecting off the rims
Of your glasses.
As deep as a well in a fairy tale
The stars burn.
What have you been up to?
I spent the afternoon playing
Mini golf alone.
Sitting quietly listening to the sound of rain on the pavement
Play out its equivalence.
Airing out a bed sheet after calling off work
Turns devotional.
And the waltzes before 6am.
A cloudy cut of afternoon
Along the railroad tracks
And a little rain just started.
If it gets worse, I’ll stand under
The viaduct for a while.
And the lack of meaning or too much meaning in the red leaves
Astonishes even into the cells and nerves
When autumn fetches the hills.
Like a ship
Parting with the night
Of a prowl
Hardly stepping
Of the sea
Till cloud-decked
With purpose.
Primitive loops of wind
And rain and streetlight.
Over the railroad trestles
I walked since a kid
I’ve done this and picked field
For its lonesome.
Heading home at dusk across a parking lot overrun
And left for potholes.
Potholes are nature’s ingrown toenails.
Unless filled with rainwater.
What could a gymnast do on the even bars?
Let’s begin with a mess, shall we?
Author: Bob
New Year Poem
Ghosts come in from the sea
Leaving footprints just above the ground
That only the wind remembers.
Frantic the city poet
An orange traffic cone for a wand
Leaps like a librarian through the dewy grass.
The moon an avid documentarian
As solemn as a whimsy spring afternoon
In a landscape of green ideas.
And if I may
Also add
How often
Rivers are
Dreams are
Each other.
Get It Together
With these words
Loose of meaning,
Charmed incoherence
Fast to the rising moon,
Ensconced with the grainy
Intelligence of shells,
The nitty gritty of being and
Believing.
Surreal Summertime Remembering
A summer wind
Short-cuts
Through the rip
In the screen door
Has eyebrows
Like sacred groves.
*
A chance of rain puddle
For dinner.
Our guests are nonlinear
Outcomes.
Moustache handlebars
Of cumulus nativity.
*
A sense of collaborating
With the sea spray
Parries everything but
The rocks below.
*
In the midst of a field
A meandering salute.
All alone yet guided
By an inward proclivity.
A Signature is Required
I will need to see identification.
What could
I say?
A turning aside
Of convenience for an untenable reaching out
Into strange terrain, poetically without a parachute.
November Poem
The sky is orange and sad and the leaves are blue.
What’s a comet to do? On one strange leg, wearing
A tiara of ice.
A vagabond sweater left on the lonesome train.
In the rain, the faux pearls feel at home.
Remember the espionage of daisies
And the rattling of apple blossoms,
The paragraphs of dandelions
And the heretic crocuses. All of them, like the peaks
Of mountains in a bleak novel.
The surface of the moon is conscious.
I open the window to let in the smell of the cold rain.
The room is dark, the streetlights are discussing Moby Dick.
Home
Yes, the velocity of the void
Mimics its explanation.
The void is no different than its explanation.
There is no explaining the void.
When we are young
We’re in a hurry to fathom
What distance
We shall never fully muster.
Facing an unknown. This wind,
Unknown by name, reckons
It once was home.
Stashed Away
Like spray paint on brick, the tulips are favored
By the stars,
For example, the stars dream of tulips,
A sea of tulips with rings around them like a gas giant.
A ghost severed of feet foots the bill
In this dream, though for hiding spots
Dilute some poetry with water and scrub.
The stars are more common
Than restaurant spoons.
But the world has stashed away
Something without measure
We long to get back.
As for a cup, the universe curves about right.
Like Blue
Blue imaginary birds
Know the spells to swim
In the moon.
And all the pretty vows
Know very well the distances
Between stars.
When done ingeniously
A walk is a bout
Of meandering.
There are footprints
Between the powerlines
And amongst the goldenrod.
Dynamic Simplicity
I carry a paper bag of flowers. The petals are blue, yellow, and orange.
Early flowers, the bag is a sandwich bag, it’s dawn.
I put the flowers in a basket and bike home. The sky is blue, orange, and yellow.
The flowers are for the dining room table, to be with books, and pencils,
And to have breakfast with,
Encourage me to open the windows, they are the better part of me, for a few days.
In which time, I’ll write what seem to be stream of consciousness poems, better yet,
I’ll put on my canvas shoes and walk till my stomach growls.
naïve haircuts 