Show newer

@dogtrax

A Prayer

Dear God,
let my granddaughter
hear the cackle
of a pileated woodpecker,
let her feel
the belly of a corn snake,
let her know
the squeeze of our hands in hers
as we walk
toward the million spring peepers
in the wetlands
by the creek.
Please.
Please.
Please.
Let us
redeem
her world.

A Prayer

Dear God,
let my granddaughter
hear the cackle
of a pileated woodpecker,
let her feel
the belly of a corn snake,
let her know
the squeeze of our hands in hers
as we walk
toward the million spring peepers
in the wetlands
by the creek.
Please.
Please.
Please.
Let us
redeem
her world.

I have been alive almost 66 years.
I have been married 42 years.
Our oldest child will be 40 next year.
I have been teaching for 25 years.
I have been sheep farming for 25 years.
I have lived in the same place for 31 years.
Nowhere in that illegible catastrophe
Is there an interview question.

Busted. Threadweary.
I am that man on cardboard:
"Will work for respect."

@dogtrax Gotta love the reverse gif. And that moment when the "song" finally takes the "crowd" and lifts them up to "dance".

@dogtrax

Blood on the poem's
margins
from all our teeth and lips,
rhymes and
tongue slips,
rhythms incarnadine
on fingertips,
paradiddle yawps
and yips.
Shout your own
songs,
spatter wordblood
from
your red ellipse.

Books remind us
of what we love,
ethical blazes
lit by others
banked
then stoked
every time we return to them.

Spine and margin and cover and leaf bursting to light and heat.

Paragraphs burning bright as meteors,
metaphors leaping as shiny as minnows,
our hearts
ardent
and
catalytic,
skimming
from page to page.

How will we survive
what no one knew
would come?

Who will we become?
What will we do?

We are uninvited guests
in an undiscovered
country.

And no one is coming
to save us.

Improvise.

@dogtrax Reckon it depends on the poet. Some do "thrash", others are "threshing" the grain of language and sweeping it into bags.

Maybe it should be "crashing" as in thunder so as to be a more consistent metaphor.

The world
is swept clean
by the threshings
of poets.
Clear and sharp
as storm ozone.

Pan's Hour

At sunrise,
when the day is at the treetops
filtering through, 
all that's pending is revealed:

Spider filament
&
pollen
&
falling frass.

The smallest gnats
&
dragonflies
&
dew drips.

Life in freefall.
Unveiled.
Delivered.

Prime numbers never rust.
They are careless AF.
They don't know meaning.
Ever a broken heart.
Only knowing one art.

@dogtrax

Even though waltz time
is 3/4
It's still a perfect square,
the only even prime,
a two-step,
itself plus one dance two in four
Coupled.
Level.
Mirrored,
Symmetric.
Almost indivisible.
Now consider zero.
Dance to that beat.

@dogtrax

I am
a
pileated
woodpecker
in arc
and fall,
Arc and fall,
from wood's verge
to wood's verge.
I own the wind
under my wings
like Parker
owned the notes
from
his sax,
Pushing up
and out
and through
the ether.

@dogtrax

I prefer to be
the endless
lead out
and
lock groove
that you find
at the last bit of vinyl
of every song,
endlessly spiralling
and clicking
and popping
and clicking
and popping
until someone yells,
"Turn the fucking record over."

Show older
Mastodon

Server run by the main developers of the project 🐘 It is not focused on any particular niche interest - everyone is welcome as long as you follow our code of conduct!