Acorns and the Summer Porch

acorns, old oak tree, shingles, porch, melt, foot

This morning it was raining acorns
because of the squirrels in the old oak tree.
The acorns rattled on the shingles,
rolled off, and piled up on the porch—
almost as real hail would, but acorns don’t melt.
They hurt when I crunch them with my foot,

stepping off the porch with my best foot
forward, toward the trunk of the old oak tree—
all the while hearing clattering on the shingles
and lamenting my languid summer porch
where I indolently lounged beneath green acorns—
warm thoughts making my heart melt.

I thought that the whole summer day would melt
into a cauldron with a satyr’s foot.
Everything was in the cauldron, starting with the acorns
falling down from the late-autumn oak tree,
making their constant drumming on the shingles—
nut accumulation on the porch.

How sadly I lament my summer porch
where I lay listening to my soul melt—
in love with you, my dear—brown foot
in the sun, scent of oak leaves and acorns
in my nose! How cloud-high rose the old oak tree
then, branches laden above the shingles,

laden with a weight of fruit the shingles
cannot hold—all rolling down to the porch,
where in another month snow won’t melt—
no un-treacherous step for the foot—
freezing robe of white covering the acorns
beneath shingled roof and bare oak tree!

How pathetically the old oak tree
itself laments, hulking over shingles,
opaque lap-sided walls and storied porch—
on which my tender lover’s heart would melt
of a summer's day, resting at the foot
of a venerable old oak engendering acorns.

I’ll have had enough of acorns when my foot
presses on the earth and feels it melt. But my summer porch
beckons—roof-shingles shaded by the old oak tree.

Losing the Trace

Should I feel bad about losing the trace,

whether my voice trails off or gets louder?
Can the poem itself be the trace?

I walked in Arizona, recording my voice—
.wav file smashed into electron-powder.
Should I feel bad about losing the trace,

clearly recognizing I’m in a race
with time—time wears the trousers?
But can the poem itself beat out the pace,

feet departing in all haste—
as to first-base when you hit a grounder.
Should I feel bad about making a force?

There’s always some reason to feel worse
than I need to feel—when I’ve been too rowdy,
playing my jack on your ace,

finally hearing that there’s too much bass—
I fixed it, so now I can be a shouter,
feeling both good and bad about losing the trace,
hoping the poem itself can carve a trace.

Whatever Love Is, It Isn't Pure

Self-love gifted to another—

how much self can a self endure?
Everyone’s my sister or my brother.

Even though I never had a brother—
I had male friends, but never a male amour—
my self-love gifted to the other.

And, of course, like everyone, I had a father
from whose gifted love I’ve needed cure.
He’s dead, but I still love him like a brother.

But I never loved him as I loved my mother,
and there’ve been other women whose allure
spurred me to gift my self-love to another

and love them like a wife or like a sister—
and that’s where my attempts encountered failure,
mixing up brother-sister, sister-brother.

But I still always get all in a pother,
trying to fiddle Jenny on the Railroad—
Jenny’s self-love gifted to none other.
Everyone’s my sister and my brother!

No More Monkeys

bed, home, years, gone, more, now

1
No more monkeys jumping on the bed!
The monkeys have all grown up and left home,
monkeys growing fewer as our years 
wind down—lonely, because our monkeys are gone.
Monkeys take to the roads—heard from no more?
We love the monkeys, but they’re wandering now.

2
How can we find joy in our lives now
that the monkeys have stopped jumping on the bed?
Our house no longer feels like home
without sweet monkey-chatter, and the years
pummel us thin until we too are gone,
vanished, not remembered any more;

3
wishing it were true that there be many mo’
monkeys, though we live nowhere now—  
waking up cold in a broken bed,
in a place we no longer recognize as home,
contemplating the sheer ending of our years—
that’s how life feels when your monkeys are gone.

4
They say we’ll feel nothing when our life is done—
you’ll never hear our gladsome chirrup more—
removed completely from the time of now,
our days all stored away and put to bed,
days when we heard about a better home—
our honeycomb, reward for all our years.

5
Trying to get back before the beginning of years.
No one had yet been born, so no one could be gone—
no one expecting less, everyone expecting more—
the exact opposite of our situation now.
All souls were a single monkey jumping on the bed
of nothingness, our past and future home.

6
You can take our scissors, Ginger Nut, we're going home,
done clipping the sad alnage of the years—
Long John, like a turkey through the corn, done gone.
You won’t be seeing Long John any more.
Long John’s a bright star in the firmament now
in the constellation, Monkeys Jumping on the Bed.

7
Our song is done—no need to sing it more—
monkeys gone—remembered through the years—
gone and left home—No more jumping on the bed!

Insecurity (Duplex Poem)

Two years and more expecting you to leave,

you always amaze me by sticking around.

          If you did leave, I’d still see you around,
          I guess, but all our good times would be over,

and I’d have a terrible time getting over
you, you surely know. Still, I don’t want

          you to stay if that isn’t what you want.
          Waiting for word from you, I fear the worst,

but why do I always expect the worst,
when there’s nothing you don’t do to earn my trust?

          There’s a demon in the scenery that burns trust
          like brush, gunpowder-dry, before the storm—

a wolf-like, all-devouring worry-storm
from hell—two years expecting you to leave.

Tactful Boy

It’s not a compliment when people call your poems masturbatory.

But aren't all of the bodily organs blessed of God?
Literary strategies are at best compensatory.

All I want to do is tell the sultry
truth. Sure, I could project it into some persona-Nimrod,
because it's not a compliment when people call your poems masturbatory.

Nimrod built the Tower of Babel—million-story!
It ascended all the way to heaven, like Jack’s beanstalk, so, of course, God
had to smite it. But that was at best a compensatory

act, because the damage had already been done—the motor lorry
had already crashed through the crepe facade—
all possible allegations of your poems being masturbatory

proved beyond doubt, to their not-small glory!
You’re proud of yourself. You put your skinny or broad
butt in a chair and penned a few compensatory

songs that any Jane, Dick, or Harry
can identify with, and maybe they’ll applaud!
It’s not a compliment when people call your poems masturbatory,
but literary strategies are at best compensatory.

Winter's Weeds (I Danced My Rondeau)

I danced my rondeau at the Y last night

(had Flex Room A, with mirrors, to myself).
putting any demons to flight,
rhythm coming out all right
stepping the sprightly 8/8 beat—
dancing on the Polar Shelf—
I danced my rondeau at the Y last night night
(had Flex Room A, with mirrors, to myself).

I'm Ready

What if Anna Karenina and Nastasya Filippovna had been poets,

like Emily Dickinson and Christina Rossetti?
Can’t say we would never know it
without Leo and Fyodor to show it—
bloody red spaghetti-
sauce on the tracks; scorned woman stabbed through the heart.
What if Anna Karenina and Nastasya Filippovna had been poets?
I do love Dickinson and Rossetti!

Anxiety

This situation may be no-win,

but everyone I meet here is my friend.
Why do I feel so jerked out of my skin?

Always riding the edge of a hairpin
curve, I have no end
of anxiety, fearing this situation may be no-win.

Always wearing a fake grin
on my face, habit that lets me blend
into the scenery—beige tinge on my skin.

But whoever thinks I have a soul of tin
should know I’m hiding woes that‘d rend
cast-iron gates; says I’ll never win

know I couldn’t possibly begin
to list the million times I’ve tried to mend
this treed-fox heart beneath my skin.

It’s because I have no choice but go all-in
and I’ve borrowed every cent you had to lend,
and because this situation may be no-win,
that there’s no way I don’t feel jerked out of my skin!

I'm So Glad I'm Up in Heaven at Last

When I walk, I keep my chin forward of my feet.

If I don’t, I’ll have a dangerous spill.
My feet’ll be in the air. The birds will tweet.

Walking through all of this most amazing day’s sweet
opportunities—opportunities to get killed!
When I walk, I keep my chin forward of my feet.

My chin is made of steel, you know. When the street
slugs me in the middle of my vaudeville
act, my feet ain’t in the air, at least. The birds don’t tweet.

Could be I’ll break my wrists, though, complet-
ly wrecking my nice mandolin quadrille. Still,
when I walk, I'll keep my chin forward of my feet.

Don’t know when, but soon, the white sheet
will cover up my face. What’s left of me will fill
a tight space bereft of air, where no birds tweet;

but that’ll be the day when our souls meet,
before we tumbled down the hill, says Jack, says Jill.
When I walk I keep my chin forward of my feet.
My feet will be in the sky. The birds will tweet.

My Pet Ontology

George, my mother’s big Persian,

older than me. By the time I became a teenager,
boy, was that cat smelly!

Sylvia, beautiful black short-hair.
When she died, my dad
buried her in a towel.

Winifred, another black.
She hated other cats
and lived in the incinerator.

Agnes, the only dog.
Couldn’t be potty-trained,
so my dad drowned her.

Henry, a vacant-eyed black-and-white.
I kicked him off my bed one night,
and I think he went and got locked in a panel truck.

Harriet, an ornery tortoiseshell.
Had her litter on
an old stump under the bushes.

One of Harriet’s kittens—Rodney. The people who came
and took him brought him back emaciated, scared. 
You could drape Rodney over chairs like a slinky.

Henrietta,
my sister’s favorite,
eviscerated by dogs.

Walter, Henrietta’s kitten,
black and white like her mother.
We mistook two little tufts of fur for testicles.

Flora, sveldt tabby my dad called Rugga-Carpeta.
Those free-ranging Denver canines ripped her tail off,
and she died in convulsions on the kitchen floor.

Julius—Orange Julius, my mother called him.
One day when she was dying, I realized my mother was afraid
Julius would lie on her chest and suffocate her.

I believe she was relieved
when I had Julius 
removed from the house.

Love Is a Hum

I’m real nervous, but it sure is fun!

I had to trade my guitar for a bed.
Love is a hum.

Ready to swill rum,
I’m in such a state of dread—
I’m real nervous, but it sure is fun!

It’s a big thrill, but it’s kind of a bum
rap too, me with my feet of lead,
feeling the hum

of love in my veins,
recalling times I pled
for deliverance from this merciless fun—

all my thoughts focussed on the one
I love, my precious newlywed,
hearing the hum

of their voice, their soft kiss burning
my lips—NOT like a beast unfed.
I’m real nervous, but it sure is fun!
Love is a hum.

The Rondeau Is a Thing of Five

The woodspurge hath a cup of three (Dante Gabriel Rossetti)

The rondeau is a thing of five,
but also of two and three.
The haiku is of three.

          Chaucer’s rondeau's about staying alive
          through winter, whose weeds will be

The rondeau is a thing of five,
but also of two and three.

          o'ershaken by bright Phoebus on high,
          St. Valentine. The small birds find their joy,
          become the two becomes three.

The rondeau is a thing of five,
but also of two and three.
The haiku is of three.

Rondeau

What to you seems reason for uncertainty

to me may seem a firmly grasped handshake.—
Goodbye, goodbye. We our departure take.

          Look, you sad skeptic, you can plainly see,
          it ain’t exactly easy shake-and-bake.

What to you seems reason for certainty
to me may seem a well-executed head-fake.

          I’m simply appealing to your charity
          in a playful spirit of give-and-take—
          when we ourselves might our quietus make...

What to others may seem reason for uncertainty
to you and me seems a dearly clasped handshake.—
Goodbye, goodbye. We our departure take.

Drugging the Pateroller

I don’t identify as a white man.

Yes, I’m among the privileged.
Try to pin me if you can—

my identity slick as a corn can—
I tried to run, but I got bridged.
But I can always pass for a white man.

I've tried the grits, give me the ham!
The powder on my nose is smudged.
Feed me! I know you can!

Hiding here behind my fan
(other improprieties have been alleged,
such as pretending not to be a man).

My forebears from a northern land,
but the boundaries have become all fudged,
so try to catch me if you can!

Going right from the frying pan
into the fire with the plans I’ve fledged,
but the police always know I’m a white man.
They don’t try to shoot me, but they can.

The Shard of Wood

One of a box of objects. Reddish, striated. Size of a very small bird. Thought it was a piece of petrified wood, but when I picked it up it had no weight. And brittle—broke into three pieces the moment I touched it, pulverized at the cleavages. Seems to be the dried-up pulp of an insect-damaged tree—there ARE tiny holes in it. But it mainly reminds me of a plump lizard or a tiny toy papoose—but only by sight, because now I’m afraid to touch it, afraid I’ll break it even worse. Like the clovers pressed in my late friend Ellen’s copy of Woody Guthrie, a Life—broken just by looking.

Can I speak to the object, let the object speak? How can I address you, disintegrating, crumbling wood chip, not really knowing what you are, less where you’re from? What will you say in return? You speak. You say: I am a piece of the vasculature that pumped a million gallons up a hundred-foot conifer. A shard of redwood, I am. It doesn’t matter how the life I was part of ended—which it hasn’t. Don’t grieve if you destroy my tiny trace!

Terra d'Ombra

To gain heaven, you can’t renounce umber—

umber, red-poop color of mud,
color of heartaches without number.

For Hieronymus Bosch, debauchery was umber,
salvation some blessedness cleansed of blood.
To gain heaven, he renounced umber.

And think of poor Jeanne Hébuterne,
mistress of Modigliani—that clod—
suiciding to be rid of her heartaches without number,

eyes blank midst hair of auburn—
both she and her lover now under the sod.
Has she gained heaven by renouncing umber?

Yes, we will all slumber
with our mothers in the world before the flood,
beyond the pale of heartaches without number;

but from somewhere outside the painting the light of an invisible candle
glimmers on us like a light of God—
reflected through the power of umber,
the blessed power of heartaches without number.

you

The poem is about the present moment.

Hmm... I don’t mind if I do.
But to place my stuff, I’ll need an agent.

I experienced a particularly radiant
moment yesterday, thinking of you—
a moment

of tenderness, glimpsing a yarn bracelet
in the grass, wet with dew.
But I was supposed to call my agent

to arrange submissions and readings I’m too ardent
to pay adequate attention to.
The poem is about the present moment,

the eternal now—remembered only as a recent
event. The bird flew.
That was what I needed to tell my agent.

A deer walked by my stand, but I was too impatient
to wait, and now I've got no clue
what tune to hum about the present moment.
All I know is: got to fire my agent!

Yarn Bracelets

Two yarn bracelets by
the sidewalk. Unicorn-mane
colors, white and blue.
Spun with a drop spindle?  Each 
wound with a pink thread.

______

First draft

two yarn bracelets beside the sidewalk

abandoned by some child
wispy unicorn-mane colors
each with one purple and one white strand
spun with a pink thread