December 13, 2018

vital signs and other algorithms my radio finds frequencies of ...

it was row after row 
little houses, all the same save 
for some variances 
in the way front doors 
were framed 
porch or none 
this was a mill town 
there were a dozen or so 
along the waterways 
leading to the great river 
most of the city worked 
in them, save for the service industry 

aah the service industry 
the saviors of when 
working class 
gets set free 

inside a dream 
is my awakening 

to fall in Love 
the panic button human trick 
what sickness descends 
when separate 
from nature 
we've tried to live 
for too long it seems 
this far away 
from where we came 

they took the president 
away in handcuffs 
it was all that was tv 
for months 
little did anyone know 
it was stagecraft 
and show 
some thought better 
stayed cynical 
to the end 

the elite are living on the Moon 
and Mars and harvest diamonds and gold from asteroids 
because they can 

some books 
some set of encyclopedia 
will be found 
somewhere within 
the great expanse 
of forever 
on a relic 
and ghost 
cargo ship 
our history 
paper paused 
better than 
Carl Sagan's 
riff record 
on voyager 
which was appropriated 
by the great leadership tribunal 
after that final Earth war 
the one where we became 
prisoners here 
and up there 
specked fools 
velvet black night 
were where 
humanity went 
long ago 
we're past 
saving, almost 
16 tons 
and a soul hung 
with the dust 
of becoming 
property ...

we had but one  chance 
and there we were 
nervous as all heck 
about to be undone 
by our jangled mangled 
sense of calm 
we said 
it wasn't going to hurt 
it did 
and still does 
ghost pain poem 
the limb that once was 
an attribute 
a finely tuned resolute 
surrey with fringe at the top 
we rode in style 
beatnik beauty queen 
eyes lined 
a turtle neck on 
with a wool high collar big lapel coat 
you wore me the way you wore yourself 
every time 
I loved you for that 
bliss followed 
my heart 
into dust 
every time 

we turned towards morning 
towards other poems 
the fantastic parts 
we were still sleeping 
dream vestiges 
the crumb-lings 
of darling 
and derring do 
we children 
of Prometheus 
and Electra too 
hide beneath 
the swing path 
waiting for the sun 
we are stealing 
what is 
known as 
the rite 
of passage 
just how 
we too 
heavenly rooted 
right here 
into stewards 
we gained  
always loving 
the rain 


October 1, 2018

singing like most poets do

(for the victory of the Mother)

wet cries us 
births us 
soft decay 
paper wings us 
covers us 
sanctum dew 
dark morning turning 
a someday we'll crawl 
the bones 
of our galloped falls 
a someday 
we'll be 
the rain too 
October reminds us ... 

lover spine 
hand slid 
hid beneath 
spoon bottom 
by the bedside 
sugar makes most things go down 
salt makes one appreciate it 
and when we close our eyes to kiss 
we see the world inside us exploring 
the more of what it is 
that escapes our thoughts 
our movements 
our brushes 
our nimble fingers 
our paints 
our stored feasts 
our wet clays 
October ... 

She kisses 
while bleeding 
this bliss 
a sweet 
if only 
like prayer, sometimes 
demands ten fingers 
and we worship 
with covered heads 
iron fed red, we bark, howl 
run rings round trees 
and fires to thin
our divides we bend 
riding winds 
we are yours 
rabbit holes 
and poets 
and We 
Love You 
all the time ...

EJR © 

June 9, 2018

as Summer approaches, anti christs abound apoplectic

we found we couldn't close the doors or windows 
beasts, burdens and caravans 
of folks kept coming for shelter 
we kept the greeting room cool 
from the unrelenting Sun of june 
by draping blankets and sheets over some wire we nailed 
to the top of the frame 
no one expected the gypsies to be so tied 
to the monarch butterflies 
or the swallows of San Juan Capistrano 
we only knew 
feed and folly 
in that order 
we were the respite havens 
the depots of deposition 
before postion is affixed 
in the afterlife 
those moments 
a person has throughout their life 
where they wear what if as a badge 
merited or knot gordian damocles 
the pleased parts of a soul 
says to Life let me ride 
while the squirreled away says 
open the windows 
it might rain 

poets paint 
points parsed 
piecing pillboxes 
from the decimated 
the digits 
of the two hands 
are in concert 
the unseen ones 
are the muckrakers 
and multiple personali-tied angels 
the taut congealed faces 
what erases 
from memory 
any pain endured 
while walking bones ...

we listen to the string masters 
play melodies they've learned from the wind 
and we tell stories gathered around fires at night 
throwing silhouettes 
onto walls into unforgettable tales 
of ribald and serenity ...

we once were a pie-oh-near land 
and sonia sanchez-es ran with lances 
truth in their bent fingers 
crooked to the sounds 
of why we still strive and thrive 
under the weight of being human 
here where upside 
is only marketable content 
and intention 
can be meted mentioned 
only after the trespass 
of spiritual content 

we were what stolen from left us feeling 

Prometheus and Antigone 
had many children that we took in 
little saviors 
in the silly things 
we did to stave off death sometimes 

that godliness is a lie 
is no surprise 
nor that clark kent 
is a stooge 
and being super 
is the preference 
for most individual fantasies 
writhing in the mass 
of worms known as modernity 

we hanged those blankets 
most every morning in June 
wishing on morning coffee 
that Love would return to Life 
some of us knew better 
and knitted sweaters for those growing 
weary of peering into a future 
so dampened of possible 

this ritual we clung to 
hope before shallow breaths, 


April 30, 2018

the throwaway generation ... #NaPoWriMo2018 Day 30

<after the 60's, the decade of dead leaders 
everything became clouded, motivations 
weren't as clearly discernible> 

we were the throwaway generation 
put in front of televisions 
and let into public pools 
schools were our formative factories 
the settings of our please and pleas 
we became breed knees, needs 
we bleed for Life 
this certainty 
is our absolution 
of physical self 
our body of bones 
blood and flesh 
the spirit is almost always, thought 
and as such delves into smells 
we taste things, best 
as we long view 
what the crows leaves 
for the Sun and time 

we were vaccinated 
elated when achieving 
or just getting the gifting 
of course as most children 
post op war womb-ed 
we wanted 
more and more 
until we only woke up 
broke from breaking 
and aware we were 
not nearly woke enough 
to be taking the care that 
we should have 

the plagues came anyway 
first affluenza and its insidious offspring 
of classification, status and recovery patterns 
then the real viral loads began 
the culling spikes 
birds falling from skies 
fish washing onto shores 
rivers became muddy angels 
an augered angry assortment 
of look how fucked humans 
are again to the downright 
dismissive of most bi-peds 
winged and other flying creatures 
roaming the spaces between 
night and day

we used to tell stories 
around fires to ward the mind 
of these things 
things that steal us 
from imagination 
from moments 
that keep us whole 
now, having thrown away 
so much of who we are 
we no longer knew, who we were 
so we hunted for warmth, 
in every face we encountered 
we hoped to mimic 
what made 
a story smile 
without reason 
once ago 
when human(e) 
we hoped 
we hoped 
we hoped 
we hoped 
a better poem
a better poem 
a bet her 

goodbye April 
you were indeed 
a rainy mess 

EJR © 

April 29, 2018

a found way, eventually ... #NaPoWriMo2018 Day 29

the streams 
I've followed  
with choice gravity 
each a sheen 
a bird's feathers 
coriander flowers 
Tennessee's blue children 
joyful, ever ascendant near 
precipice care watchers 

the walls I create  
merely keep me in 
line in league inceptualized 
the gardens dug 
allow me flight 
in the roots of things 
I wish bloomed and fruited 

rituals on Sundays here 
state sated taters 
have to have cheese 
and bread crumbs 
drummed over them 

this poem will now
 nose dive hem lines e.g. 

this afternoon 
feels like snow 
Wind Moon 
Beltane wants us to howl 
to nostril flare 
dare our necks 
craned soul 
free will  
and fate 
a few dances 
before Autumn 
comes again 
and all I you we 
 want to do 
is lose ourselves 
in love's  
what the hell 
again, as any other
form of surrender 
will not do 

poem never knows 
or rather I never know when 
the words come 
for instance today 
it was me imagining you 
saying it is cold again 
and grab another blanket 

we f****** like crazy persons 
missing travel timeless deciders  
eye riders, wader rivulets, wax and sliders, 
a cold Sunday afternoon waiting, waiting 
on this 

EJR © 

April 28, 2018

she be my ---->pixie ornithological entropic maternal, poem ... #NaPoWriMo2018 Day 28

Woman Encircled by the Flight of a Bird, 1941
by Joan MirΓ³

I don't understand what she does to me 
I don't understand any destiny 
without her in orbit next to me 

there were loaf pans 
we filled with nut meats 
other treasures broken open 
gold yolk yoked souls, mostly 
there we were 
wanting to be 
pimentos, see ... 

filling fillers 
read holes 
red tolls 
cheddar bΓ©chamel 
what can we tell 
expressions we make 
melted cheese 
at the gates ... 

I had become 
a loam dark under 
her nails 
we carried pails 
for worms 
and water 
and we put bottles of pop 
in the kill to keep cold 
while we worked 
on working on 
what we did to 
stay strong 
to the cause 
of joy ... 

when Winter breaks 
its tenacious hold 
upon scrabbled bound places 
there emerges 
a nurturing love 
to grab hold of 
it is in the air 
in the rain 
in the way 
grackles, robins and wrens 
scour the emerging green grasses 
for seeds that Persephone passes 
having wombed wearing 
every human's outer shell 
a Winter in Hell 
is warmer and healthier 
than you know ...

what is it 
you declare 
as being needed 
when a day unfurls 
singing sweetly 
a lover, 
another reason 
to press your lips 
against hers ...

morning stretches out 
a lazy dog laconacy
fog wrapped early wondrous 
dark to grey light 
giving way 
southerlies bunted 
yellow Sun 
blue sky day ...

I hear the neighbors mill about 
early on this Saturday 
I distill myself further 
selfishly nostalgic 
with enough coffee to make an elephant 
want to break dance ...

and as so often happens 
I wandered upon a thought 
intersecting with a friend 
and danced a begin, myself 
thinking about cartoons 
and big ol' bowls of cereal 
and how for that one special 
Saturday a month 
when the cartoons ended 
religious programming 
and early info-mercials 
gave way to creature features 
or kung fu double shots 
and those were 
and the days 
we would wing 
we were there 
pining for glory 
and it to be 
forever a Saturday 
morning in Spring ...


April 27, 2018

A Methodist Beltane ... #NaPoWriMo2018 Day 27

poet and sister after church sometime in the 1970's

where did I go 
a lover darkly 
what childhood came 
wind to fire 
what got me high, wired  
kited by ways spy days 
lazy river songs I 
would long for 
when does play 
get after 
did I know 
not to know 
flow wolves go 
where shadows 
are born onto the light 

I so longed to be 
in the Sun again 
I was sure the picnic after church 
was to be rained on and we would 
cramp ourselves into the basement gymnasium 
eight foot tables lined up, connected, covered 
by vinyl, patterned with the colors 
of death and salvation 
we were wee an army 
bibles and bellies full 
of things we could recollect 
curing with warm hearth sate 
and the strength of our community 

the rents we pay 
are for the sunshine 
rain is free 
as long as you 
don't mind 
being born 
all the time 

I listen to music 
when I poem 
I never know 
what to do 
when the quiet comes 
like morning again 
ready to be made 
into something surreal 
or beautiful 
or odd 
or necessary enough 
to share with first 
my caffeinated fingers 
and then the quick edit 
of a few re-reads 
louder and prouder 
with demonstrative beckoning(s) 
here the poem 
like most of us 
I imagine 
waits to breathe 

having already 
taken a seat 
near where 
the desserts 
were kept

EJR © 

April 26, 2018

the paint is crawling too, to dry ... #NaPoWriMo2018 Day 26

art by David Ho © 

when spring 
we found humble pie 
and crow eateries 
were in ample supply 
so when we went about 
mooning nascent honey 

I never knew what to do 
with the you 
inside and outside 
my mind 
that dress sings at the foot of the bed 
looks like dirty angels again 
my palms down 
forehead wet with wanting 
crawling birth poems 
right now while 
nearly breathless 

we, melody 
and rhythm 
are repeated  
over and over 
an ovarian knight 
I've become 
as completed 
with this why 

I like the rise 
from being 
gravity and eggs 

we sat one summer 
until autumn came 
atop a wall 
brooders and layers as well  
we watched until bleeding leaves started the fell 
and then we ran to be run too 
falling as flying until crackle sounds 
of the ground coming too fast for you  
our shells pass past 
what we thought might last 
until Winter came through 

EJR © 

April 25, 2018

πŸŒœπŸ‡πŸ‘ƒπŸŽ‘πŸŽ™πŸŽͺ🎭🐐 #NaPoWriMo2018 ... Day 25

my electric kool-aid mr tumnus look

(this poem is characterized as being without title)

prima parte

are we at war 
with those 
that would 
eat souls 

have we holes where the rain gets in 
are we fixin' to be an it or even better 
a cheddar get-ter 
rolling down hills 
gravity for wings 
do we sing terse songs 
do we seem old but feel 
we were never meant to be 
here now, at the end of the world 

cellular level break down 
brake down telo mere a mere tell 
what have we ideas of if not, us ... 

the singular soul is old at birth 
longing for a company of fools, sages, animals 
and page after page of books yet to be/ 
the budding redolent air 
ripples with caterpillar scent 

(archetypes in the middle of a poem)

seconda parte

it is raining 
everyone and no one
the wind waits 
each of us and none of us
time eats 
what we project
clocks kill 
what we protect 

I am not a grand painter of worlds 
but rather a smooth river stone story teller 
who finds commonality to lens 
feelings of hey I see myself or others I may know 
in this scenario/landscape/imagined world
do I take from you all ...  your cadences your projections your visible spectrums 


do I mine what I feel is the underbelly to it all/ to us all 


let's have dinner 
as a poem might 
an Ethiopian style table 
and roti bread cloth 
evening pouring through 
open windows 
billowy curtains 
and wall sconce candles lit 
no utensils, no phones 
nothing but what fun 
used to be like 
we'll talk and laugh 
out loud, boisterous emphasis 
on working our core muscles 
our being, our souls 
our why(s) 
we eat best 
hand to mouth 

why it is 
a womb 
we always revere 
why it is 
the one mystery 
born to us 
we never need 

we bleed 
maidens and squires 
in the weeds 
we want 
price and place 
we are willing 
to become 
crown thieves 
the grifting of bejeweled 
comes from ash and dust 
limbs, lust and sutured time 
bones are articulate masses 
revisionist insisting sisters 
they lack mercy 
we deserve heresy 
and as such 
every seed 
will be inventoried 
while eggs 
are given 
free reign 

yes, we'll meet in Tunis 
and we'll have tea 
one last time 
as the sea 
laps up against 
waiting mother 
in the sand 

and father 
trapped in starlight 
over the mountain 
will hush us 
to catch 
her beauty 
one last time