for all of you who read this blog this year, I thank thee especially the hunters,the Moons,the winds,the feathers and the mosses...

photo by Esha Samajpati ©

Mr. Geisel, I presume, you know I get high on your rhythms too

one more for what seems

to be another Saturday night

I was 2012

I was Bartholomew Cubbins'

500 odd hat-ted poems

I did dare myself to do something

beside fall down, fielding

bright poppy clown faces

oily brown stained thrift shop

plaid holiday cheese balls

I do know my old

is a moldy polyester fluency  

in slight flare legs and

a high white belt

I have rank and filed this away

for my Pagilacci malodorous

transition into blind fashion’s war

of tastes versus necessity

I am ready for you, 2013

I am holding fast to the undertows

to the edges of my humanity’s

crumb-letting trickles

to all the horded slow

lorded lines of distribution

single file please

the disembodied

chorus sings

knees are better suited

for your ends

so try to pluck

the poems they sing

like old feathers and

weathered scabs

you never left alone

I love hands free symphonies

I love the washed away noise

of the Oceans’ tidal purity 

telling me to go when society

in a pants demanded reach

starts to long for more

public phone booths

and mail boxes

starts to pine for faith 

in and of itself to return

to be something

outside the anonymous

cries of its cities and

spare electrical burn

littering the country-sides

hand held bobs

weaves above waves

head bowed plumbed

seeking tiny tethers

heres and nows

wanting digestible bites

bolus captured gold

shorter attention spans

traversing bridge commands

views and containers

our evil is

every small integral

deciding it is

worth riding and

deriding ourselves home

I want my creative expression

to never have to pretend

to know much of anything

except being caught kited ears

tuned forked enthrallment, seeded high

never having to know anything

past the cries of wolves, wind,

wombs and Winter in boughs

of old rivers slicing heaven

to fall at each moment

to know patience, perched right

wearing all my shapes amidst

the asymmetrical calls of my

letters, languages, poems for everything

that I've wanted to say

EJR ©