photo by Ruth Bernhard, American, born Germany, 1905–2006 'Walton and O'Rourke Puppet, Lupita', 1938 Ruth Bernhard Archive, Princeton University Art Museum. © |
just like happy trees and puppets
as morning awakens me
a world that is alive
in somewhat(s)
leers outside my window
bellowing burnishing
brandishing borrowing
too many...
cobwebs
and dirty windows
the folk art somewhere
inside me coming to realize
another day is starting...
the whiskeys were waters made
from poached fallen trees...
eminent domain gains
background noise back roads...
little hollows, tongued over eons
where mountains once toothed time...
homes or little houses of sometimes
poem-ed holy and almost dry...
root cellars parable nobility
in twenty degrees above freezing...
portion control being seasonal holds
late Autumn and Winter
we distilled image after image
of shoulder grindstone subterfuge...
fluttering in carousel staccatos
silent remarks steal fleeting-for-darkness
shards of subconscious unsaid(s)
this is where poem really begins...
never tell yourself
understanding
is only for fools...
some of those fools are in love...
go word for limb process
dumpster diving in negotiation
to stave off hunger in the parts of you
not needing a body
to host a soul's
pulses and soirees...
your warm fingers
tell me
you like to stir
the soup
with your hands...
imagine silly abandonment yields
trees that inflate wielding daylight
stretching the sky tops and roofs,
slate stays up eating ornate tapas...
oh, I like my roughage
with peeled citrus
in the morning sir...
the warm up
is for me...
morning knee bends
and midnight squeezed
means, masquerades
and motivation
to spill
and taste
slow death
as a life-bringer...
stowed away realm intakes
we painted exhales
we showered them
with what talcum
was available
perfumed
our fears
with bravado...
there wasn't too many artifacts
we left intact, in fact we said
we would make our bed in wet clay
we would sell
as honestly as we can
spin ourselves
evening odds back in
our pockets full
fleece the street cornered desires
have them empty wading
for fill(s) again...
our gang positioned
nostalgia before
reason
sold you
on the scarcity
of living
in the moment...
I launder the lair
of Morpheus
off myself
just like this poem
staking claim
to lore and mythology
no law needed
to smell as I feel
same as you
selling sin
to pay for
my own
hidden virtues...
black market currencies
always prayed for rainy days
when it is easier to exchange
divine rated surrenders
versus human intransigences
clouds never really wanted
any part of my sorrows
they only eat joyful dust
all they said was to make them
look like happy trees
and to fold the poems
along my spine
the puppets would pay me
with distractions
and words
I could call mine...
EJR ©
The "poems along my spine"
ReplyDeletesing/smell the rituals of motions
up&down of swirl
signaling each fork on the road
kinked with swarf
signature motif...
Why thank you...I believe palette luxury has to be part chance/ part choice...namaste
Deleteit turns into the pattern ~if no lesson learned ~ Inspiring thoughts....namaste
ReplyDeleteDepthful and dense! And that last stanza says it all.
ReplyDeleteThank You very much for saying so, I enjoy the last stanza myself...it's fun to say out loud... :)
ReplyDeleteoriginal -and just full of good lines and images. Nice
ReplyDeleteThe last stanza just ties everything together, says it all and more. Excellent write.
ReplyDeleteFabulous language--powerful.
ReplyDeleteYou put a lot of thought & detail into this & it really paid off. I liked the subtle rhyme at the end, it wrapped up the poem nicely.
ReplyDeleteincredible imagery... I especially liked,
ReplyDeletemorning knee bends
and midnight squeezed
means, masquerades
and motivation
to spill
and taste
slow death
as a life-bringer...
def giving you a follow man... banger with words.
Oh I love how it all came together in the end
ReplyDeleteFull of depth & intensity...!!
ReplyDeleteLoved it :)
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