Saturday, March 31, 2012

Plowing

Turning black earth against twilight
as muddy legs plod, shoulders ache
and bow before worn leather straps
that sag between his bull and his beliefs.

Bent in the knowing that gray
becomes green and sweat waters
ground into overflowing, he grows
dark patches of glove on his palms.

After supper, his thick hands reach
to caress flour from her cheek,
slide gently along the softness
there, coffee brewing on the stove.



Poetry Breakfast - March 30, 2012

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

There Was Pink on the Roof

It was dusk and I could see pink on the neighbor’s rooftop
out the living room window from where I sat at the dinner table. 

The boys were watching baseball on TV. I could hear 
that the score was close and the right team was winning. 

Normally, I would have been watching the game 
with the boys, but that night I was at the dinner table, 

it was late, and I could clearly see the fading pink 
on the roof of the neighbor’s house. 

She was talking when I got up to take a shower. 
She was saying something to me. 

I finished my shower when all the hot was gone. 
The wrong team had come back to win. 

The curtains were drawn over the living room window. 
I sat at the dining room table. It was late. 

I tried to figure out when it was 
I’d shrugged my shoulders for good.


Sunday, March 18, 2012

A big round belly stretched nine-months tight

with a smudgy brown
longitudinal line
running up the globe of it,
shiny thin spider webs
pulled over and around
its snare drum circumference,
the occasional anaconda slither
just beneath the surface,
the every-now-and-then cartoon sock
from the inside bulging out,
and that odd little button
popping out in the very middle –

this is beauty.



The Smoking Poet - spring 2012