Death to Delay

A not so serious one today.

DEATH TO DELAY

I loathe thee, procrastination,
for all that you do;
for the walls built up around me
for the suffocating weight of to-be-dones
that is your doing.

One day, procrastination,
I will find you.
I will track you to the shadowy mind holes
    where you lurk.
I will hunt you down.
One day you will wake from your apathy
to find my fingers wrapped
around your cold grey neck.
One day, procrastination,
I will slaughter you.

But not today.
Today, I will sit here awhile
and read a book.

View From Inside the Kaleidoscope

What it’s like inside my head a lot of the time.

VIEW FROM INSIDE THE KALEIDOSCOPE

Where is “I”?
Lost in a forest
of frenetically firing synapses:
what is a glyptodon?
Dinner should be chicken.
Daffodil spray, gold on green and bright!
Music, music, music
comes crashing down around me.
Where were you
and where was I
and we were all together.
Where is Borneo?
Struggling on through thoughts
thick as Spanish moss in my eyes
and a noise of bees deafening my ears.
Muddy, muddy, can’t get through,
broken branches, broken promises,
music, music, music.
Suitcase full of musty mildew smells and memories.
Where did I leave my shoes?
The dog needs a bath.
Ruby red and liquid orange,
the smell of dish soap.
Story of a bus in trouble.
When did I fly?
And music…music…music.

Borderland

Sunset over the ocean

I don’t write too many rhyming things, and when I do, they tend to be odd rhythms, like this. But I’m rather fond of this one.

BORDERLAND

Field of daisies
butterfly clocks
turn in time with the sun;
I am running to meet you
down by the water
where trails of light meld into one
which leaps ‘cross the ripples
and into tomorrow
where the waves reach up to the sky
and the golden of daylight
meets the purple of twilight–
we stand watching night drawing nigh.

There’s a hush on this moment
one golden moment
I am caught in a moment with you;
With my hand in your hand
we walk back through daisies,
asleep now–awaiting their dew.
The sun clocks have stopped
as though time has ceased:
we walk on eternity’s shore.
In the blue-velvet darkness
I am awestruck by beauty;
my heart is too full to take more.

Harvest

Spring-wheat-farm-latah-id

I swear, I do write happy poems from time to time.  Ah well.

HARVEST

The land…the land.
The land is all he has these days:
thrice times twenty acres,
field and forest, blade and tree,
and all the sky above–
but not a soul to call his own.

He built this house himself, you know,
every brick and shingle,
every nail and hinge placed
by his own two work-hard hands:
a shelter meant for her, so long ago,
his Emily, the queen of his heart.

He courted her with simple words and raindrops
for all a promising spring and all a fruitful summer,
but when the time came ripe to ask her,
he turned his face away and said, “Not yet.”
Not until he’d a finished home to offer.
Not until his own fields
stood golden in the sun at harvest time.
Not until.

Then came the war,
and the far away,
and when he returned to his empty house,
he found she’d grown tired of “Not until,”
and settled for “Why not?”

Life goes on.
He’s watched these fields
through thrice times twenty growing seasons,
the undisputed ruler
of a green and verdant wasteland;
good years and bad years,
but what has he to show for all that?

The land…the land.
The land is all he has these days,
and not a soul to call his own.