I’ll tour this grand old land of mine;
I’ll drive from ocean to sea.
I’ll walk where millions walked before,
I’ll not sit where they all urinate.
The saddest song does not sing truth.
The wittiest writing is not the wisest.
The loudest voice is not correct.
The strongest shove does not show strength.
We cry, and pay the weeping beggar.
We laugh, and share the snarky satire.
We turn and listen to the yelling.
We vote for the bully to be in charge.
Shade the negative space of a lone woman;
Daub the dying sun’s embers behind her,
Then soliloquise of heartbeats echoing sunsets.
Charcoal, paint, poetry.
Commit her uplifted hand to a memory-keeper.
Film her swirling hair against swirled light,
Harmonize with deep wind-flutes of regret.
Photograph, film, symphony.
Beat softly to echo the oboes’ cry
And pulse sorrow through interpretation,
As patrons study her angles solemnly.
Rap, dance, art in 3-D.
Feel her dramatic, poignant tears.
See Earth’s brilliant display at days-end.
Then turn, and show us what you see.
Myriad media, expressed endlessly.
Fame is a bee.
It has a song-
It has a sting-
Ah, too, it has a wing.
-Emily Dickinson, The Poems of Emily Dickinson
O, footwear on that narrow shelf
Daintily curved ’round your arch:
How appealing, how smart you poise
Atop, as if lining to march.
O, footwear, you awaken some
Feminine joy -I’ll confide.
Even in such a tom-boy me,
I squeal a tad deep inside.
O, footwear, I search hungrily
And seize your match in my size.
But, alas! Once again, I find
You, when that large, look like guys’.
They hide, deceptive and nefarious. Their tempting skin lures your hands toward them to satiate a chocolate lust.
Chocolate raisins are evil.
I hear the hollow hall-sounds speaking;
Shadows shift periph’rally.
Deepened tones converse in love jests;
My goosebumped ears left tingling.
I touch abandoned tiny face hairs,
Soapy slivers’ shelf-life suds.
Humid mirror face-shapes watch me
As happy echoes sing of love.
I see re-mem’ries filling shelf space,
Animating cloth removed.
Warmth exists in just-shed off’rings
As longing sings a forlorn tune.
I breathe Old Spices’ flavoring:
Leather jacket memories.
Ling’ring scents wake nasal dreamscapes;
I inhale from phantasies.
I taste forgotten moon kiss dreamlings,
Testing tang of warm skin’s feel;
Senses silence in timeless moment:
The Ballad of the Garbage Truck
Oh, hark! -and hear my tale of old –
‘Tis true in ev’ry way:
The ballad of the garbage truck,
A loud, machine-drawn dray.
The daylight barely paints the East,
The weary man just waked;
A stirring in the quiet air,
A song of metal brakes.
How now, my lads? What sings this sound?
What draws attentive eyes,
A-pressed against the window panes,
Or gathered round outside?
Oh, feel: the porch, the walk, the lane!
Oh, see: the living things!
They shake and dart in worried dance
Of what the daybreak brings.
The song exults effulgently
As it comes round the turn:
As refuse is o’erturned.
Majestic rolls the garbage truck;
Ungainly -yes, but true.
A dutiful collectioner
Of everyone’s snafu.