Category: poetry

Repairs


My neighbor I don’t
Know him, except he
Grins and hellos us
On our way to school.

My neighbor he parks
Beater cars in the
Road, rims resting
On blacktop.

My neighbor wears
Dark hoodies, and has scruff
On his face. If he has a wife,
I’ve never seen her.

My neighbor I don’t
Know him, except this
Long rail fence we pass by
Which, I notice,

He repairs
For the sake of, it seems,
The beautifully organized
Orange coneflowers

That lean on the rails
Come September,
And clingy
Morning glories which

The kids marvel at–
How different they can
Be from evening to day.

This post is from my poetry series for January, “What Details Know” — daily small stones and photos, as part of The River of Stones.

Read more small stones on Twitter at the #smallstone hashtag.

Reminders

Nature is a cliche.

Out the window there’s
Another shrub, another
Tree, some oblivious dog– all very busy
Throwing around shadows
Because that’s the deal they
Made with Sun.
A trade of life
For livelong day
Reminders —
Real or
Replication–
Of unstoppable
Neverending
Pineneedle crusted
Beauty.

This post is from my poetry series for January, “What Details Know” — daily small stones and photos, as part of The River of Stones.

Read more small stones on Twitter at the #smallstone hashtag.

Big Room

We’re back.
We never left.
Songs silenced.
Windows stripped.
One last dead needle
Plucked from a sock.

We’re back,
Wandering
The Big Room, now
Mostly empty. Two
Chairs, one piano
A box of crayons.

We return to
A holy plain
Day, lit by
Trapezoid sun
On hardwood floor.

 

A Certain Stillness

We have a
Pile of kids. So until the hour
Comes when they just pass out, we are always
Buzzing with sound
With pinging desires with
Stuffed animal
Landslides. Yet now and then
Comes a certain
Stillness which chimes–
As harmonic as
The alto and soprano voices
Poured into the ‘Ave Maria’
Which pinned them down
And rocked them there.

 

Water Weekly

Lucky Bamboo by Elizabeth Howard

 

On Tuesdays
I visit you and
We kill the hour and
We eat the time and it’s
Sure that by some standard
We’ve made “Progress.”

On Tuesdays I visit you and I
Sit in that same hard blue
Chair and I stare at
The Lucky
Bamboo
Drying
Up.

This post is from my poetry series for January, “What Details Know” — daily small stones and photos, as part of The River of Stones.

Read more small stones on Twitter at the #smallstone hashtag.