Category: poetry

When a dally dillies it's quite uncommonfor flowers to wiltwhen the staring cowcurls its tongue. Too much, too soon —even I need limits:the soft shore of space,the steady pull of time. The boat cuts through the blue. Finally,the clouds float over melike friendly waves. Goodbye, rational thought.Goodbye.

The flames rise to take their bows behind the curtains;we supply the kindling and sign the receipt. Sadness clocks in at nine, sips the coffee of routine,answers happiness’s calls with a polite, scripted apology. Wood gets promoted to coal, coal retires into ash —each stage files a cleaner, quieter claim. Expectations arrive in decent suits … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Out of Sight, Out of Mind?, v.4 – sardonic

The flames rise, take their bows behind the drapes.We throw them paper hopes — polite, confetti-thin. Sadness chews politely, no need to hurry;happiness is filling out an application form. Wood becomes coal, coal updates its résumé,ash sends holiday postcards to the future. Expectations show up in party hats and maps,joy slips out for a smoke … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Out of Sight, Out of Mind?, v.4 – ironical

The flames rise and begin to danceon fresh kindling—thin, obedient tongues. Sadness eats the space happiness left;thoughts hold the matches. From wood to coal, from coal to ash—the slow machinery of the night. Expectations burn like paper money,joy folded and scorched into denial. Flames leap into open air, drink the wind;they take the smell of … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Out of Sight, Out of Mind?, v.2

I love my baby — I love her like a lamp burns late,but she don't light for me. We sit and stare for hours; the radio plays low,her coffee cools in the saucer, untouched.We walk miles past houses with their porch lights on,her hand in mine — a cool, polite weight. She speaks of summers … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “I Love my Baby, My Baby Don’t Love Me… R. Johnson”, v.3 (blues feel)

We can sit and stare at each other for hoursand have nothing to say. We can walk, hand in hand, for miles,but she won't make love to me. We can tell each other of feelings of love —hers are lodged in the past;mine live in the present and the future. We can be together,and I … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “I Love my Baby, My Baby Don’t Love Me… R. Johnson”, v.2

Rain. A lamppost. White canvas shoes, damp. Genesis — a thin, useless hymn in my ears. People pass like practiced ghosts. She says she cannot love me. I fold that sentence into my palm; it is cold. The street exhales and erases itself. I learn the end too late.