What Can I Get You?

Would you let me
buy you a drink?
Or are you one
who partakes alone,
by the TV’s light
with the sound
turned down?

I wouldn’t even
have to sit 
this closetoyou.
That’d make me
uncomfortable, too.
Though I don’t
hear too well
in a bar.

I can’t remember
if you’re one of those
pugnacious drunks
or if the wolf
you turn loose on
some booze’s buzz
is a puppy like mine.
My spirit puppy.

I ginned up the courage
to ask, since I’m
just talking to
a piece of paper
and a poem’s always
been my go-to
cheap date.

Here’s my daily shot of spirits. The kind of spirits that possess me and communicate things through me I’d never have the sand to say. Or even think to. Mopey old spirits thirsty for something you can’t pour from a flagon. Unless said vessel is a heart.

It Might Mean All It Might Mean

Still don’t know what Love means,
even after all these years.
When I was a kid, I thought
it was something like devotion,
like I was devoted to my parents.
But it wasn’t really.

As a teen I thought Love was
something like that emotional,
romantic and sexual connection,
that feeling of excitement
you experience when you touch,
or you get lucky enough to
press your flesh against
(or some other preposition)
the object of your affection.

As a father, it was all about
providing for and protecting
those people you’d call my loved ones.
I was never too good at any
of what might be Love, except
what actually could be obsession.

Maybe Love is all those things,
but I still don’t know for sure.
I am sure it’s something close
to what my brown-eyed girl gave me
just about her whole loving life.
But that’s dogs for you.

I took a line from Ray LaMontagne’s song Jolene and Annie Fuller’s prompt photo, closed my eyes and just wrote. The results are iffy, but the experience of discovery is always a blast. You might say I love it.

A Handshake of Penumbral Equilibrium

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Dawn Moon Copyright © 2017 Annie

At the hour before sun
takes the celestial stage,
I’ll often rise and push aside
the curtains to face West’s
still-lit horizon.
Above the trees,
hangs proud Moon in
full-faced glare,
training its baleful stare
eastward, as if to dare
sun erase its moon-shadows.
Soon enough, East’s ember glow
stretches its lengthy fingers,
to mesh with West’s
in a handshake
of penumbral equilibrium.
The night things
of field and sky,
retire from Sun’s scrutiny.
They’ll repose until sundown
when fresh moonlight awakens
a new arc of insight,
illuminating all these
brightest nocturnal imaginings,
only I can dream.

A poem inspired by this photo by my friend Annie, as part of her weekly Writing Outside the Lines Challenge. I do my best work when the sun and moon meet in dawn’s penumbral equilibrium. Hell, even named my first poetry collection for that edge-of-shadow state of being.

Sacraments of the Snow

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So small is each worker,
yet so united in communion,
that they cloud my view
of what their force builds.
It’s their lot in my back lot
to shape a scape as placid as
a pearl’s face, with whom
even selfish moon feels compelled
to wed it’s center-stage light
in the blackest February night.

But this congregational effort
to absolve the dark transgressions
and from chill gray winter
will only stand as a tent village,
a home temporary as a sinner’s promise,
for these crystallized raindrops
set to ascend back north
when the river ice cries out
and floats south to the sea.

On this Sunday, the frozen souls
will whisper prayerfully
from matins to vespers
in vestments so chaste,
as the soles of sinful men
sully this pristine place of worship,
this mausoleum where they await
the rapture of equinox crawling
beneath the southeastern horizon
toward earth’s resurrection.

There With You, Here With Me

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The Muse by Gabriel de Cool, 1895

I defer to you
when it comes to experience.
I haven’t been in your skin
when the time came to Yes or No,
Stay or Go, Be or Not Be.
You’ve made your choices,
even though you might believe
some were made for you.
But our lives have not
been a grand accident,
some Big Bang that
set in motion a journey
we’ll look back upon and
play in our lonely final repose
at lightning-fast forward.
Someday the final credits
will roll and you and
your epic life, that
singular litany of Dids and Dones,
stands a good chance of
no longer Doing, in that
final spark of experience,
perhaps I’ll be there with you.
That’s because while I experienced
these visions of lives
both real and imagined,
captured and chronicled
as I, alone in my skin,
tend to do, you’ve been here

…and here…

…and here…

with me.

Another Spoonful of Dreams

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I dreamt you allowed me
to hold you, and I did, as
I dreamt you’d want me to.
And I recall wishing
my skin was soft as yours,
my embrace strong,
yet tender, too.
My chest I pressed
against your back,
your breast
my hand caressed.
I needed to know
if heartbeats echo
or mirror-beat as one.
But this was only a dream,
one many nights I’ve lived,
in which I’m not the me
by dawn’s light I see,
but one you’d wish hold you
how you’d want enfold you
on those nights
it’s your dream to be held.

Sat down late this afternoon and along came this 100-word piece of free-written, stream-of-consciousness run mushily amok. Must be the approaching celebration of mirror-beating hearts and mated souls . Oh, and the imagined dreams of my dreamy imagination.

Metaphor in L

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They told me love is blind,
an assertion I think you can call
a canard, which is French for “duck.”
I’ve heard it said love will find a way,
which is quite the accomplishment,
seeing as how they claim love
is visually impaired.
They tell me love is in the air,
which, if we follow this shredded metaphor,
is possible only if we accept
that sightless duck syllogism.
I remember hearing love conquers all,
which is a pretty bold statement,
even for a geo-positionally blessed,
sightless waterfowl.
That guy sang how love is all you need,
and if all those sayings are true,
he’s probably right.

I never messed with love,
was bent low by my own lonely woe,
couldn’t listen to all the experts,
who toss around their aphorisms,
adages, epigrams and bullshit
like someone else’s money.
But someone has loved me,
which takes serious squinting,
if not looking the other way.
They found this ugly duckling
and conquered his cynical ways,
opening a window, then a door,
in his seamless dark heart.
Now love’s light shines both ways,
even if I don’t stand up straight,
which I find easier with every touch.
Seems love was all I needed.

Free write ramble because my inspiration spigot is stuck and needed a good wrench and twist. And what’s more poetic than a study of love? Even if it is looked at through my scratched-up metaphoric microscope.