A New Year's Eve Admonition to Poets

An automatic poem

always sits in the closet

and waits......while

the conversation burns.

If you (foolishly)

happen to open the door,

it will spring out,

bold and bluster, but quickly

it melts into submission

and the backdrop suspicion of walls.

Maybe it will slide out as a boat

in the night, drifting

without sound; leaving no trace,

weaving water and sky,

like the blue moon

of two thousand nine.

Likely it will stand

inflexible, inexcusable

blocking the path to the door;

a pile, an edifice,

a cairn stone marker

for your fear of alcohol,

and the apology

you owe planet Mars.

It could sprout albatross wings,

be a cheat thunderbird,

circling above the cliffs by the sea

while new winds are born howling

through rock, over wave,

and gray haired snowfalls

pine hush memory.

In the morning it may lounge,

a lost lover’s lash filtered gaze,

wishing you had knocked

that lurid merlot

across the perfect

table top failure to contain

your elbow percolator wit.

Snowly

Snow has me thinking

about the tight white mantle

keeping summer warm.

Absent sound, without flurry,

I dream of undressing her.

Manifesto (my laptop attempts a poem on its own)

We always write about the moon.

Why shouldn't we when it rises,

like a big orange Caesar -

hailed by the armies of bare

trees under winter's blush.

We always write about the moon,

her smooth yellow arc across

darkening amaranthine.

I always want to tear the cover off,

pry it open with a blunt screwdriver;

peer inside to the clockwork

and the fulcrum that balances pain on sting.

I need to know what is red about red,

what is wet about ocean,

and what is blood about sky.

We always write about the moon

because she has seen everything.

Xeriscape Your Zendo! (another abecedarian)

Although

believers

can delay

epiphanies

for gold,

heaven incurs

jealousy.

Kings, like men,

need only

platitudes;

Quaestors

require

sterile truth.

Unwelcome vain

waterings!

Xeriscape

your zendo.

pale rivers burning

pale

you seek

rivers

to quell the

burning

moon

a morning meditation inspired by early chinese poetry.

only broken in layers

the absurdity of birds, planes

trees, buildings, flying/ standing

broken

hips pants mind face

wood feathers brick steel

only

gravity / conceit of language

whips animal driven wheels

in layers

Winter's Clock

I fear winter's clock;

hands clench, work slows, seconds freeze,

the spring in recoil.

your fields, covered in snow, or

unbowed white chrysanthemum.

Until Compassion ~ inspired by Lily Yeh, Rwanda Healing Project

Until every new breath is taken

from the mouths of the dead,

bones of the slaughtered

are stacked like bricks for your shelters;

Until the blood of the children,

has watered the gardens,

flowers grass trees grow

on mounds of the murdered;

Until you have eaten

the mud and the straw,

washed clean your body

in the purple rivers;

Until clothes are cut

from flags of your enemies,

heads are covered

with their holy books;

Until history is carved

on your backs with machetes;

Until people paint dreams

on your fences and buildings,

tile shrines with their ghosts;

Until compassion pours down,

pools at your feet,

seeps into your socks

fills up your boots, covers

your knees, unsteadies your hips,

Until you can’t wade, can’t walk,

can’t swim, can’t go back to the sea,

Until an empty lot is endless resource,

your darkest devastation is transformation;

Until your weakness is equalized

by the hands of need;

Until compassion

secrets that bees tell

Secrets that bees tell

to clover and sunflowers

reappear as gold

trading hidden histories,

we taste only the ransom

The Desert of Zen

Zen -

Your Xeric

Wasteland, Vaguely

Understood,

Transcends

Shadows.

Rain-soaked

Queries/

Parched

Orations

Never Mingle.

Liberation Keens / Justice Inhales

Humility,

Grateful

For Every

Desert Cactus

Blooming

- Abundant.

upsidedown abecedarian / zyx