The Poet, She's a Wicked Pal

THE POET, SHE'S A WICKED PAL

The poet has no friends
but words,

smooth vowels that move
some imaginary One.

She feels akin to a pause
caused by a dash --

just so, you know,
the dramatory breath.

She cavorts with commas,
makes love to license that,

like incense, rises to her muse
to say that it's okay to use

like or as a thing,
like dramatory breath --

or dramatary-- come to that,
from just a whim.

She thinks of them,
letters, sounds, and breath,

the Someone and the Muse,
when writing about death

and still at other times
when feeling most alive.

The poet, she's a wicked pal,
you know, when you consider

how her only loves are those
who do her will the most.

Tramp Down Road

Tramp Down Road

Tramp Down Road,
it's a grassless path,
worn and weary
even of itself.
Jostles your bones
when you take that road.
Ask any gal who's been there,
she will tell you
it's a walk all day
and then some,
squalling, worthless,
down in the back road.
It's a work your fingers
to the weary, weary bone road.
Look behind and look ahead.
Poor girl says it don't never end
once you're on it. You're in then,
far as you can see,
you're in all skin and weary,
that's you forever walking
on that push down
Tramp Down Road.

Poplar Creek

Poplar Creek

Rocks covered with moss,
rough bark I scratch
against my palm,
the swarm jousting
in a patch of light
that sneaks beneath the trees,
the inimitable sound
of water fleeing
over sand and stone,
the silly smile I wear
when wandering alone
as a child wears
when hoarding secret treasure,
the need for pen,
for words, for record,
the small winged thing
that rides inside with me
when I come
to tell my pleasures.

Seeing the Signs

Seeing the Signs

Between the stoplight at the intersection leading into town
and the office where I spend my day on Courthouse Hill,
this morning, for some reason unknown to me
except that maybe I'm awake to it, maybe I'm not lost
somewhere as often I am on these familiar roads,
wondering at the end how I came this far,
or maybe it's nothing so profound; maybe it's just that I clearly see,
between the light and the hill, the signs--
Clip 'n Curl, Kingdom Hall, Baby Face, Fueled on Juice,
even one that says it's one mile into town,
as if, on this narrow road, you couldn't see or
there were any other place you'd go.
I can't help but think when I see these signs,
of our need to say, Here I am. Look at me.
See me. Need me. Buy me. Love me. Me.
and then I look in the mirror at my red lips
and know these for my signs. Know the me I want to be.
In the yard just before I left for work,
I saw a single beam of sun break through the trees
and streak across the grass to light a poplar trunk
from the ground up through the central branches
to the parachute of limbs. A single line of light,
a sign as sure as any, an announcement: Here I am.
Know me. Believe me. See me. Me.

Those Who Have Fallen Asleep

From those who have fallen asleep

To those who endure endless night,

Shadowed treasures to keep

Of those who have fallen asleep.

The dark hides the wounds so deep

Left by souls in their flight

From those who have fallen asleep

On we who endure endless night.