The sound in the night

The sound in the night

that pulled you from your bed
that sent you creeping
stealthy, stealthy
that raced your heart
so that the quiet house
became a task you could not bear,
that sound, that jarring sound
that ominous sonorous thundrous sound,
that sound in the night
that set you weeping,
it was the other shoe that dropped.

Overflow

You never know what a spring day will bring. You may begin the day in sunshine and end in pouring rain; the neighbor's tree may end up on your roof or you may feel the gentle breeze like a caress. Spring is a season of excess -- of color, of winds, of floods. NanU the Poetry Bus driver, has asked that we write about," Excess. Of Far Too Much. Of Going Over the Edge." Easy peasy. Think: spring!

This poem (and pictures) depict two consecutive days last week. Perhaps you can see a little more in it, as well:

OVERFLOW

One day you walk
along the soft sand bed,
climbing over fallen logs,
tossing rocks and bits of glass
where they were left some time ago.

The next, the rains pound down,
the bank won't hold, it overflows;
the field is sunk in swift and rushing brown
that wipes away all the sticks and stones
you've ever climbed or you have ever thrown.

After Gray Winter, Spring

 NanU is at the wheel of the Bus, and she wants us to talk about explosions. I've been assaulted with color, so this. You can read other poems here.











After gray winter, spring
erupts violet and green
explodes a golden flare
flashes blue as far as you can see
ruptures brown earth pink and purple
bursts hearts that drip magenta tears

I Am a Crooked Line

Actually, I'm a bad blogger! I haven't been around to read anyone's poetry lately, and even though I have all sorts of excuses, mostly it comes down to allowing living to take precedence over reading and writing. Yet, I miss the community here. I can't promise that I'll do better,but I can assure you that I want to! Right now, I feel like a crooked line. (Thanks to Poetry Bus driver Dana Bug for that thought.) Read on to see to what dark depths it took me, and read here to see where the other bus riders are going.

Don't forget to check out the TFE's World's Greatest Blog! You'll find PB1 and soon PB2 ready for your reading pleasure!

I AM A CROOKED LINE

I am a crooked line
Between life and death,

Nothing straight or narrow,
Though the tomb is dark.

Weeping, call me from this night;
Unbind, unwind the cloth.

I am the crooked line,
That runs from love to loss.

What is Beauty More?

 WHAT IS BEAUTY MORE?

What is beauty more
Than a reflection of desire,
A pool of light under the lamp
On a dark and lonely street?
What is a lovelier thing
Than that which completes --
The thought finished by a friend
Before your lips can form?
And what is truer joy
Than that which makes you cry,
A song torn from the throat
Of a bird who throws his heart to the sky?

Because I Must

It's nearly the end of March, and I haven't been on the Poetry Bus all month. The business and busyness of living have limited my writing and riding along with my poet friends. An email from the Bus Captain, the TFE, made me realize how I long to be among the great friends I've made here, and so I dashed off this little ditty (who uses that word?) because I must.

The bus is driven this week by Uiscebot, who gives us several orders for this week's poem. You can see them here or maybe just deduce them by reading the poem here...

BECAUSE I MUST

He said,
You can't go
to the moon,
and I said,
Fly me.

He said,
You can't go
home,
And I said,
Try me.

He said,
You mustn't
rhyme,
and I said,
Is it a crime?
Then give me
the time
to go home
and find
a poem or two
that shuns
the bright moon
or takes you away
to some other day
and to someplace new.

And he said,
That'll do.
Stop this right now
or I won't even link;
it's not worth the ink
or pixels or dots
it takes for Uiscebots
to put this drivel
on his blogspot.

So I sit idly by
and won't even try
to join this fun time
because I must rhyme.
Every time.

So there.


Now, go and read some real poems here. Enjoy the ride!

Chronic

CHRONIC

Children in the water
laugh and splash.
They circle and circle
round and round
like sharks.
I am vigilant, on the edge.
Danger! Danger!
I hear in my head.
I scan the scene for trouble,
scout sorrows yet to come,
watch for the dreaded undertow;
I guard, ready to run.

Parody

PARODY

My mother holds her cheeks for my inspection;
"Beautiful," I say, "just right,"
Glad that her old eyes cannot see
The lines that cross her face
Like a brand.
She is of an age with Marilyn and Liz
But without the surgeon's knife or early death
To freeze her in a frame.
I've heard that in her later years,
Elizabeth the queen froze herself with paste,
Turning a once fine face into a clown-like mask
Against whom none dare laugh.
I contemplate this now
As I paint my own beginning-to-fall face
And line my drooping lids with kohl.
I think it is no laughing matter;
Without the asp, would Cleopatra, too,
Have been this tragicomic parody of youth?

Red Fox

RED FOX

A swishing in the grass.
A small sharp face,
frozen in -- a snarl or a laugh?
Limpid golden eyes
that recognize.
A bushy beard
brushing behind,

and a bubble of joy within me
to share my place in life
with such a thing.
 

Sundays, We Pose

I'm early for the bus for a change. The conductor this week is none other than the Totalfeckineejit himself! TFE, as he is affectionately known by his acolytes, is the founder of the Poetry Bus line and editor of The Poetry Bus Magazine. As bus driver this week, he challenges us to write a fourteen line poem about one of four pictures or a song (here). Join us for a rollicking ride!

SUNDAYS, WE POSE

Sundays, we pose outside the gate,
facing the light in best dress,
three in knee pants, one in bows,
standing with our mother
and the dogs and cats du jour
or with the heavy aunts,
the card-playing sisters
who laugh throaty laughs
and smoke forbidden fags.
Dutifully, we squint
at the father husband brother
behind the black box
who waits for the light to be just right,
who will become for us a shadow on the ground.