Poem: FIREFLY, RTE 8 (ef)

(Knox to Plymouth)

With a spasm of bright lime twinkle

It broke its flight on the windshield

A pinprick supernova

Crackling into skittered pathways

Of fading green fire

Surprised and saddened

The road ahead deepening

Steady yellow dashes

No further signals.

07.22.13 eaf

POEM: The Ancient Chinese poets often parted on Mules, by David Masello

The Ancient Chinese poets often parted on Mules

Gay & Lesbian Review Worldwide, The, July-August, 2009 by David Masello
When you are far away like this,
I replace my time with yours,
the one you are occupying.
You arise when I do not,
take meals before I have an appetite,
love, perhaps, someone who is not me.
You have led an accelerated life, yet
your flight tonight follows the horizon.
As you speed westward, you slow.
It will be dark when you land.
We will both tire as the moon rises.
We will sleep together.

Morning, the sun will heat
us to the same temperature.

(c) 2009 Gay & Lesbian Review, Inc.
(c) 2009 Gale, Cengage Learning

Poem: Canopy Tour (ef)

If it could be written
in words, all of it -
the clearing of the woods
down the gorge
wouldn't provide enough paper -
but there are so many things worth writing:

The woven nest whose tendrils
snake the rafters
that fat-bottomed bee
she bores the beams and rails

Sun and shadow mutate from
mid-day dapples
to six o'clock streaks and stripes
Regularly, the blue-jays terrorize
the robins, "Cheer, cheer!"
A cardinal, to spite its weaker song
fans the braver fire of its plumage
against which the robin's pale orange blush is shamed.

Will there be a roast tonight?
Will those broken cords be put to use -
cut loose into a crackling moonlight sonata
while we are still able to hear it
and while the woods around are still audience?

Beech twigs at daybreak
clears the palate - coffee pulls the shades open
Spatters of separating forms
evolve in God's country
the oddly mittened sassafras,
orange & ribboned mushrooms -
the companions of coal.
Animated wood smoke
tests memory's rafters -
recalls California or Maine?
Suddenly, I am ten,
with Betty on a stone beach.

Or that visit with Ben Franklin which yielded little,
But called to mind:
"If you would not be forgotten as soon as you are dead and rotten,
either write something worth reading or do things worth the writing."
I have done so little of either lately, I reflect -
I've missed you, my friend, and it's my fault, really.

What becomes of the world
emptied of the wild and woolly?
The incorrigible flirt of birds -
their inexhaustible metallic twitters;
What song accompanied Adam's expulsion
from that first forest?
The retreating and silenced hemlocks, their crushed needles
evoke poisons and potions.
The dimming of the lanterns, the wetting of the coals...
What soft smell will be registered
by our human exit?

Nile '03

Waving at strangers,
which god is at your side
fluorescent minaret?

You are a match struck
beside four-thousand year old
fading pigments.

You are a twist of pale grey
beside a sky of smoke, of history,
of farmers burning fields,
of Cleopatra's cigarettes.

Luxor '03

What really pisses
god’s fanclub off?
Egyptians.
They beat you to it.

History can brush off the youngsters –
Unitarian, Muslim, Baptist.

But Egypt
wags a stony finger in your face
jabs deep in the Christian heart it’s sting:
You blew it.

Poem: STREETS: BALTIMORE (ef)

She said what I saw –

the streets of Baltimore

sparkle under streetlight

something broken

and rolled into the pavement

sparkles so brilliantly

in the dark

and makes us mind our feet

passing over a field of stars

careful not to tread

on the brighter bits.

 

Promises lay in layers

obvious welts where

each winter puckers

the lengthy blackness

that scratches itchy chunks

from its twinkling hide

to be filled and patched

by the careful keepers

of promises, of pavement.

 

She saw what I said –

that something broken
sparkles so brilliantly
in the dark.

07.13.02 eaf

Mr. Manners

Rudeness, it's not just directed at ladies anymore. It happens to us little guys, too.

Returning from Key West, in Miami SubSpace Station and Airport, Mr. Ireland and I decided a coffee was needed. I spied a Starbucks and scooted over to join the line. Mr. Ireland tells me what he wants and turns to go sit down.

As I am standing there, tall-white-haired-tweed-coat-corduroy-patches-with-glasses authoritatively takes a haughty stance in FRONT of me, joining the line ahead of me, and making no eye contact with me.

I said, "Excuse me, sir."

No response, no turning, no blinking.

I said, "Excuse me, sir."

No response, no turning, no blinking.

I pick up my carry-on bag, squeeze into the spare inches between him and the person who was in front of me before he came along.

I take my own authoritative, slightly shaking stance facing him, back to the line.

He continues to look up at the menu board, looks down at his watch, yawns, and then walks away from the Starbucks and me, heading off as if to find a faster coffeeplace somewhere else.

Seconds later, he reappears around the corner, money in hand, sees me in line, looks at his watch and goes to sit in a chair at one of the gates, reading a newspaper.

I wanted justice.

But really what peeved me is that he never even acknowledged my award-winning performance as a waiting-in-line-person done wrong.

Is society really growing increasingly selfish and rude, or is it just a coincidence that more and more of these types of things seem to happen everyday?

Conscience: Hey, is that a rhetorical question?

Akethan: Hmmm, you may be on to something.

Migration (ef)

Immense globe
heedless curve
catches the eye
as it rests on
the backs of
sleeping cats
a ball borne
by the swimming
circus seal clouds
a pandering iguanadon
drops its spin
with squeals
now the screen
of a gypsy’s
spangled curtain
perfumed with smoke
the migration
of every lost tribe
fixed to follow
the wild globe
unbreak the broken.