Consider the White Bucket*

The idea of it is odd at best. Round, hollow bucket of air and plastic, a flat bottom with a ridge on one side and lidless nothingness on the other. The belly, like some parody of starvation, like the open mouth of a baby hippo waiting for something more. A plain poem in three dimension only upside down simplicity. I tried to play a stick on it one time once between my heels, back slouched over, tongue squeezed between my teeth like Michael in the air. I become an unheard of contradiction: a monkey in Juliard. Ah, but for all that, we find evidence of the bucket soul in the most unlikely places. Once at a subway stop, deep beneath the city, a dred-locked sweaty drummer sat at my stop and played the rhythm of the soul of life, love, and passion. His spirit beat forth through all of the cliches. It seemed like the bucket had life and breath and heart beats. It walked with me, danced with men in tribal elegance, gave time a pace to click with, passed the air by into the dark urban jungle. For a moment we all lived in time- the whole station: the patrons waiting for the El, the newspaper man dozing in the corner, the rats in the corner, the rails and tiles leading our descent. Everything was pure and rhythmically suspended like the second hand about to move but hesitates marking time.

Here & Gone

This is for the life never told,
Uttered on lips yet never boldly,
Not a word has been written nor a sound sent forth.

Knit together only to be laid to rest,
Brought to the light only to fade to dust,
In memoriam we bow and stand before what we knew not.

Gone is the life only poets enjoyed,
Gone is the rhythm said once in time,
This is for the poem whose life was but a wisp.

Circles & Squares

Circles and squares
Circles and squares

Cha-Cha on the dance floor
Lovers in the darkened corner
Sipping at the table
Leaning in the chairs

Circles and squares
Circles and squares

Ducking through the doorway
Eyeing the women on the wall
Smoked-lined wisps high in the air
Above the band rocking in time

Circles and squares
Circles and squares

The sun climbs and peeks into the sky
Night folds its blanket and tucks into sleep
Diners at breakfast with steak and eggs
Bouncers asleep in the back corner bed

Circles and squares
Circles and squares

An Exercise in Humility

I don't like this exercise; it is exhausting to work. My mind is cramping and my body shakes, yet I follow instructions and patterns I make. "This is torture," I scream, and I finish the task. I feel like a toddler, and infant indeed. "Why write with my right," I huff and I plead.

The Day of Joy

Shiny, wrapped, with bows on top,
big and small, round and robust,
These are for me. The family waits
patiently to see my smile and my beam.
A king's day for me, they wait
on me to see my dream.
How did they do this for me?

My dad must have been young then,
working hard and bearing burdens,
sitting with mom. They must have
planned this for months.

It is harder to believe the years
that followed. The gifts turned to meals,
a tree barren below. His face hardens from
two shifts at work. Her eyes soften with
sorrow from time away from home.

I still remeber the carefree feeling. Not so
vivid now in the time of need. Meals so become
verbal nods. He is rarely there, but what has
he to show? She's asleep from the night's fight
in the grind. Dinner is on me. Dinner is for me.

They still live in Dallas, renting
and working. Free time is rare and
the phone rarely silent. Many owed,
too many spent. I still wonder how
they did it- built a pyramid for a
king and painted the day joyful.

Whenever I visit, I ask again,
"We don't know," they say. Eating
and sleeping and watching TV, the
phone rings ever so softly in the
other room.

A Memory From Childhood

One hot and dry noon day with a bit of
a breeze. I'm in the wheat. Rays melt my shirt
with my skin. The flower faces the sun.

It's Nanna's house. It holds three rooms.
It feels more like one when she's around.
Smoke filled and oppressive when she is around.
There is no exit.

The matriarch, with smokers lung is
thundering. Old and crooked in her
house coat. She eats cottage cheese
from a bowl.

Mom stands between her past
and future. Peaches she has. It will be
a small meal for three. This summer is
peaches and cottage cheese.

One hot and dry noon day with a bit of
a breeze. I'm in the wheat. Rays melt my shirt
with my skin. The flower faces the sun.

The Wrath of Grapes

Again, creeping, nose around the corner first
The Bear is gone, alone I thirst
Alone I tremble, alone I shake, there is a prize to take.

Moved to the kitchen quick as a flash, skirting the corners very fast
Barren inside the trunk of a tree, to the icebox I go to open and see
My eyes spy beside the milk, carrots, cabbage, and cheese
The bowl of grapes so plump, so green.

As a nymph to a woodsman, they call my name
My share is gone, devour the rest, save not even the best
Hidden in my corner so no one can see
Sucking and seeking the treasure of treats.

Inhaling, swallowing, never enough, never ending
My breath becomes baited and sated
One turns ten, ten turns thirty, thirty and none.

Moaning, groaning, pot-bellied beast
Ate their share and spared none for more
Drunk, sunk, the smallest twitch
Alone, I have set my trap, Alone, will feel the wire snap.

His car! He's home! The Bear is home
Barely breathing hearing his voice
Tired, hungry, his treats, his choice
Anger and screams, He's mad it seems.

"What the hell," he growls
"Where're the damn grapes?"
One stem, left in the open, cold and alone.

Door shut, hidden on the floor
Traitorous hands and Judas stains
Whispering "It is me," trap sprung
No matter, never again will I eat the honey to taste dung.

Last Night

You went to bed tonight
to sleep with a pain cut deep.

An arrow of long ago still pierces
An affair of madness continues to remind you of sadness.

"You reap what you sow,"
that I have been told.
But does the crop ever die?
Does the plant lose its roots?

I went to bed shortly after
drowned in regret, not laughter.

I held you close, but you didn't know.
Heat between us is a warmth of just us from here on out.

"All will be okay,"
so they say.
Does the hole ever heal?
Does the forgiven forget?