poem spoken in a dream to a dead friend

I dreamt that I awoke
and you spoke
from the bedside gloom
“I know you
better than that.”

poem for boys around the world who follow their older brothers into war

In spring I sprang
upon
the spring he sprang
upon
the thing he sang
about
In spring I sang
about

In fall I fell
upon
the fall he filled
up on
the call he killed
for
In fall I fell
for

Poem written after watching an international news program

If people are nuts and bolts
then hate is rust
binding us together
and weakening us

The older the hatred
the more deeply sealed
the start of the rust
the end of the steel

poem using alternating octo- and heptosyllabic meters with bambuco-style extended rhyme scheme… and it’s spooky

On the brightest day of summer
his face remains in shadow
he seems to grow ever taller
the closer you draw near him
when he beckons with a finger
then you helplessly follow
although your fingers grow colder
you fear how much you fear him

like ropes that climb into darkness
his hair is long and knotted
one hand is bleached by the sunlight
as it reaches out for you
his clothes smell faintly of sulphur
and something old and rotted
as your hand comes up to meet his
it is cast in sunlight too

His breath sounds like something broken
a tractor dragging a chain
when your hands meet in the sunbeam
you can almost hear him smile
you’re silent but there is screaming
in the bottom of your brain
your heart rattles like a ratchet
in your mouth, the taste of bile

Your blood sings ‘you must resist him’
as the light dims behind you
but your feet carry you forward
as if they belonged to him
on the brightest day of summer
the dark days somehow find you
still your feet carry you forward
your blood sings a song of him.

Poem that describes the internal shine with internal rhymes

The face, smiling between space and brain,
invites inside light and rain to the head:
brighter, if no wider, than a spider’s web,
taut with shining dewdrop thoughts.

Every flitting twitch is pretty and bereft,
little is left when the dew is frozen brittle
into words, all that’s heard is the crack of broken ice:
the price of bringing night to the mind’s dewy light.

Poem written on an empty stomach

uramaki stuffed with avocado
barbecued salmon and tempura yam
vanilla ice cream with fudge sauce
mom’s strawberry jam

hot black tea in the morning
with a plateful of fried potatoes
sweet tea iced to perfection at noon
french bread with melted cheddar and tomatoes

banana waffles drizzled with syrup
spaghetti thick with veggies and wine
french fries buried in chili and cheese
pickles in a sour-sweet brine

cherry pie hot from the oven
porridge with brown sugar and milk
purple plums plucked straight from the tree
chocolate pudding smoother than silk

whole wheat toast with cinnamon and butter
onion rings caked with panko crumbs
chocolate-covered australian ginger
sweet crumble with apples, pears, and plums

baked or fried or fricaseed
warmed or burnt or chilled
just like an open mind is never empty
an adventurous stomach is never filled

Poem describing the actual dream from which I just awoke

I dreamt that we took a taxi
the bald russian treated us like thieves
the highway was covered with hats
all emblazoned with maple leaves

the russian kept clicking his stungun battery
“now it’s dead” he said *click* “now it’s alive”
I memorized the taxi’s registration number
one-seven-E-A-one-five

the russian insisted it was a real gun
my friend, soto voce: “Leave it alone!”
I scoffed: “SG makes real guns now?”
“besides,” I said, “I can smell the ozone”

the driver pulled into a construction site
then into a place too dark to see
under my breath I chanted:
“one-seven-E-A-fifteen”

Poem with obvious provenance

insert control: shift delete
consume fight steal compete

alternate end: enter home
give feel wonder roam

pause break: function escape
start over erase the tape

Poem that divides one moment from the next

the clocks all show different times
hours unmarked, seconds roll by
pendulums pause in mid-swing
measuring nothing

the minute hand is stuck on the hour
the cuckoo retreats to her bower
the mainspring has come unwound
without a sound

Poem found beneath the washing instructions

All shirts should have snaps
all shoes should be jelly
suspenders should look nice
regardless of your belly

Trousers should flatter
both short legs and tall
hell, we should be perfect
wearing nothing at all