The Porter

The fresh suited man
Looked toward the
Old and tattered man
That was the porter.
He began talking
And asked his only
Question of the night:
“Porter, where does
This train go from
Here? Does it stop
In St. Louis or go
On down further
To New Orleans?
I need the ride to
St. Louis but a trip
To New Orleans
Might not be so bad.
I could get some
Decent Cajun food
Anyhow.” Then, the
Old porter’s eyes
Stared to swell as
He looked over his
Own tattered suit.
He pulled out his
Old, rusted pocket
Watch and gave it
A good once over.
A little ashamed, the
Porter just looked
Down and was still.
He was sad and was
Waiting to answer
Until he couldn’t
Cry. “I’m not sure,”
He said with a soft
But frowning smile,
“I don’t know where
This train goes from
Here, and I’m sorry
I can’t be more help.”

Fresh Air

The fresh air
Is nice to
Breathe sometimes.
But my lungs
Can only
Hold so much
Of it at
Any one time.

So I breathe,
When I can,
But I leave
The rest for
Another
Day and hope
That it will
Understand.

The air should.
After all,
It stays here
While I am
Inside for
Whatever
Reason and
Can’t come out
To enjoy
It’s fresh thrall.

The Lost Mockery

Where doth that black magic pure
My hollowed heart away from sour words?
And when hence shall the swords of saviors pierce
That lovely flesh never worthy of any kiss?

What shame is learned in the loss of the lie
And how cane truth be returned to nobler supply,
When which that we contort is lost of all support
And the Goodman cometh with no found retort?

Thou shall feel the fire of a thousand suns’ tears
For the tyranny ran forth on this castle for years,
Let the colors of our scared flag cover you mighty grave
And the devil smile at the pleasant way you seldom behave.

Good curses are spoken with haste, so shall I make it.
When the good Lord blesses me, count me to take it,
That black magic scourge shall cower in shamed fear
When it doth realize I, the foretold hero, am finally here.

You lie to amuse those fiendish sorts
But I caught you and fought you and ended the mort.
I saved the day the way the wicked nights stayed
And in my path left children happy to have played.

Where doth that black magic pure
My hollowed heart away from sour words?
Not here for those gleaming dear departed
Have been sweep away; alone and outsmarted.

When You Walk

When you walk down the hill
On the sidewalk, from the parking lot
Under that cold November sky,
Please remember that I offered
You a scarf to cover your
Face because I knew that
The wind would be biting
At your face even though
It would be at your back
Walking down hill.

But when you come back home
That hard grey sky will be
Closer to your cold and
Blistered face from the slant.
You should have taken my
Scarf. Now you will have sore
Legs and a Fall weathered
Face
When you come back to me
Walking up hill;
Back to me so I can
Heal your cold and blistered
Face.

As the Train Tunnels Down the Track

As the train tunnels down the tracks
It sounds like wind howling back
To the car horns and gentle breeze
Of this untypical warm fall evening.

The yellow glares of head lights relax
As cars gather with less darkness to attack.
And the railroad crossing brightens with such ease
That trains, cars, and crossings become silly things.

As it gets later the chill on checks grows
And blood surfaces for an even redder nose.
The warm front falls to the cold of the season
And the train ends seemingly without reason.

The cars pass over the tracks as traffic flows
And red tail lights run away in couplet rows.
The trek of the train has merely just begun
But in cars time is counted just for fun.

A Leak

Slip, Slip
The porcelain dip
Captures all
The drops.
down, down
The darkened drain
Swallows the
Long and small.
loud, Loud
The faucet falls
into the
hollow basin.
Slip, Slip
The seconds tick
Towards the
Early morning.

Pearls and Whiskey

Pearls are white and round.
Their value remains sound.
When they are worn
New chances are born
For women to look
So elegant and classic.

Whiskey is warm and tan
And feels nice held in hand.
When the drink it done
The party is just begun
And the young night
Refuses to yield to time.

People are broken and strange
When they are forced to rearrange
From the night before,
Trembling and sore,
Bust still so elegant,
And still so classic.

Water Faucet

The sound of water falling from a faucet
Is not the sound of a flowing waterfall.
Simply, it is the sound that water makes
When it falls into a sink from a faucet.

The Bleachers and Grass

The soft slated metal of the bleachers,
With their silver slates dug into the ground,
Absorb all the sun before the field,
And only cast shadows on the ground.

The field grass glistens wet and green with dew,
With drops dangled from every blade,
And where it is painted white it stays the same,
Shining in the sun with every blade.

Past the grey fence of the arena the bleachers stare back
Into the end zone and all around the track:
Bright red, soft gravel and dulling white lines,
The grass, grey, bleachers, and track.

At night at the game the stadium lights glare
Off of the plastic looking grass and players,
All covered in what lingers of competition,
The grass is on the field and under the players.

Hag Wants City

That old hag sure is tired
Of keeping those chickens clean.
She rather go out and be hired
To drive a long black limousine.

The dirt of the farm
Keeps her scrubbing.
But it won’t cause any harm
If the farm player stops strumming

Life goes on away from cows
And the stars smile so pretty.
Life goes on away from sows
And the stars smile in the city.

Early in the Morning

Early in the morning,
Suddenly, without warning,
I found a gift at my feet
Where my paper awaits on the street:

Some small bird,
Of whose name I had never heard,
Was crimson and twisted,
Broken and blistered,
Stiff against my news.
Awkwardly, I stared toward my shoes

Than walked into the house.
My cat had grown tired of its squeaky mouse
And decided bigger game was key.
But I didn’t mind, as the gift was for me.

I just hosed off the mess
Of fetid feathers and torn flesh
And made sure to pet Moe a little more,
To show her that I was not sore.

Summer Progress' Memories

Away from the houses
And side streets, purged
From the love of the
Tight sprawl of suburbs,
Are the mangled bits
Of construction yards,
Filled with yellow metal
And the hopes of a softer
Feel than the force of
Creation and Destruction
That currently progresses.

Fences abound around
The quant backyards,
Keeping in Barb-bee-qs
And the kids’ pool parties.
The vibrant green grass
And hyper dogs learn
To depend on their
Constant summer memories.

White pickets fade to
Warning yellow tape
And bright orange
Plastic gates; progress
Is an ugly duckling.
Shoveled dirt is piled
To be steam rolled
And the smell of poured
Concrete is nice, but
The vandalism of wet
Cement is such a soft
Childhood memory.

Long live the era
Of feigned manifest.
Our destiny was
Fulfilled ages ago
So now all we have
Left is our silly sort
Of modern progress.

Tire

Hard gunmetal steel,
And thick black rubber:
Dirty with grease and
Grime, lies in the well
Waiting to be plucked,
Screwed, and twisted
Into place where the
Old, flat, and useless
Tire now hangs: stuck.

The smooth and sharp
Black jack raises the
Frame and the deflated
Old, flat tire comes up
Off of the gravel. And
The jack grinds rocks
Under the weight of
The heavy older model.

The pages of the Manual,
Rectangular and tan,
Flip in the breeze
Away from the page
That told just how
To do everything
The right way.

On and secure,
The smaller spare
Will do for the
Short, quick trip
Downtown to the
Mechanic’s shop.

Screen Door

The mother of pearl
Screen door is pushed
Open and creeks from
The rusted hinges grinding.

The screen bends out,
To support the weight
Of the opening hand,
All grainy and wired.

The door slams behind
Whoever just left from
Wherever and bounces
Back from the frame hard.

The metallic thuds and bumps
Fill the air on either side
Of the door and air passes
Through the graded screen.

Eventually it stops bouncing
And the thin door is silent.
The black metal handle waits
To be used, but everyone

Always pushes on the screen.

Where is my Ring?

Sliver shinning loop
Upon my lonely finger,
I toss and tremble
In utmost terror
When, I fear,
I have lost your splendor.

Have you rolled across the floor,
Or bounced upon the desk?
Have I hid you in my drawers,
Or taken you off for something more?

My sore stained finger
And callused bit of palm
Of course, will always remember
The place where you wore along.

My ring, my circle,
My sparkling bit of wealth,
Return to my naked hand
So I may again feel like myself.

Moths Flutter Gray

Moths flutter gray in the humid summer air
Against the deep purple sky of midnight.
They fly towards lights to sooth the need;
(But candlelight can kill with the greatest ease.)
They wisp and whirl towards the horizon’s soft curl,
Now, draped in the deep purple sky of midnight.

Blue and White Vase

Blue and white vase,
Undisturbed on the table,
Sitting against the black
Lined grain on the chestnut desk.

Long brown stems
Growing from a blue and white vase
With pink and white flowers
That sag the stems under their weight

Pink and white petals
Falling onto a black lined brown desk
Are blown and whirl in the air
But fall to the black lined, wood planked floor

Peach and textured walls
Are the background of the blue and white vase
And are dull behind the pink and white flowers
But soft across the black lined chestnut desk.

How Shallow, How Hollow

How shallow, how hollow
How deep, and how full
Can sorrow, can tomorrow
Can the newest grave grow?
Should tears, should sobs
Should wretches and should pains
Define the hurt that persists
When her sun is hid by the rain?

To stand, to watch
To look, and to remember
Those glory filled months
They’ve had since the Summer.
Her face, her skin
Her eyes and her peace
Are all that remains
In our search for release.

I carried, I held
I cried, and I ached
But it was nothing
When I look back
To how the earth quaked.
She returned, she left
She’s gone, and we miss
Her soft kiss, Her soft touch
Now gone, away from us:
To reminisce, To blush
To remember, To hush.

A Fair Ride

The twisting, wrenching pull
And all the bedazzling lights:
Bright blues and piercing reds
That blurred with the shining emeralds
And all of the burning oranges.

The blaring music
and thumping beat
Propelled the ride along
faster like the flashing lights:

Making every other moment a snapshot.

The wind tugged at my face and limbs
While my eyes stayed ahead
Of the mechanical spinning and swaying.
The painted background
of the ride heaved
To and fro
With each passing rotation.
First near then far.

My feet dangled beyond the fitted seat.
The hard plastic firm underneath me,
Steady and sure and unchanging
Unlike any other part of the ride.

The harness let me loose but pulled me back,
I felt danger but under the guise of slack.
I was a child in the ocean with its mother,
Swimming and vulnerable,
But not allowed to go out in the water too far.
The ride flowed, the riders rode the wave of excitement.

It ended too soon I am sorry to say.
But on solid ground I still will diz and sway

Light the Candles

Light the candles and pour the wine and
Love the candies and patterned chime and
Live the cozy and postured crime of
Lamenting corruption proctored in rhyme.

Scrape the mud off of dirty shoes and
Steal the muster from doubted clues and
Strip the mask off a dreary muse that
Smiles at meat that dogs refuse.

Dawn the dagger and spare the bud and
Doubt the danger and spill the blood and
Dig the ditches that spur the flood which
Drenches the dealers and spoils their mud.

Forget the fragrance the old flowers showed and
Fein the fulfillment that the forefathers owed and
Fight the fires of the fragmented mode that
Forge on flakily through the fretted bestowed.

If the crack of the words is muted and
If the castes of the world are routed and
If the course of the wake is well-suited then
In the cure of the war we are saluted.