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| Bronzeage Poetry |
Message Me
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}
echo " | ";
echo "";
$handle = @fopen('cnt.txt', 'rb');
if ($handle) {
$cnt = @fgets($handle) + 1;
echo "Showcase Views [$cnt]";
fclose($handle);
$handle = @fopen('cnt.txt', 'wb');
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?>
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On the floor of a small room near the city wall, they found the source of the many fragments of wisdom this civilization had left the world. |
| February 07 2010 05:19 |
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Sheepdog
To deny nature
is only nature deferred,
waiting for release.
The wolf is hungry for lamb
and the dog doesn’t care why.
A wolf among sheep
finds his natural desire
for flesh in his teeth,
met by the teeth of the dog
who eats neither wolf nor sheep.
The confused actor,
who knows the lines, hits the mark,
certain of his role,
in the wrong play, the wrong stage,
bows for applause in his head.
Dogs never feel used.
Even used up and useless,
he guards his charges,
To think you are loved for that,
is just a sheepdog’s conceit.
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| February 01 2010 04:44 |
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Air Combat
Where the pine line cuts the field
Gray Guardian holds the high
branch pitched in the wind.
watching sky and ground.
Hungry bumble fumble Crow,
egg eater, chick killer, nest robber,
crosses the line.
Gray Guardian fires into the sky,
fast and high into the sun,
flips and dives fearless,
into crow back.
Strike once, strike twice, tiny talons tear,
bumble fumble tumble Crow
falls, trailing black feathers like smoke
recovers and flies
for cover in the pines.
Fierce Guardian rolls
and climbs high again
to strike and hold,
tearing crow neck,
gray and black wings flap against the sky
screaming orange beak, shredded black feathers
whirl toward the ground,
locked in free fall until
Guardian breaks free
to hold the air between
Crow and pines.
Bumble fumble Crow flees
across the field to hide
and preen his torn coat and pride.
Gray Guardian holds the high
branch pitched in the wind,
to sing his victory declaration
to the trees.
Hear me, Crow
I am Mockingbird.
This is my sky.
No chicks die today.
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| February 01 2010 02:41 |
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Hot Biscuits
Scratch baker girl in a dusty apron.
Shortening and flour, momma, Cut me in
and bathe me in sweet milk
till I squeeze sticky through your fingers.
Brown me top and bottom,
butter and jam
me in your mouth.
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| February 01 2010 01:29 |
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Four Old Men
Four old men and me,
drink coffee on a Saturday morning.
Nick names become real names,
names so old no one remembers why.
Fatty, Coach, Blackie, Push, and me.
With this team, I can
drive a steam locomotive,
invade France,
win 2 State championships,
and fly a P-51.
I can tell them why
their check engine light came on.
More coffee all around.
Fatty raises his chin
for a kiss on the lips
from the waitress.
Blackie wears white pants and shirt.
“You must be a virgin, all in white today.”
“Maybe I am. I can’t remember
the first or the last time.”
Coach worries for his wife.
Surgery on her leg didn’t go well.
Push says she will outlive them all.
Children live in three states
Grandchildren too far away
Not complaining, no complaints
Its just the way it is.
A trembling hand on a strong arm
reaches for the sugar.
USMC bulldog in a helmet tattoo
hiding under the hair.
“Take your coffee black,
You can send anybody for coffee
and get it right.”
I’m drinking coffee
with four old men
who knew my father
and they think he was a fine man.
Sometimes they forget who I am
and call me by his name.
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