crow

I am finally standing

In a place I can be still

My feet are roots

They are buried

Warm soil and the wheat

There are trees

There is fire

But no wind to kiss me

I stand above the thicket

I stand above

I stand firmly

I am alone

I remember your song on the radio

Sitting in your pickup truck

Only red

in the wood

But I saw you last night

In the crowd behind me

Guitarist on the stage

Only one

He was dancing

Then I wonder

If he felt alone too

Everyone dances

when he’s not in the room

Lewis Keseberg

imprisoned by snow

he is a victim

of the hungry mountains.

prayers, punctured by pines

fall back to sender.

smoke stopped in a bottle.

a howling stomach

moans–

take communion

misses donner, come closer

i'd like to warm your hands.

your hands, misses donner

your hands

a pair of sleeping pigeons

crushed by clenched teeth

swallowing fingernails and feathers 

savage hands, beat the earth

more steadily than heart.

VII Amendment

my name is a vessel

and you fill it

i empty

my sore locket

a letter finds a fulcrum

held by a counsel

of lassoed voice.

awaiting my mark

my fingers crinkle like paper

tucked in my pocket.

i hear all souls must pass

through god's needle

before they reach heaven

lucky me

i have a handful of eyes

for my thread to catch.

Housebreaker

When I can’t find the floor inside my head

A floorless room becomes a vapor

Soil so hollow, where is my bed?

Vacant palm, holds time to taper.

 

There is no moon, no fallen birch

The tide is come and chills the halls

What once was eave is now perch

Bubbling bare, behind the walls…

 

Fog cranes her neck and parts her lips

I draw the covers to my chin

Wallpaper begins to bow in strips

Sea foam, so long, the tide is in

 

Thunder breaks across my brow

My eyes swallow what space is left

Her face is mine, and she is now

Twisted loan, stretched air–bereft

 

How comes it so– we are the same?

Her eyes lay flat as lead

Her hatchet grin, my breath to claim–

Pours flour through my sieve instead

 

Powder dear, powder vast

The house’s hand is folded

Repose is come an avalanche

One corpse is lain where two were molded. 

White Buffalo, a Poem for Rob

a cover to keep

the cusp

a humming coil of static

tucked behind an ear

the last words are clipped

they cling, they stir

they choke

within a cloud who cannot adjust

to soak up the volume

of anything else but the weight

of an object held in awkwardness

 

when a burst of crickets breaks behind the mast

a lonely white buffalo

haunts the space between each breath–

a space we’ve always carried

but somehow never open.

 

and above our heads

there hangs a love

that has yet to be decoded

a pair of pearls

rattles inside

a tin can telephone. 

everyone has an affair in the pictures

cracker crumbs

and salt licked thumbs

grimy games smolder inside

a glass of champagne

from a dream i had

worn leather toes hugged by damp earth 

she leans to peer beyond the smoke caught in water

three white dragons; cataracts from the fourth dimension

pass like zeppelins...

the walking fish

walking fish.

you set sail

you jet wail

out of the bowl

and into the male

blue eyes and red scales

caught in my net

can't swim but still wet

you feel for the sky

and i'm all that you get

curled like a c

crescent of sweat

you flip onto me

sweet silhouette.

cupping my breath

caught in the glow

your tale is a map

not even you know

charting my moons

dropping your scales

you shower the dunes 

salt crystals to swallow

swept by your gales 

your name is apollo.

kitemaker

he was the longest to linger

when helium racers ran from untied fingers

mesmerized, his eyes carmelized

a secret twin running through the air

2 P.M. on a swooning afternoon

2 nightengales traded for a rusty spoon

sun pressed against a flag undressed

her shadows squealing on the sidewalk

when he slept he came alive

down gingerbread chimneys his soul did dive

combing for honey in street lamps

unclamps the hive, ghosts float in the glass

his brain a spool of film rewinding

visions of blouse sleeves living and dying

teetering on a fishing line of prayer

not there 

not there

not there 

it's the only time he can hear.

when spoken to, his hand is held

his half yearns to flee, the impulse quelled

his eyes, flickering neon signs, yell

not here

not here

not here

the pointer

His lines break our stilts

This blackened stork is balanced

With a single digit he divides a room

A corner around which we crane our necks

To catch a glimpse of this daring divider

We are caramelized with wonder

Charred man of dripping straw

Lingering inside certainty

As we hover in hoards

He tells curious entropic particles

"Keep traveling"

In a scale and language

That matches our own

First a net

Next an anchor

Now a compass

His index

Whittles the space

Reducing the roar of

Combatant mortality.

it's not rejection if it makes you feel great

thank you

for unhinging

unlatching

for a second–

detaching.

you pause my stutter

leaving behind

the warmth of my legs

your honesty

kisses my forehead.

i crane my neck 

in a room with no corners

where have you gone?

sleep

the soot of sleep is night's to keep; 

above your head swim angler fish

until your thoughts have time to steep–

they skid across a petri-dish

Primrose

Pressing petals against a rock

A door whose time cannot unlock

Crushed pulp and creased hands

An hourglass's double head, stands.

A door whose time cannot unlock

The unheard whisper of erased chalk

An hourglass's double head, stands

Before the keeper, is the bee that brands.

The unheard whisper of erased chalk

Following the ears of those who talk

Before the keeper, is the bee that brands

A cord to knot,  licks up demands.

Following the ears of those who talk

A busy hum does best to stalk

A cord to knot, licks up demands

And for truth, shreds the strands.

complaints...maybe im going crazy?

i have yet to write those 2 poetry papers

and those 4 other ridiculous poems.

prepare for major crap uploads, blog.

i am going to stuff your FACE.

no more water or eyes!

i need new material!

notes to save for future stories

ghosts/spirits trapped/born in trees of an ancient grove

can be found with a magic tuning fork.

the ghost of birch trees leaves white-capped mushrooms wherever she steps.

Soul Memory

drawn by the heat of an unrealized past

repelled by perfect hesitation, 

the imprints of scorned histories

they howl at two faces of the same coin,

feeding their frozen demons.

turning behind vanishing doors

eyelids-

trying to hide the street-lamp glow of 

the soul's flickering memory,

can't subdue the heart's swelling

for his eyes

and her eyes

lasso the ancient past

with each intersection.

TBC-what i wrote riding home from bwi

THE DRESS

        *

She carried her re-stitched red and blue backpack over to a mass of stony crags and crabgrass. Her ruffled white dress fit her like a kite, a windsock. It caught the wind like laundry usually does when put out on the line to dry. Like her backpack, her dress also carried subtle signs of wear and repair. In fact, if the dress had been found suspended from a wire hanger (for she was in many ways a wooden hanger herself) and was folded in half, one might mistake the dress for a runner, or table linen of some sort. Faded coffee crescents and tea moon halos freckled a small section of the dress' side. On the dress' back a cluster of four copper stars half-aligned themselves to form a marker, a constellation staining where once had been stuck a rusty safety pin to gather the excess fabric.

In the sand she pivoted and crouched like a paper crane beside the backpack. After unbuttoning and unzippering the sack, she reached inside and withdrew two cameras: one silver chrome and one which was mysteriously concealed beneath a stiff, but mouse-eaten leather case. Even with the two cameras removed from the bag, the sack's puckered contour suggested that there was still another camera or two hidden behind the familiarly firm folds. 

She wore the camel-case camera like a nymph might carry a quiver, and with one hand she cradled the lightly-frosted, silver camera just above her hip. With her other hand she locked her fingers in the crags' keyholes and descended the dune with as much poise as a Russian countess stepping down a winding Winter Palace staircase. 

THE BOY

        *

He was less like a honeybee and more like a dart when he held his camera. By the time she had chosen her cameras, he had already positioned himself, half-kneeling behind a large stone. The skin around his left temple gathered... like rain running from eaves  and into the gutter

clasp and curl

hair unfolds

like dye dropped

into water.

clasp and curl.

i am wet sand.

your imprint fills me with ocean.

My Body is a Bird-Bone Table

Two teacup saucers

Unaccompanied by their twin sisters

Might be topographically lacking

But, my–

Aren’t they lovely when set

On a bird-bone table.

 

Fragile to the eyes,

Her calcite buttresses

Cradle silver spoons and empty elbow-gloves

With a woodwind heart

You would expect it to crumble,

But on the contrary

It whistles sweet tunes

When in good company.

 

At the end of the table

A small knot remains unpolished

A drain to collect

Spilled tea and

The crumbs of unfinished sentences

Fallen from the mouths

Of anxious suitors.

On Writing Letters (Cont.)

languid liquid 

dissevers–curls.

insidious ink

vacuous–furls.

blot paper message,

carry my curio.

the edge

of my words

flicks you like wire

and I know

the holiest drop

is the one that seeps

through the parchment.

Wind and Weathervane (TBC)

A victorian weathervane

denies Wind's advances

revealing her copper cheek

she deflects his kiss.

He thrusts and whispers,

fingers failing to furl 

around her base.

And she,

pinnacle of perpetual pivot

cannot be beleaguered by Wind.

He evacuates from her presence

like a vapor.

And with a final pirouette, 

Weathervane releases a sigh.

The three particles of air

displaced by her breath

hum their way into Wind's ear.

Taunted by her song,

Reminded of his defeat,

He calls his sister, Rain.

Rain's glaucous cords lasso around

the sanguine dancer.

Usurped by rust,

Unable to catch the sun,

Quiescence quiets her pivots

and Wind may at last have his kiss.

Toss

I was mentally sketching a portrait, I think.

a shallow trough

collects the rain 

of your thoughts.

your brow is placid,

without an echo 

of a ripple.

what you cannot see

is that i am here 

behind you,

moist fingertips

tracing the ridges

of a single copper penny.

Robert A. Eckert

Aisle 1:

Prepackaged sanctuary.

Low-wattage lineage humming;

Slices of rubicund rubber glow.

Son of a dentist,

The other half of you is born

A product of Sinclair.

Nitrates illuminate your legacy,

Preserved in a refrigerator case

By the mark of your Kraft.

Randooooom

it's a shame

when your star

finds a nest

in the tiny pelt

of another poet.

what you're left with

is the feeling

that friday night

is monday morning.

TBC

languid liquid 

dissevers - curls.

insideous ink

vacuous- furls.

blot paper message,

carry my curio.

the edge

of my words

flicks you like wire

and i know

the best victuals are victorian.

Man and Moon

Your tides are rising

Filling, flowing, fogging,

The two disks you keep 

Unlock me.

Stagnant mood emptying

By the swell of the lunar cycle;

Your telling-beams suffuse,

Pouring into my vat

Rippling across the space

Separating your silver plates

From my heart's humming.

Addled by the moon's visit

I leave you in the gloaming.

seduced by wit

victorian at best.

these two lines just popped into my head.

i'll have to use them sometime later. 

-poof-

A Man's Moon Swing [To Be Edited in the Near Future]

Your tides rise

Filling, flowing, fogging,

Two disks unlock me

Stagnant mood emptying

By the swell

Of the lunar cycle

Your telling-beams suffuse,

Pouring into my vat.

Addled by the moon's visit

I leave you in the gloaming.

The Sensation of Drowning

The water in your eyes arrests me.

Falling, Climbing, Ending.

Stern as a Puritan

You mournfully creep

Into my well

And contain me in your look.

Smoky stares

Form an opium silk cross.

Swallowed by the daze of your pool

I gracefully descend

like ashes

thrown into the ocean.

Trickle

i just realized 

that my poetry is 

far too vague

nebulous

like cataracts.

i have a splinter. 

it's driving me to write.

sap between sheets of bark.

my words 

suspend in 

beads of

amber.

time to go to class.

i don't know if my words are preserved or suspended.

maybe later i'll know.

Confession from Yours Truly

Moving from description to action is an anxiety-ridden experience for me. I am a painter. After writing two successful descriptive sentences I always freeze, for fear of tangling myself up with the characters whose stories move too quickly in my head for me to catch up to. Do you ever feel that way? Do you ever feel like you have such a burning image in your mind, like a divine vision that you feel absolutely obligated to express? I’m working with one of those now and I want to continue, I must continue, but I want to do the absolute best job I can, giving souls to the characters that I channel. Anyone can spare a character a life, but a soul is an entirely different matter. I have a pre-adventure stress syndrome.  I’m afraid of tripping over myself, silly idiomatic expressions, and poorly articulated, half-edited details. Most of all, I am afraid my T.B.C’s will collect dust, and webby real estate.

2.

Several yards from where she was standing, Q. could see a blur of brightly colored forms arranging and rearranging themselves almost as beads do when placed in the barrel of a kaleidoscope. To say that the forms were beads in a kaleidoscope would be entirely inaccurate, for the mysterious blur of whatever-it-was or whomever-it-could-be, moved in such a way that was explicitly ethereal.

 

T.B.C… 

1.

The reading according to the maritime barometer (located on the wall, somewhere between the stairs and kitchen) indicated that there would be no snow today. K never paid any attention to the barometer's readings, and so the barometer, whether correct or incorrect in its predictions existed only as a decorative entity to occupy the awkward space between the kitchen and the staircase. 

T.B.C...