I visited Ground Zero in Lower Manhattan today
to see if poetry had taken root, like fireweed,
among the cracks in the rubble and the dead.
Instead I heard the voice of a friend
Who reminded me that
the study of death
and dying teaches
And so I stood, empty handed,
again, without the grace
For dVerse Poetics
First we randalled the cattle into the barn,
sort of like wrangling, but longer, leaner,
maybe more handsome too, milking it all
with my stainless steel machine,
Later a calf coming but too large,
so reaching in and chaining its fetlocks,
slippery steel in hand heaving, braced
against the post birthing a bull
they name Randall. The bellowing
of steel, milk and pull.
For dVerse Poetics
Measure twice, cut once.
Treasure twine, split for nonce.
We’re but measured mice, cut slack.
Life’s a maze, amazed, we’re lost, we lack.
What blaze lights your path, the muse of riches?
For love nor money, wager stitches.
Worn red or black, a gamble’s set.
The eyes throw down a heavy bet.
Witless guise, weight of pride, all mulish.
Penny-wise, pound foolish.
For dVerse Twisted Adage
I grew up on Jasmine –
which should make for a poet
or maybe a florist,
or at least why I have allergies
We moved to Florence
but alas I could not find
the statue of David
anywhere behind the shrubs
I guess that’s the way of it –
there were never any groves on Grove
or luminous promises
Though I’ve hung the signs
“Life” and “Death” overhead
I hope you will forgive
this shabby poet’s corner
For Tuesday Poetics
While squinting at the graffiti scratched on the valve of this urinal, I decide I am overdue to consider Dustin Hoffman. Probably because the guy next to me sort of looks like Dustin Hoffman, and because I am in the Port Authority bus terminal in New York City, so Midnight Cowboy et. al.
Most recently I thought about Dustin Hoffman when I helped with my wife’s 6th grade scavenger hunt in the Central Park Rambles – supposedly to evoke survival in the wild. Central Park was the best we could manage. I suggested that better survival training would be to give all the kids a blanket and a knife and no money and teach them to panhandle. Nobody thought that was funny.
I hoped maybe we would see Dustin Hoffman because he lives near the park. But there was only a homeless guy, and the kids shared their macaroni and cheese with him. We gave him a big tub of macaroni leftovers to dole out to the other homeless people who live in the park. The kids voted our outing “the best field trip ever”, there’s that.
Maybe the homeless guy was Dustin Hoffman, disguised so that he can go out in public and nobody bother him. Like his Ratso Rizzo character in M.C., but maybe this time he doesn’t have to die on the bus from NY to Florida. Here in the Port Authority it smells like bus exhaust and like the bathroom hasn’t been cleaned since 1969, so maybe like death too.
The Port Authority is still dangerous because nobody has figured out how to make bus travel upscale and hipster and boutique and artisanal like the rest of Manhattan. Yet I think the cities and towns where these buses go are much more dangerous now. Meth and OxyContin in Des Moines, Toledo, Birmingham, on and on through the lifeblood of America. That keening sound from the wheels of the bus metastatic with loss.
Quo Vadis Dustin. Quo Vadis Ratso.
For dVerse Poetics
Cornered by names and dates
Birthstone is granite,
Emptied of time,
But filled with hollow.
By custom, kill a ram
And spill its life
Over the foundation
Measure the shadow
Of a stranger
And bury it underneath
Like a soul.
By such adornment
Mark us present.
Inspired by dVerse Poetics: Birthstone
You can make your own holy water
I found the recipe online,
And there’s a good YouTube video
Basically, all you need is
Water, salt (if you want a hint of tears)
And a kitchen bowl.
There’s one really tricky bit
And I didn’t follow everything about
“Multiplying loaves and fishes”,
But I think it’s just a matter
Mix the salt and water
And speak over it
That which you find in your heart
Or you can skip
The water and salt and bowl.
Just look in your heart
Those around you
With your love.
d’Verse Poetics – Blessings
I don’t think my poem
Can keep you alive.
If a river of woe
Overruns your banks,
Will not be enough.
I will do my best
To sit with you
And watch the sunrise
One last time.
Maybe you will hear my whisper
That you were never alone.