Wednesday, November 19, 2014

UPDATED: How the wind catches

UPDATED: Inserted a line to designate a new stanza.

In which we gain perspective on our day

The wind catches

How the wind catches
snow off a roof
and tosses it.
The thin flurry, the
gray, everywhere.
Ice on the edges.
Wearing cold like
a hair shirt.

He kneels in the sand,
an unseeing son.
The blade. The way
the wind catches the desert,
sky obscured.
Blood on the edges.
Wearing death like
a savior.

We're all too often

Saturday, November 15, 2014

En medias res

 Here find the Diet Coke, the TicTacs, the lip balm, the phone with a plaintive playlist on shuffle. The sticky notes featuring a crazy cat and a Friday afternoon to-do list. A couple of hours and that list will be crumpled up and thrown in the trash and the Diet Coke will be gone, But not yet. These things are small things and yet sustain us through these full and lonely hours, when we watch the brilliant sunlight of midday become the wan grey and thin snow of early evening. The window's framed between two monitors that hold a day's demands, a battlefield of uncertain outlook. I'm a reluctant general whose objective is suspect, for it results in completion -- and surrender. Soon I'll take my soldiers, and turn home.

Go get lost where no one can be found / Drink so long and deep until you drown

Wednesday, November 12, 2014

CORR: Look, there, beneath the trees

CORR: What was I thinking? Everyone wants to predict the future. Pay no attention to anything in this post.

Hide and seek

Twenty-nine degrees tonight when we went out for dinner. Just after six and sunset was a dark memory. Nobody believes in predicting the future except, well, futurists -- and meteorologists. Damn the meteorologists, because they predict a future in which I'm not interested. Yet that future can't be dismissed when the thermometer tells me it's here -- and true. The problem this November is, the future seems way too much like the past, doesn't it, Fort Wayne? Here winter is again, and I suspect that it never really left, that it lurked among us all summer, deep in the shadows of the trees in Freimann Square where we had ice cream at Buskerfest, hidden in the thin alleys between the downtown buildings where we wandered during Three Rivers, in the coolness of the old Nickelplate underpass on The Landing. Winter is coming, they said at Winterfell, but what they know at the Wall is more true: Winter never leaves; the Whitewalkers are among us always, and all we can do is acknowledge them -- and turn our faces toward the sun.

I'm up in the woods, I'm down on my mind / I'm building a sill to slow down the time

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Not sure the polar vortex is a good influence

Obviously we're not doing well with an early evening

If you close read this one your eyes will break. Just a little rush, babe.

Just a little rush, babe / To feel dizzy, to derail the mind of me Just a little hush, babe / Our veins are busy but my heart's in atrophy / Any way to distract and sedate / Adding shadows to the walls of the cave

Monday, November 10, 2014

Take this on advisement

Poems should not be written -- even on refrigerators -- on the eve of polar vortices

And this is why we can't write nice poems. We blame it on the weather.

But this cheers us up.

Got what I got the hard way / And I'll make it better each and every day / So honey don't you fret / Cause you ain't seen nothing yet