Wednesday, June 17, 2009

an insanity triaged grows puposely weak

i. when the crafty herd comes home, cowering is neglected

the glorious reversal of a bovine nightmare
often causes the maple cupboard to squarely revert
into the green reality of a weedy lot of chewy cud
and the proper disdain of black maple furniture:

wood chips! wood chips! wood chips for all!

this was meant as a numinous carving misunderstood by others-
a constructive lesson of the woody longing formed by antique hands
that is always wasted on the long-eared snouts with milky tears:

such spilling and spurting on the sleek commodity of future bellies
is ill-regarded in the close quarters of the straw strewn barn.

the genius of the dovetail was lost somewhere in the mooing meadows,
but even lost is relative when the orbiting milk cans seductively spill.

ii. here comes the lonely trumpet now to celebrate our failure

the blue quadrangle that laughs at your excuses
bestows from the right and bastes the bend sinister
with the fecund gravy of a leaf filled gutter:

gifts wrapped in the wonder of rain are gifts just the same.

you can ignore the water filled basement, for now,
because the common way of not letting go
involves a plush blanket and a cardboard box
that discourages talking to the constant rain:

this is worrisome, but not devoid of fetal comfort.

but pity the secret wolf that stays:
wet hair will mostly stink in time-

can someone open the door, please.

iii. we evolve our own book of sorrows.

what was the glory of the four of leaves
and the shaved glee of the pluck of three
becomes a bitter leaven that still dances
in the orange oven of a rotating turn.

the elderly grimace of crinkly garlic bulbs
sometimes looks like babies laughing:

thank the gods for inner voices.


  1. Very nice. Well written and enjoyable.

  2. what a collection...

    'gifts wrapped in rain' what a phrase!

  3. wow. im envious of your talent. and skill.

  4. Great format. Very purposefully written and poetically stated! I enjoyed every last word of this, but this line will stay with me a while:
    "...the elderly grimace of crinkly garlic bulbs
    sometimes looks like babies laughing:"

  5. How cool is this!...Very Very good!

  6. "becomes a bitter leaven that still dances
    in the orange oven of a rotating turn"

    These lines are swirling! Your jazzy text is such a delight to read.

  7. Wow, thanks for a wonderful read! I was smiling the entire time, so many fabulous images.

  8. Thank you all for your most kind comments. It pleases me immensely that you've grabbed a little nibbly bit of amusement and/or pleasure from my modest habit of messing around with words. I remain your humble knucklehead. More, of course. to follow. Cheers.

  9. I love the turns of phrase and many interesting images... along with those already mentioned I also like "the long-eared snouts with milky tears"

  10. HA! It's taken me this long to happen along on what the heck you are talking about beside your icon. My husband's father called he and his brother ultra-maroons! And so I begin to understand.

    This poem though, Gerry, I tried to let myself go within it and I'm afraid I get lost. First stanza, is it that we are idiots for leaving behind that which we can create with our hands? Just tell me, yes or no. Don't make me grrrr.

  11. WIAW: My sense of Maroon comes from Bugs Bunny, my personal hero. Only later did did I realize it connotations.

    Prepare to grrr.