more poems

Playing cards with dead guys

If I was playing cards

with William
Carlos Williams

and he wagered

his wheelbarrow

I would kick him

out of my house

(even if so much

depends on it).

If it was Hemingway,

He would probably cheat 

(bastard).

If it was Tolstoy,

I sincerely doubt

He would play at all.

(maybe he is right).

In the beginning.

In the old meadow that child was born:

among hungry wolves, into a hostile world.

Large, dark rings trace his tired eyes,

staring longingly at a vast night sky.

Every breath a prayer said for protection,

echoing into his flickering consciousness.

He feels as though he is becoming undone,

his strength left him long ago in that field.

The whole earth groans at his lack of faith,

coming up around him, as if to swallow him.

Cold air mists out his nostrils into the blank;

Stiff limbs are the only caress he has to give.

Arts and Crafts (I wrote this one 2-3 years ago and posted it earlier [poems poems poems] but took it down because of events).

We were the hands

That were too close to holding

A construction paper heart 

cheaply made

(Craft class was never

my strongest pursuit

To much coordination

and glue involved

And we both know

I never took

Direction well)

“I like you”

“I like you too”

A limited expression

Expressed weakly

Next time I’ll nod and smile

Maybe you’ll wave

Probably not though

For-get-me-nots

Would only seem

Ironic and too easy

Pad Thai and Pipe Smokes (I wrote this last year, a favorite of mine).

Racing through a town

That doesn’t know my name

(I aim to keep it that way)

Surrounded by tranquility

Trying to forget life’s dirty laundry

But I find God’s glory

In pad thai and pipe smokes

(Sometimes cute girls

With pretty eyes)

Lazy sundays with little to do

Making the most of time

That isn’t mine

God blessed this day

(And this mountain)

And gave it to me

-Dedicated to living life

In memory of too many ghosts