time is love

This thing called time

I need time.
Making time out of nothing at all.
Is this time?
Is your time in vain?
That's the way time goes.
Crazy in time.
Burning time.
Abandoned time.
Time sick.
Addicted to time.
I want to know what time is.
Endless time.
A groovy kind of time.
All out of time.

Transfiguration refigured

I am very humbly grateful that this poem was included among the top 50 of the Poetic Asides April challenge . Thanks Robert! Reprinted here from the April 17th "Big Picture" prompt (with some corrections)



Transfiguration refigured

Fighting sleep in the blinding light
the first thing to do is make tents?
Peter runs off, grabs goat skins
and ropes and while the cloud
is trying to encompass
them, God trying to be heard,
the disciples are busy hoisting
and raising as if it could be contained.
But the dazzling brightness
keeps blazing through,
burning holes in the goat skin,
brightness not stopping
God still shouting
and nothing stops it all
from disappearing,
going back to normal
so that everyone wonders
whether any of it really happened,
except now there’s a piece of charred goat skin.

Centuries later, it's a fragment of tapestry,
the face of love gazing out into the cathedral
until it shimmies off as a spider,
spins out to become a spiral galaxy;
the face had only been holding its breath
wincing in the flashbulbs of our folly.

Rain Bop

Rain Bop

Green hides only deeper green,
raindrops playing hide and seek
in leaves that just can’t wait to be found
and we are so sick of the gray skies
and gloom: we want to go outside
but look, sadly, through streaked windows.

In dry places, people are crying for rain

We remember only tears and pain.
People sing of migraines.
Ball players toss wet balls and crawl
into dugouts, dripping with loss or victory:
what matter. We are drowning.
Levees are breaking and floods engulf fields.
We change our screen savers to desert scenes
and listen because we were told that

In dry places, people are crying for rain.

The meteorologists barely muster a smile
when they promise, that the end of the week
may hold a glimmer of blue.
What is blue? we ask one another, having forgotten.
It is green without yellow, a wise one speaks.
It is hope without ribbons. It is knowledge:

In dry places, people are crying for rain.



See http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/2011/05/12/WDPoeticFormChallengeTheBop.aspx

April 30 last day leaving

This poem has been removed. Please email me if you want to read it.

April 29 Ode

Ode to Spring

Even willows drape yellow.
Red maple buds
Burst now, suddenly open, green.

Sixty-three degrees
and girls hear the call of their skin--
Show me show me show me--
prance around in tiny shorts
while boys jump off rocks into chill pond.

Nearby, peepers start up chirping
and salamanders follow their lovingly built
crossing, avoid being squashed beneath tires.

Amherst buzzes with it: the light!
Forsythia! Rhododendrons and daffodils!
No stopping it now.

April 28 without something

Without the train’s whistle,
I wouldn’t look up every so often,
asking, what’s that music?
Is an organ playing somewhere?
I wouldn’t think of Emily Dickinson
hearing the same train a little ways
down the track, some time ago
or remember the retired librarian
who gave a little wave and a smile,
and jumped in front of the train.
Without the train’s whistle,
I’d likely forget the music of distance.

April 27 In the this of that

In the clamor of innocence
longing to be knowledge,
unwary children jangle like spare change
in the pocket of God’s cargo pants.

Forgotten hitchhikers climb pillars
of broken thumbs, trembling with error,
squashing berries of lust.
At last the hush of razors.