No Ordinary Love

NO ORDINARY LOVE
“Didn’t I tell you what I believe . . .”
Helen Folasade Adu

How many moon cycles has our earth spun

since I leaped the ravine of No Return

to enter you as a sommelier

would a wine cellar,

since the bright crescents

of my fingernails

lit up the black sky of your back,

or these guitar strings bent

under cinnamon fingers

rhumba enough to evict

tenets of any religion?

Tonight, say a loose moonbeam

butterflies into the room

behind my ruby stung eyes,

mean a quill of light tries to inscribe

how nearly calligraphic kisses

could spell or dispel

lunar letters of despair.

Learnèd astrologer

under which bright constellation

might dreams cease

to summon those Calypso lips

glossed to lapse all logic,

if logic could even survive

your tresses

curling darker

than the drums

of what I prayed 

you could save me from.

Should I recite twin legends

of your razor swung legs,

but paint your skirt teal

as Sade's pleated lyrics

woven from shiver thin sheets?

Say doubt’s darkened cave of mouth

hid sparks of wildfire

to fell a forest entire,

then if all our nights

were spent like coins

glazed in the glare

of prayer’s fountain,

who cares?

Some wonder if we’re freed

or fried by the lightning inside

a theorem of thighs

that ignite five types of feral,

this time as the thin edge

of teeth on a low hung ear lobe’s

suspect rim,

that time as an ankle’s

brassy passion for police bracelets.

Let’s try to pretend
dawn’s first daughter,

danger’s onyx angel,

never snatched our head back,

hummed “Forever” into an ear,

or skipped our river rock quick

to spawn the sufi songs

of dragonflies that now seize

our pawns en passant.

Yet who else craved

an Old Crow moan

to throb their own throat,

or learned how vows

feel mouthed tho they sizzle unsung

in the cast iron marriage

of sly catfish & cool cornmeal,

between a first flame of bud

& that last good buy?

If his halo dipped

to kiss the curves

of Magdalene’s ear,

could even Jesus

have denied her Gospel

of touch?

Beloved,

how many Luna moths

need flit into old flames

while we burn coal hot

trying to unlock

a mystery like magnetism

with keys found under

the tea rose carpet

of your tongue?

HURRICANE WITH A WOMAN'S NAME

As if god stuttered the seventh letter or
in the queendom of quickened candles I smell
the pretty want preserved in her blackberry smile you
never can tell if the haze of love is grill smoke or fog burning off
I hold the scented feet of her chrysanthemum sonnets
in my mouth like penny candy until they melt
into a pseudonym for epidermic skirmish that feeds
the knocking of legs like needles knitting French novels
made like marmalade into movies starring Hepburn staring
out of desire holy as a moth-eaten hat but never
kissing like two planes crashing into a sparkling
tiara of her morphined memories unless somehow
they curl like calla lilies in the humidity pouring
as an alto aria from old pitchers of illegal aliens
like my naked hope swimming to the Atlantic shore
to avoid Customs of kissing on both cheeks she
shorts the electrical systems of my fingers
until the gaps fuse into black eyed susans and
maybe one night I lick a truth simple as egg salad
from her lips or caress her almond eyes they open like a 7-11
and serve every synapse loaded as a doe-eyed dog
with a carbonated big gulp which goes flat as Bobby McGee’s
indigo EKG after eight hours I hear myself singing
the blues to her Savoy genes and turn into the spiral
arms of a Tropical Depression that wouldn't hug a homeless
vet in 1972 falling like a barometer collapsed on itself or
slant lines of liquid silver precipitate from her stormy eye
still dream under the gaps in park benches because
my OCD makes me count every antecedent crawling
the luminous length of the concrete floor of this longing.

NaPoMo 30/30 Haiku and Senryu

Long dawn shadows
Booty stretch
marks morning Tai Chi

subway rumble the subtext of her half-smile

April darkness pocketing my phone to follow tweets

Because a Tomahawk is not a bird we pray

Winter leaves a calendar's last days curl around us

At the top of our stares Stars

Open bedroom door Oscar Peterson's fingers on 88 keys

Low winter sun The glare from a truck with a Rebel Flag

October breeze the puddle unruffled by a V of geese

subway rumble the subtext of her half-smile

Something old, Something new, something borrowed, something blue

PUZZLE PEACES
(For Miss Prissy)

When you toss the dark
mystery of your hair,
why are the almonds of your eyes
suddenly so sienna?
How do your lips
always seem to glisten,
ripe as a rain
kissed apple?
My hands may have trekked
from Australia to Zaire,
(although not yet Cabo Verde.)
Yet the topography
between the soft shore
of your forehead
and the smooth beach of your feet
leaves them befuzzled,
grasping at perfumed air.
They may have kayaked currents
on the Silver River,
rambled up the mythic rocks
of Mt. Rainier,
or even delved the subtext
of the Mediterranean Sea,
but encountering you
they lack any compass,
nautical chart or North Star.
Let me not notice
how the purple
of your pout
may harbor more treasure
than any ocean’s sunken chests
or these hands
might never cease
their hunger
to wander down
the coiled conundrum of your spine
and up the twin exclamation points
of your thighs,
eternally seeking to solve
each brown skinned riddle
the country of your body contains.

After Pablo Neruda

The Orange Antichrist

Over and over again The Orange Antichrist sighs matters

The crystalline ego
of The Orange Antichrist
glitter of glass shards

The Orange Antichrist
longs to be hailed
like a taxicab

"Hail to the Thief"
The Orange Antichrist
hums along

The creek rises
is god unwilling
The Orange Antichrist looms

Look
between one headline and another
The Orange Antichrist

GAMBLERS ANONYMOUS

This may be about the cravings in the mouth of a man with few front teeth standing by a Wizard of Oz slot machine for three or more hours, staring into the darkness. Or about what desire crosses the faces of people seated at nearby machines or the wheel of patter between them. Maybe someone once said that chocolate is just desire barred. This isn't about everything happening for a reason, except the things that don't, or about a human brain always finding patterns in the numbers of a roulette wheel even when there might only be the illusion of one. Roulette means “small wheel.” This could be about reasons being patterns in the small wheels of our minds. This could be about the divine grace of a certain waitress, dipping at the knees to serve a Chocolate Martini. Or about the darkness filling the glass she serves, but this is not about the darkness in the skin of chocolate. This might be about melodies made by spinning reels or tinkling bells or a pattern that could be encoded in the sequence of the lights. Perhaps this is about the all night party streamers of the waitresses' hair, about what inflates the life rafts of her lips, what taunts in the dark sea of her skin or what spins in the small wheels of her eyes. But, this is definitely not about the darkness in the center of chocolate. Not about how many degrees of heat could make it liquid between the lips. This wants to be about a woman walking past and checking her side view mirror to see if he's watching and is almost about which mixed drinks he may or may not sip behind the darkness of sunglasses as she swipes his debit card in the register of longing. This could be about a bar or what resembles candy in her smile.. This is not about the darkness in a sentence of chocolate. Not about how it melts and sticks. This may be about how the arrows of some eyes narrow if he doesn't speak or the mariachi band of laughter from certain lips when he does. This is likely about a no name man standing in front of a bank of thieving machines dreaming of bars lining up in a pattern on a reel, probably about a progressive jackpot. About how we invent goddesses to explain the patterns of darkness in our luck. This is not about the darkness at the center of chocolate. This seems to be a smile through reclining eyelids or a soft lick of the lips afterwards. But this can’t be about what gets wagered on the tip of a tongue or about being lost in a bet, and definitely doesn't involve the name of a goddess dissolving in his mouth on the slow cab ride from the airport of possibility to the dark shadows at the center of the city of half sighs.

Hail to the Cheeto-in-Chief

https://mediamatters.org/blog/2016/08/18/complete-history-donald-trumps-relationship-white-nationalist-movement/212502

Bambi (new poem)

This is a rough draft. 

BAMBI

At sixteen eye was 

the Prince of air guitar,

a lavender shimmer birthed

by a purple beacon

and nothing was real except 

your half-laced fingers on six strings—

which would not be boxed in.

Suppose heart as an empty room,

a kind of wooden box.

In the wooden box 

U then called home

there was Our Father’s piano,

forbidden as anything in Leviticus,

still U were bold enough to plink

its ivory keys while he was away.

Until he left like a Gypsy moth 

in the cruelest month.

Before U were mine “Skipper”

U were 12 years old 

and neither boy nor girl,

doe-eyed under the halo of an Afro

and crying to be allowed

to return home from a phone booth,

which is not a wooden box,

even in the dying northern light,   

especially since it lacks

the sound sculpture of pianos,   

even a piano warped 

by the purposed rain of memory.

And to be denied,

to sleep on an Aunt’s couch

or in Bernadette’s basement and hear 

Louisiana tease your tongue

like a bigger kid on the playground

and hear that all soul-sounds

even the bass below, 

can be guitar-sounds

because guitars are wooden boxes

with tuneable strings

on which the Grand Progression 

could one day mean your dovely strut 

up the ladder of the charts.

There is the missing kiss 

of your mother to sing of. 

How she tried to satisfy herself 

in the arms of another man,

her hair falling down

and her heels rising up.

Does down elevate up or up elevate down,

this question ping-pongs

into the paisley swirled sky,  

No matter. Baby, you're a Star!

Grand Marshal of a parade of women,

all that applause drowning out

the insomniac feedback of night.

A sound round as counterfeit Vicodin,

a hurt that craves the 24 keys of dawn.

Neither cocaine nor cold coffee

can hide the soft hammers

of the blue piano on your strings

but now U are an ocean of violets in bloom,

marshaled and amped up

because aren't amps boxes too?

U are amped louder and louder

into Jimi’s rising heir,

portrait of the Artist purple as paradox—

desire hums around your head,

bathes U in a sonic scent,

an untongueable symbol being brushed,

the most Beautiful One,

eyes lined with dark longing

until Daddy’s black piano 

becomes a mere wooden box of air

on an elevated stage,

although not the way

an elevator may sometimes 

be a wooden box. 

The paisley stage is empty now.

Filled with an air of Cloud guitar

the stage is dear and dearly beloved. 

The only home

U could always return to.

Eye never wanted U 2 be 

my beacon, or lover.

Eye only wanted 2 be

some kind of friend. 

I want to take this time out to thank everyone for your birthday well wishes. In lieu of posts on my wall though I'd very much appreciate it if you could just do one random act of kindness for a stranger. 

August afternoon-

The endless ripple

of a single smile

When Doves Fly

2:29 pm at my boy Barry's house in Brigantine, and I grab my black Eddie Bauer jacket I got at Harrahs Casino and dash out the door because the 501 to Atlantic City is due at 2:30 and I rush to corner, one hand deep in my right pocket for my change as the bus trembles up, then realize I only have $20 bills which yesterday the Treasury Dept. announced will carry a portrait of Harriet Tubman on with Andrew Jackson's now on the backside and the bus glides past and I curse our 7th President, only it's the kind of day that Bill Withers sang about and the next bus isn't due for an hour, so I stride and revise a poem in my head which I read last night at the World Above reading at Dante Hall, one of the best open readings I've been to since Its Your Mug shut down and I change the poem's title to "Portrait of the Artist as a Starfish in Coffee" because my cousin Derri Dias (who is a gorgeous actress in LA) posted a video on Facebook of Prince on The Muppets Tonight performing that song which grows on you like the hair in your ears and I decide to change the last two lines from a simile to a metaphor by cutting out the word "like" which I suddenly don't, and now I pass a brother out front of his house digging a hole in the grass between the sidewalk and the street as if putting in a new mailbox or planting a small tree or maybe just burying something we won't mention and I turn on to Brigantine Blvd. which is limited to one lane because a crew clad in yellow T-shirts with lavender lettering that reads "TCM Paving" is redoing the asphalt and I want to pull out my iPod but my Shure 535e earbuds are too good at isolating outside noise which is dangerous on this busy street and now I'm rising up one side of the bridge between Brigantine and Absecon islands and I peep white birds wheeling in the sky and that signs on the Borgata Casino and Harrahs are both purple and just as I crest the bridge and get buffeted by the gusts Brigantine is famous for, there's a notification on my iPod Touch that Derri has commented on her FB post,  "It's not fair that he's gone" and I stop to check Twitter and Prince is trending with over 2 million tweets and I peer over the railing and consider the sunlit water making its way to the Back Bay reflecting all that purple light . . .

National Poetry Month 30/30 Haiku/Senryu

Light April rain-

Our lone purple candle

suddenly gone

Late April dusk-

The shadows slowly bury

a little red Corvette. 

Moonshine

inside the bottle

out of it

April morning-

Cherry blossoms pinken

the snow drifts

Thumb print

on a black fender-

Half Moon

Two weeks into Spring-

already a Cardinal

on the mound

Opening Day-

The Groundskeeper throws out

the rock salt

All hail

what follows the slow clap

April thunder

Back from the casino

with a single white chip-

April Moon

Last blaze of orange

at the Farmer's Market-

a robin alights

The long note 

in her last kiss

-Red Zinfandel 

Dmeentia-

At the start of the last verse

she mouths the words

Late night poker game-

She asks if I'm All In

Hibiscus flower-

The tremble of her sleeve

In the ocean breeze

My hairline 

the waters of the back bay

in sync

April sunset-

A last slice of orange

opens the lips

Latest Haiku / Senryu

After The Love Has Gone-

The empty mouth of

an album cover

August dusk-

A sandcastle melts

in the rain

Empty Starbucks-

The steady drip drip

of a woman's tears

Morning fog

While waiting for the bus

Fifty Shades of Gray

Filling the beach 

then all the benches-

Snow flurries

Winter storm Jonas-

Too much whipped cream atop

the hot chocolate

First day of Spring-

A robin pecks

crack vials

Shards of glass-

The glazed eyes

of a deer

Four AM-

Even the crack heads

yawn

First day of Pre-K-

His backpack crushed

by a hug

New haiku senryu (and revisions)

Ziggy Stardust fell

Ground Control to Major Tom

Planet Earth is blue

kissing

your napping face-

Summer lightning

Post Burial

The old folk play

Spades

July sun

A new basketball

too big to palm

Autumn afternoon-

the mailman sorts thru

the yard

Hopscotch-

earthworms curl

on the sidewalk

Deep Insomnia-

A neighbor's 

alarm

Wine glass-

The long tilt of

Her lips

April winds-

Spending a new 

umbrella

The white king 

rocks under attack-

March wind

Talking to herself

in two coats

July haze

White cat

under the Laundry’s awning-

Spring shower

Snow flurries

from nose to shovel

beads of sweat

country curve

A goose in the road

honking

quivering 

in the front yard-

frosted grass

A belly 

swollen with gurgles-

New Moon

Staring

into a smartphone-

sunset

Crescent moon-

A sliver of cake wanes

in the urinal

Under the moonlight

the serious moonlight-

Marsh reeds dance

Interview-

The poet says

"No comma"

Morning fog

Lingering on the tongue

Earl Grey

Two Trains Running-

Boyfriend on hold

for the husband

Words wrap

around six croaker-

Muhammad Speaks

August afternoon-

The dog licks

an empty bowl

Purring 

under the quilt-

Not my cat

Waiting

in a long line for work-

Black ants

Cherry blossoms

glisten with dew-

New lipstick

Memorial Day-

Googling a knot

for the hanging chair

Horizon

A railing

Boardwalk

The last edit

written in red-

Paper cut

First trimester-

The kick of the shrimp

curry

Visiting Room phone-

The long echo of that

last sentence

A quick-blown kiss

high heels its way into

the Etheridge night

Late students-

Missing the

Syllabus

Pine Barrens-

A buzzsaw cuts into

the silence

Full moon-

The sudden O of 

a Glock's muzzle

Low tide-

The ocean also has

Morning Breath

Call to prayer-

The transit bus stops

kneels

Both queens

off the board-

Chess widows

April drizzle-

The gutters gush with

cherry blossoms

Unable to shake

the strength of his hand-

Poker nemesis 

Nightfall-

The descent of a tear

gas canister

Riot police-

A broken arrow of

overhead geese

Peeking into

the abandoned cars-

Low winter sun

Airport Terminal-

The morning sky dons

a blue cap

Bumping

into the chairs-

Blind Date

New Years Eve-

Fewer and fewer cubes

in the glass

Winter Solstice-

The long blackness of

a Stretch Limo

Pebble in a puddle-

The moon under a scrim of clouds

Grayish beard-

Yet still playing 

with action figures

of speech. 

December night-

A little bit of Frost

on the syllabus

Hung jury-

None of the strung up sneakers

are gray

Full Moon-

A clean look at the rim

under the lights

Shrimp Gumbo-

Waiting for the flame

to rise

Casino exit-

Losing everything 

but my shadow

Half a crayon-

Our son gets a taste

of the blues

Brick wall

written in cursive-

His pee

December 1st-

Footsteps falling

in the rain

Trailer Park

A murder in broad daylight-

Crows on a branch

Outside the club

Stamped on the back of a hand

Full Moon

And Again

[insert name]

These are the lyrics of a hit, 

number 1 with a bullet,

pinned to the top of the charts. 

This poem is not 

a "suspicious" hoodie,

has not snatched any cigarillos,

is not in an illegal chokehold,

(although it may have

a toy gun tucked 

in its waistband),

this poem was shot 

on video

in the back. 

This poem may 

play its music too loudly,

or contradict

the police report. 

But this poem

will convene

no grand jury

to return No True Bill. 

This poem checks out,

so the only charges

will be on a credit card

for funeral services.

These words

possible because

while facedown 

on the concrete

of the righthand lane

at 10:37 AM 

on April 15th, 1987

at 19067 Greenbelt Road

my sternum

could bear the weight

of the knee between 

my shoulder blades,

and the .38 revolver

eyeing the back of my head

had a 15 lb. trigger pull

and not the 8 lb pull

of a Glock 9mm. 

Possible because

I did not

bet on black

while playing Roulette

by Cop. 

This poem

was not written

because angry, 

this poem

was not written

because "Self-Defense". 

This poem

was not written.

Because my hand

is two

behind my back

cramped

from having

to write

and wright 

and rite

this poem. 

It’s not true that

my eyes are red

as a bag of Skittles,

if this page is dotted

it is only Arizona 

Iced Tea

that was spilled. 

This poem mentions

no names,

not Amadou Diallo,

Sean Bell, 

James Byrd Jr. 

or [insert name]

This poem pertains to no crime,

it comes natural

contains many enwreathed flowers 

but no trees

with branches strong enough

to bear the weight 

of a black man or woman

or boy or girl,

no rope (to be at the end of),

or even a simple slipknot. 

But it does loop;

like a wandering moose,

a homeward goose,

or a four hundred year old

ruse.

Haiku/Senryu and assorted nonsense

Long time no post, for various reasons. Some are technical problems, others personal. I ould prefer to mostly just post poems, but nobody really reads anything other than the haiku and senryu and posting my longer poems means that some publications will consider them "published." So, I'll just be posting short forms mostly from now on.

PROVIDENCE My grandfather escaped a broken chain of islands off West Africa. Off course, they Rhode a storm to an Island that wasn't.

GRAMMA LESSONS My grandmother never spoke Kriolu with me, 
but still put catxupa, 
jagacida and linguiça 
on my tongue.

Working her last nerve- Almost full moon

Shrimp Gumbo- Waiting for the heat to come on

Morning fog- The clam boats unload their odor

New recipe- I try to visualize whirled peas


Presidential debate- The garbage disposal grinds to a halt

Telephone line- A constant static of starlings

Cracked flower pot the deep purple blossom her newest bruise


Halloween- The Dentist's pumpkin has all its teeth

Halloween- The kids stack peanut butter cups


Halloween Eve- The tattoo guy practices on a pumpkin


Red light- From the open Marquis' window Sade streams

Supermarket line- Halle Berry is free again

Autumn- Into a pile of leaves we fall

Fire truck- The leaves of the Flame Maple smolder

Home poker game- The origamist folds his cards

Dad's resolve- Folded into three corners of a flag

Verdade

Tudu Morna tem un Mar
ki ca tem mar di agua
tem mar di Sodade

Flashing roadside in the cop's Aviators- Fireflies

Columbus Day- Discovering the taste of tears


Slave Quarters- Every cabin a Master bedroom

Notification from my favorite app- Blood Moon

Swept up to the top of her head- Super Moon

Buried halfway in a new Bestseller- Fallen leaf

Haiku/Senryu

Morning fog

The long exhale

of a Marlboro

Morning fog

The long exhale

of a Marlboro

Back of the bus

A Jolly Rancher purples 

her pucker

Sportscenter

The TV screen full

of her pout

Day moon-haiku

Day moon-

The light left on

in the attic

Aug 2015 Haiku/Senryu

All Butter pound cake

Pistachio gelato

Not a haiku

August sunset-

Nude descending a staircase

two

Growing on me-

The green streak 

in her hair

Lower Manhattan 

No escape from its shadow

World Trade Center

August Heat-

The lingering taste of

some Scorned Woman

August Heat-

The non-stop stares of

fish on ice

Half moon-

The head of a man asleep 

on this Park bench

Slow climb

up a dark staircase-

Moonrise

Almost white chicken

glazed with tap water

beside the red coals

Maddening-

My son and I play

a video game

Only visible

to the Officer's flashlight-

Dark Matter

Until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

July 2015 Haiku/Senryu

Thunderheads

The darkness of plums

at Foodtown

First Date-

Eating Baby Back Ribs

with a fork

Park bench-

The eye of the sparrow

watches over me

Half Moon-

The glistening curve

of her bite

Run over

by Rush Hour traffic-

The tree's shadow

Her eyes-

Packets of Raw Sugar

torn empty

Park bench-

The eye of the sparrow

watches over me

In each store window

the same

quizzical face

Green tea with honey

The way her eyes catch

the sunlight

Again and again

paddling 

the summer sun

Left knee

the Dining room window shade

that keeps catching

Croissant flakes

What little French 

I remember

August Sky

grayer above the Temple

Fiftieth birthday eve

Bone spur-

Why my Achilles

won't heal

Left knee

the Dining room window shade

that keeps catching

Lazy eye

That one kid who keeps trying

to peep your answers

August Sky

graying above the Temples

Fiftieth birthday eve

Green tea with honey

The way her eyes catch

the sunlight

In Starbucks

noticing that Ishmael

blocked me on Facebook

Post divorce

The softness of the pianist's hands

But Not for Me

Arnold Palmer

The gulf between the order

and the drink

Waiting Room

The motorcycle helmet

above the cane

Not the Pinta

Not the Santa Maria

The Nina she moans

Morning fog

The parking lot fills

with honks

Bid Whist

Before cutting the cards

Mo cuts her eyes 

Clamor of crows

on a telephone line

Black Twitter

July heat

Still attached to the church

a burning cross

Until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

June 2015 Haiku/Senryu

Trying to be more diligent about keeping track of my ku. Here's this month's output so far. I will update it as necessary. Surprisingly, it's been a very productive month. I'm thinking about doing the Haiku a day thing every month and not just during NaPoMo. 

Full moon

The half of the Oreo

with the stuff

Daydreamer

now a citizen of the

imagination

Carolina dawn

Rising up the flagpole

a woman's hands

Milky Way

Between the stars

Ahmad Jamal's fingers

Empty crayon box

Our son gets a taste

of the blues

Memorial Day

Strewn about the beach

Lorna Doones

Scraps of tires

The flatness of a tern

in the road

Urbane graffiti

Only the expletive

written in cursive

A black cat

settles on the windowsill

October nightfall

Deepening sunset

A pickup's Rebel flag

shrinks in the distance

A bluebird rises

from a budded branch

April daybreak

White cat

Bloody pause

Nine lives gone

The largest hand

sprinkles the Truffle Salt

Father's Day

Summer Solstice

A Father's hand lengthens

a girl's smile

There to prey

The sight of a rifle in the

Sanctuary

Still rippling over

Charleston South Carolina

Battle Flag

The curl

of a dead boy's fingers

A toy gun

This woman's white hair

How majestic the crown

of those mountains

Prayer meeting

The expressions on faces

outside the church

Not a prayer

The echo of a rifle

through the Pews

Moonrise

Only the cue ball

left on the table

Spin Cycle

Abe Vigoda is dead

again

Wave after wave

Falling onto the beach

Boardwalk tourists

Green light

Cars wend around the fountain

Zazen

June afternoon

The Italian Ice man

shaves smiles

Knot

composed of cords

or net

Cold man

A Shake of jazz to come

Free with Cherry 

Rainy day

Our son only seems to know

words that end in Why

Ornate coal man

Mellow descends a fair well 

drifts in the missed

Frost on

the rear windshield 

Snow moon

Grain moon

A crescent of cake waning

in the urinal

Summer night

the beach fills with

sound of waves

Day after Xmas

throwing out my back

with the trash

Back alley

Written in cursive

his pee

Afternoon fog

low door jamb

sudden sprinkle

JV Football

My son goes to the pine

to learn about pine

Black Hawk on a breeze

The Last Diné Code Talker

rises

Basketball court

Two crows caw

Next game

Dinner time

the open mouths of 

slot machines 

Gardenias 

The blind man's cane

skips a beat 

Lying

over the numbers

Spread sheets

Cannabis seeds

My mother startled

by a roach 

Bouquet of Roses

The skin on her collar bone

blooms

Detached houses

The distant eyes of the new

neighbors

The oak's roots

raise blocks of the walkway

Daddy's fingers

Divorse papers

We spot the typo

together 

June sunset

How softly the petals

flutter down

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)