My Roving Shoes
This morning my shoes took off without me.
Across the floor they clomped and clattered,
then,
one kick of the door
and they were gone.
Funny to imagine, them out there without me,
stopping by a shoeshine boy,
searching for a dime,
but so assertive now,
the two of them in their newfound freedom.
There they are in front of the newsstand
now feeling important,
leisurely, hanging carelessly about,
their laces hanging out.
This morning they were impertinent,
a bit self-possessed.
They were tired of me too long
in the bathroom
probably seeing me as vain;
perking the coffee, sitting down
with pen in hand drawing a blank.
They needed to make a statement,
two empty shoes,
here we are, here!
Tongues hanging out from too much wear
but rows of eyes from which to look out of,
two empty shoes
out to face the world.
©Sept 2, 2013 by UT2
Poetry Of Madness
Mixed Media by UT1
The Grass Is Still Blue In Kentucky
At The Gate
Gardenias yearn from stems
moonward; I stop to stretch,
just a pause–
no more, no less;
no time to obsess
or linger dissectingly,
but to instead
preserve artlessness.
There is no lateness.
There is no early.
Tonight, simply: “the moment”;
timelessness.
In the house
the lights wink out.
There is no deep reflection,
no over whelm of thought–
only a flicker of leaves
in the starlight;
from the barn–
the welcome light
left on in the loft.
The hinges groan;
a backwards glance,
and then, the catch of the latch.
©Oct 13, 2012 by UT2
Magalia
Acrylic on panel by UT1
The Rock Blaster
Evening Dew
1
Time quivers from an empty bridge,
Whooo,
The evening train steams grade-challenged,
Wheels squawk,
Engine moans
Like every bone in my body broken,
Like my joints, like my couplings
Car to car to caboose, loose.
Whooo,
The owl whisks from the barn: whoosh!
2
Dusk,
A red feather floats
Under a grey cover,
Floats judiciously, nearly, seemingly,
Floats ubiquitously purpose-drawn
Or again so seems;
In actuality in acquiescence
To the wind.
The hem of the universe
Is borderline mad,
Now struggles
To maintain semblance.
Time quivers
From a bottle.
3
The red feather neither thinks nor looks
Nor deciphers nor calculates
—a red feather from a hat
Or from this or that—
It does not contemplate
Any form of reality via existence.
But it is.
One comes to rest
Upon a green stem. It has an identical twin.
A train of clouds form
Skyward.
It is a world with no airbrakes.
4
Two shadows like hands,
Two crossroads
Split in the night,
Two shadows like long arms
Reach out t’ward fathomless vistas.
An ass brays from a barn.
A class says an alphabet as per
Instructions from a marm.
Mankind is biased, is blasé
Is blessed.
Hollow, they strain into the nude dawn
In an epic power struggle
To be heard. Their king is their shadow
Is their image, is that glint off the brook
Off the rifle.
They are like
The greens having heroically endured
All the early frosts of fall
Mid-frost is upon them.
5
Frivolous all the mounting moments,
Frivolous all the ascending
Roman numerals
Around the circle
Called the clock: logjam time.
The winning smile,
The eyes,
The man in the nervous tie,
Say: “frivolous!”
While counting time like money like time.
6
The chicken stirs.
Coffee spoons clink
In cafeterias.
The sunset coexists in the sunrise
The sunrise coexists in the sunset
The latch catches the gate
The gate catches the latch
I stab myself on a thorn
While trying to pick a rose
The green stem shouts from a bed
Of eternal noiseless “nonexistence”:
“Finite!”
. . . .
Drawn conclusions baa
From hollows;
Drawn inferences along with suppositions
Bay from steamy brooks;
As yellow clouds,
As hound dog breath,
As some reduced form of soundless death,
Certainly they scream in uncertainty,
Ring hollow and resonant
(and resident) in the brown fog.
A red bead
Drips down
On the green stem
7
Like death
The red feather touches
Down in the water
Next to the brown one
The owl, the rooster,
Wing in wing,
Two sets of ripples ripple out,
Two, but merging as one.
Church bells ring;
Rain descends,
Clicks like coffee spoons.
The moon and the sun
Begin to seem as one
Yet are separate.
8
Facsimiles
Yawn from broken valleys,
Sun pours
Where moon should have been
Silver alleys are only gray
Where the gleam has washed away,
Exfoliate rose
Of rich men ghettos
Spider web:
Cobwebs
And down certain cobbled streets
The hobbler hobbles—
History is cobbled together by the adept revisionist
And replete with repeats—
The flow ebbs,
The open door closes,
The evening dew is on the roses.
©Sept 29, 2012 by UT2