Tidbits of Home
Ah yes, the requisite bad poetry. Every once in a while I have this urge to embarass myself publicly. Sometimes it's a specific desire to put poems on the internet where everyone can see them. Such is my curse.
California Poppy
She wanders highways
fixing flats
and stopping cars, explaining
that the seasons still change;
that there is more to summer
than this black band of asphalt
and its rolling, roaring herds.
She talks about eating dirt
and drinking sunlight
and always wonders how it must feel,
always daydreams, about how we, too,
could drink sunlight--
if we only had the imagination.
Autumn Song
There was a song playing when we met,
a banjo twang of scrapes
and bruises
with the insistent chorus:
nothing is happening here.
But its fall melody
showered us with
burnt umber leaves
and questions of friends,
so we fell a descending scale.
Music of rain and late mornings
punctuated by laughter and sex
and honesty.
Before I realized it,
the leaves underfoot
and your voice in the morning air
were gone.
But I’m still pulling
notes from my head
and your red hair
from my clothes.
December, 2005