Octagon

I am an octagon of endless possibilities
and never dare to stare directly into any sun,
neither rising with all its wondrous probabilities
nor setting in its muted rainbowed shades of a day done.

Starlight Blues

That woman with starlight shining from her eyes
I'm telling you true
That woman with starlight shining from her eyes
Smiled so sweet but told me mostly bundles of lies
She's no friend of mine
I struggle with the blues
I'm telling you true.

Today Walking

Some crowded trails go mostly in circles
over terrain gardened beyond repair.
I mostly seek a path toward nowhere,
that if it circles, it is a curve of some neglect.
Such a trail deserves my walking respect.

Okay, okay . . . Let's move to Oregon

We need to make our own footprints.
And I see why you say I should show common sense.

I'm not just looking for us in a golden sunset,
and I know we are not always where I expect.
But it is not necessarily at dawn,
nor the summit of the sun
that I feel the cool of your shadow,
like a muted snare drum,
sounding dry beats of perfect timing
against the bent of my breath.
Sometimes it is on the move, south to west.

We will leave our footprints mingled on trails,
a mixture of energy and spice and beaver tails.

Father's Day 2016

Are we all finally bonsais;
pruned more for observers than ourselves;
pruned closely with so little soil
to explore or exploit;
separated into individual plots
and pruned to meet the limits of our potted world;
roots never touching roots, straining
against the guidewires of doting caretakers?

Near Florence, September 2017

I like walking with the wind at my back,
but better almost always, is to face the breeze,
cheeks reddening with the contact of icy fingers
of early winter and notions of racing back to summer
trails above the beaches of the coast. Planning.
There is surely some new way to combine carrots,
potatoes, and mushrooms to accompany the elegance
of B♭ evening greys sharpening into the winter white
of scaleless skies and endlessly cloudy nights . . .

Learning to Dance when we Were Younger

We were bits of yes or no & this and that
mostly dancing between A# & Bb;
I confess to a bebop mania, half deaf that I am
We swam in the '50s jumping tempos without tone
curling in the pools of songs, never alone . . .
We spun musical parties in our sketchy abodes
without much dough or smarts but an abundance
of energy and general blow; we pretended dance
and the world pretended along with most of us . . .
as we trucked across all our available floors
holding onto as many hands as we could score.
We did not spin out of control except when we did,
sometimes we blew beyond reason, without a lid.

Discerning the Trivial

Much of what I utter tends toward trivial . . .
And that's okay . . .
I am not in a debate with the Devil.
I face no certain door
of dying in a lover's bower.

I will stride into another day or two
As I learn some ways
To travel beyond this day . . . or four
into countless tomorrows . . .

Ozytrumpdias (evolving draft)

I found American echoes of silence in sand,
splintered bits of time beyond what we know
troubled, poor shadows of pure distress and guns
half sunk behind a rising maga-ish red sun,
a sliver of wrinkled lip of total command
carved on a bit of trampled bloodied sand,
a golden lip without knowledge of tune or song,
no sense, just scars on heartless buried bones.
With so many visits from the most gorgeous of birds,
why is our world so fully peppered with turkey turds?

I have Brothers and Sisters

I ain't fast enough typing to know what I meant yesterday.
Eight-balls careen from every corner before my polka stick
strikes a tonic chord. I am mostly a swirling idiot of motion
with too much emotion attempting to learn tomorrow's trick.
I have marched in step and I have paused after refreshment
without learning shtick about the mumbling bumbling moment
of brethern smiling and waving from passing flagged ships.
The distance of their salutes and smiles was not surprising;
sun to starboard and their salutes to port was prize enough.