Ever-prepared to twist a flask
through momentary fence slat openings–
to bounce among the crows
while somehow maintaining resistance
to cherry pie allures–
this bagel hoarder fails to stay a caricature;
his age includes his visions,
inquiries and musings.
His daily hike through neighbors’ sheep farms
dusts his mind, aerates his neurons
and rolls crisp–
long as the hills tumble green
with moss-padding deer,
caws carrying gaiety
over the hours, sometimes damp.
First draft posted to WHARVED on Jan 11, 2012, Entitled “#82”
Informally wedged between a significant mile of alterations and a limitless power of inventory tallying, my golf ball’s normally-understated carryover floundered briefly–the northern lights had obscured my vision, rendering my lie-finding skills ineffectual on this particular fairway (perhaps I shouldn’t have made a habit of getting in a tight nine after midnight, but free golf is free golf).
At least I got the chance to gawp at the Canada geese flapping over the course, wings beating black against the nuclear waste green, a cacophony outmatched only by their aggressive calls to each other, expressing–what I intuitively deemed to be–awe at the display they rarely see. Though you know, travelers of their caliber get many more opportunities than your typical vertebrates, having inhabited the skies every year of their waking lives.
First draft posted on 9/26/11,
originally entitled #20
Before nightfall, gather wood
for, at the very least,
a rip-roarin’ fire
that will last through daybreak.
No sense in freezing
if we still have blood
flowing through our veins.
Just don’t get anything too green,
or the smoke will howl
with the dying breaths
of those we burn tonight.