The Choice

The best of dancers ruined by a host

of other loves that to the heart may call.

Some choices must be made or not at all.

The dance too brief ; the song may end for most

and fly away from splendor of romance.

Crescendo reached and still the dance she owns.

Life is too short to settle, oh, for less.

Eshoo the heart; don’t make the dreadful choice!

Her soul now hovers.  Grief is like a plow

that pushes every goal to here and now.

 

(Was watching the Movie, “The Red Shoes” when I wrote this.  The agony of being forced to make a choice between two over-whelming loves can drive one mad.)

A Dose of Castor Oil”

A Dose of Castor Oil

A dose of castor oil was once the trick

our fathers often said we must imbibe.

Then gagging does embrace the mucous thick

as down it goes so foulness may not thrive.

A stuttering, red evil here is strewn

as AR Fifteens shatter all the love.

We need an antidote from heaven-hewn

yet no such medic issues from above.

Oh, world of endless joy and ruthless pain,

we’re crying out ; please send a cure for us

before dead children drive us all insane;

before this globe and hope is turned to dust.

Yet, comes no answer for our sickened sighs

or family of man. Cold blood defies.munch_edvard_3

The Birth of a Hurricane

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“The Birth of a Hurricane”

It’s steamy in the southern Keys tonight.
Her air is thick. She tastes of salty fog.
A quiet’s fallen with no birds in sight.
Her ocean swells; she’s pregnant with resolve.

Her palms now twist and spin and wave their skirt
and fall too quick from fluttered warmth beneath.
She waits; that stronger flash begins to flirt
as light’ning promises some stiffer teeth.

Expectant, gray light pushes down this beach:
a rising, higher tide begins to form
of something coming just before the breach.
Still hesitant, she wavers in the storm.

She’s here! She’s pushed a new-born screaming style;
she’s grown a full-blown wind to squall awhile !

The Hankering

field-of-dreams

“The Hankering”

Then suddenly September rain comes down.
The green peas whisper to the thirsty corn:
“New seasons yearn before your silk turns brown.
Some nameless hand will bend you one dark morn!”

From Miller’s Pub, our hero drains his beer.
His dream: to leave this red-clay country life.
But not before the dinner bell will steer
a thirst and hunger back to waiting wife.

“Oh, Maudie, do ya hear the crushing claim
of wind that rushes through our restless stalks?”
Old Maud is deaf; can only feel the train
that shakes and rattles dishes as he talks.

The railroad curves avoiding corn and peas.
The train sweeps, weeping past old Walt’s disease.

 

A Thinking of You Haiku…

Birthday wish ape 13895042_1770211936558456_8846528112395456041_n

Mulling it over,

Mother wishes you many

More-to-come  birthdays…

(for Carol, August 28, 2016)

“Adrift, Upon the Lee”

free-wiki-Max_Jensen_Großes_Marinestück-seascape-640-pxAdrift, Upon the Lee”

My soul’s adrift; her spirit lost to wind.

I’m tossed and vainly seek a safer lee.

I pull the anchor chain and with it send

my heart a-flutter, full-blown, out to sea.

My boat has ample weight yet she is trim.

She dreams of color and a high romance

with sun and wind and frothy water’s brim

across a deck that cherishes the dance.

But I am ghostly silent.  Lethargy

and fear within my muggy heart resides.

No compass; no direction do I see.

My stern into a darker water glides.

Oh, save us from that whore; my soul set free,

or else this landlubber; this poet, bleed.

 

The Surfer


Oh, Jon:  he owns that blue green tunnel’s sway
before bold nature casts him from the sea.
He’s god and for a moment has his way.
What man resists such magic brevity?
The moment flows and swift the water flies.
Around such power one might turn away
but surfers are committed as they ride
momentum’s wave.  There is no turning back
from beauty of the sea’s bold shining glanceWarren Wave
a heavy hand that turns the mighty wave.
There’s climax and a mystery’s romance
for man who will forever be its slave.
Acceptance gives the surf its final spin
as glorious as when that dance begins.

“He’s Back”

Snow“He’s Back”

The rustle of cold colors whirl and shout

and in their dance, a warning to revere.

A halo’s on the mountain tops about

and breezy waves of solemn shades appear.

Soft yellows made among gray clouds, aloft

and whisper to the shiv`ring wintry scene:

“I am the cold, blue howl that bellows oft

and scurries down your icy, trickling stream”.

Then comes insanity; bold groans below

among  the forest faces painted white.

I hear the branch’s thoughts that break; bestow

a heaviness of heart in fading light.

Here burns the ghost of winter’s bleak return;

repetitive, yet for our souls we yearn.