... down the tumbleweed trail ...

Like Mitch’s poem, mine totals 20 lines and, again like his poem, you’ll find that the even numbered lines all hammer away at the same rhyme “X;” in my case that is the ending “-in,” as in Irving Berlin or Huckleberry Finn.


A Parallactic Apology

The unworthy object is treated with long-suffering attempts at forgiveness and understanding; but each heroic effort in this direction makes the object more and more of an object.
—Thomas Merton

“I am writing a poem about love” is a start;
our’s a history of vows broken.
The sky-line shall always exceed the pursuer;
And (likewise) Apollo never catch his perfect virgin.
Consider this frozen photograph: there you stood;
in silent permanence, the image my present chagrin.
"What I want is what is you,"
the line dividing dreams from desire is thin.
The brutality of a too-eager passion
made the bark close round her milky skin.
Potential, promises, incantations of sex,
and of the fallen tree’s wood a violin.
“I am performing a blood-letting, a prize of guilt,
your turning ever-away shall be my songs’ origin.”
Consider this image: there you stand, evergreen,
and with these words, I make of you a constant twin.
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee:
With it I remember the beauty within.
To fashion a target for the future to follow.
For in this world, we two can’t again begin.

Featuring one line from Nic's poem, here is my poem! Though it is not used very well here I can already feel the analogy "like a chorus line of bears" creeping into nearly all my future work.


THE RATHER STARTLING INCIDENT OF THE MAN CATCHING TWO YOUNG RAPSCALLIONS HAVING A BLUEBERRY FIGHT IN HIS GARDEN AT 3 AM ONE MORNING.

He burst through the back door shockingly
like a chorus line of bears
their faces lit up like they were holding
candy that wasn’t theirs
he began a-swearing
like an angry sailor swears
they began a-whimpering
and mumbling desperate prayers
until they saw how his hair looked
as they had woke him unawares
it was if it had been danced upon
by an army of Fred Astaires
despite their impending punishment
they couldn’t avert their stares
thy tried but it was like denying
a double-dog of dares
they finally burst out laughing
with mirth beyond compare
and the angry man slunk away quietly
like footsteps down the stairs.

I feel as though we poets (sans Linz) have been playing a game of chicken, waiting for the other to make the first move. I thought for sure someone would have posted by now. But two months have passed so here I submit a new poem. If anyone else has been working on a new poem that you were planning to post eventually, go ahead and post anyway.

My poem is related thematically to the last: fire burning down history.


The Library of Alexandria

1.

A single story, a hundred fictions intertwined,
a gypsy reads a man’s worn palm, collects calligraphy
of crossing coincidences and conclusion of lines.

We accept her twilight wisdom of abstract prophecy
as passage to wholeness, direction in darkness, arrangements
of constellations; we live in this faithful enactment of story.

What was accidental becomes; what becomes, will change; what changes,
must leave home to dwell in the open promise of our languages.


2.

We create a way into the darkness. We walk these nowhere
roads through climate and time together. What are we carrying?
The old man dies, his pulse fades like footsteps down the stairs.

Time continues, a slow fire, consuming sectarian
names: our temporary world, our arrangements by promises,
our futures swift approach, we vanish into new dimension.

There is a circle somewhere, we will meet in boundlessness
within the eternal ring of the still word: infinite silences.

Also, if you're interested:

We're having monthly poetry readings at The Attic Bookstore. Every second Wednesday at 7:00 p.m. The next one is on April 12th. You can read any style, either your own work or an old favorite. See www.atticbookstore.com/events for more details. Would love to see any of you there!

The Attic Bookstore
200 W. Hampden Ave
Englewood, CO 80110
(corner of Bannock and Hampden, one block west of Broadway, across from Denny's)
303-777-5352

Jamie's "Patches of Pastures" put me in mind of the place where I grew up, which came close to burning down recently. Also, poets can never rest peacefully, and neither can a Poetry Hullaballoo!


Prairie 101

I know
when you hear "grass fire,"
a picture of your front lawn
pops up behind your eyes.
You wonder how a grass fire
could get out of control,
how it could be dangerous.
But picture that lawn--
parched and brown--
times a million billion,
stretching out as far as you can see,
reaching out to meet the sky,
stretching through four generations,
through eighteen years,
through every memory that matters,
through all of your family albums,
surrounding the house you helped build,
surrounding your blood.
Now set that giant, aged lawn ablaze,
and watch the flames whip away with the wind,
nothing but black ash and charred cattle
in its wake--
ahead of the fireline is smoke,
and fear, and everything.

"RIP, POETRY, HULLABALLOO"
by Jamous Lowry


rip
music
switch tracks quickly
mood shift
digital glitches
click CLICK click
now afraid
now ready
now permit me
to rip this song in half
and flow sickly
what's a wrap
is it that?
not sure
context dictates the proper posture
enter password
remember password
swirling circles didn't send the last word
got it twisted
wanted it back-assward
blacklisted
for not being a wack bastard

that's a dastardly hullaballoo
like the patches of pastures where watermelon grew
mother earth
sons and daughters' telling you
we are grateful