Stream of Consciousness #11

like this was the last straw already

(we leave for home on Thursday)

and those people who have never felt the sand dunes think that the river must be huge

they are so wrong, i have seen the bridges,

I have seen how they break. Your life is not as easy as I thought

and the suitors do not love you, but they conspire.

your father gloats with pride.

envy me!

he says

but doesn’t know his daughter’s plight.

like the stones that are on the beach, the sights would reach the northern hemisphere

imagine the northern lights

Borealis

as the wind rocketed sand onto the mist filled sky.

what would you do about it, girl, my love has entered the house and he is not happy

we can all agree that you do not love me,

so I can go my separate ways.

I love the sound of stone in autumn, or just the sound of anything

like the name you gave me,

Fedora

love wasn’t that easy for me with a name like Fedora

I was splattered with mustard on the first day of school,

they threw old musty hats in my face and I glared at them and shouted

the busy cowards didn’t know what they were missing,

what they had been missing out on, oh those stupid little cowards,

how could they ever understand?

that’s all behind me now.

I sit under the rain post and become naked

and run through ten valleys stripped of corn and stripped of forest

and I bask and bathe and I don’t care.

Fedora, Fedora, sing me a song, they all say

yes, this is the day,

and I know you see me as the queen of the land

the empress of all being:

I’d like to see you try this on a hot summer in July.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Photo Copyright 2013 by Golden Star Poetry

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Memorial

Memorial 

I am filled up with this town, as

smoldering fires are beating at the brick

black as day, yet

the color of trying to reminisce is

a  startling white.

you see an abandoned lot where the restaurant burned down without notice (because that’s such a mystery)

and the weeds grow from the cracks in quilts

thundering each time  a new inkling moves a nano meter, and

like muck weed,

dirty flowers stare at my knees.

on the other side of town,

some no-do-good-er has just carved the name

Susanah

into the naked fiber board

of a broken basketball hoop

while stowing away in an old truck junker,

forgetting he was never being seen.

(now, take this daisy, and

you try to carve Susanah there.)

It’ll serve you good to know that

I’ve seen  worse luck

than  a broken flower petal

begging a stray knife

to stop cutting at the stem.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry