Stream of consciousness # 12

the fondest
expression
like the lightening bugs you catch in your hand
this lost finger this lost hand
this little ember and this tramp
this little ember and this lost lamp
this frog and this water and this
and all of this at the same tense time
the bug on your shoulder sleeps softly and hums to the banner
the stars spangle
and the night hums
and the machine drums
the night air warms you and rouses you to an upright position
you cant sleep
i cant sleep
the coffee cant boil
the slippery soil
is to deep
i cant sleep
you cant sleep-
why take the sleeping pills?
there is the nature frond
this erstwhile pine
the grubby tree
the coffee tea
like and lake and sun and bake
creep soft and slow
lightening bug
catch me fast
light from the lightening i can finally
finally see your face.
what a while its been
i didn’t realize i missed you.

night comes:
we have to talk about the nighttime.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

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Sylvie left this note

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Sylvie left this note

In the August fog:

The bearded poet reeks

of mud, and dry leaves.

He has been

fashioned to recite,

line by line,

only skipping

sentences

when the task

is too tiresome.

We will wait,

and we will wait again,

and  all these soft and silent waiting evenings are being

ironed out on the porch

in the August fog.

We wait, and we wait

(an abandoned curtain is playing on the cornfields)

waiting to be seen.

still burning, love?

take care then,

to put me back onto that Great Stage

and give me a shove.

you’ll see-

ma, look! no, hands!

as proud as me!

(and I was likened to the scent of darkness

for as we passed the  gray stone towers

I was fully fine to listen to

the songs they chanted after me

“STILL BURNING, LOVE?”

‘STILL BURNING LOVE?”

“STILL BURNING LOVE?”

“STILL BURNING AS WE WAIT?”)

But still we wait, and wait again,

and all these silent waiting evenings are being

ironed out on the porch in the August fog.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry