Lavonne, this is beautiful!

cheryl

Thanks Cher.

The Hunter

Hunter cries a little when brown eyes close.
Tears make the chest broader
and worth the pride.

Presenter on TV documentary says that there are an infinite number of universes. Ones where I might be thin, or rich, or Kennedy was never assassinated, or Antoinette kept her head. Maybe even a few where humans do not exist. I wonder if there is possibly one where God exists among men.

Witness

I'm driving between courthouses,
long country road,
fallow fields for miles.
Above me stretches the remnant
cloud of a fierce thunderstorm
that impeded my progress toward justice this morning.
Its belly is flat and even now, as black as a judge's robe.
Though only a mile or two wide
it stretches to the horizon
matching the road for length and color.
The wind blows east and I travel Northeast;
Above me the cloud tracks.

Now

I hydroplane on wet pavement;
skid to a stop on the shoulder
hoping I missed the dog
who burst barking from the hedgerow.
Before I can compose myself
he limps away. Yelps audible
somewhere in the brambles.

I pull the car back onto the highway;
can't keep my eyes
away from the rear view mirror.
I see some geese V south
in surveillance formation,
while starlings flock in directionally-challenged frenzy.
A few buzzards follow the map of the road;
double back now and then.

What they said
the poet said
on his
death bed:

Let's split the last line

for effect.





(love you John)

She mashed
a roach with her thumb
as it crawled up
the clapboard wall.
That's one that won't get inside,
wiped her hand
on the underside of her apron
and continued picking tomatoes
dropping them into pockets.
She washed her hands
under the hose
and called the grandbabies
to come inside for a bath.

The following is a poem in the form of an American Sentence:


Hope, please call the operator. I have an emergency for you.


It also happens to be a poem found while listening to the intercom at my office.

dragged this up for Sherry


I have been more than a rose has been a rose
said more than a rose thought more than a rose
I would
I would
I would yet
your shadow shadows shadows
I dry on the vine

and I would yet

Southern Hospitality

is an excuse
for dishonesty
she says
I hate it
when some young kid
calls me' hon'
as she refills
my coffee cup.

I know she's thinking:
Bitch won't
leave a tip.

I agreed completely.

She has lark's eyes.
A false gleam
that illuminates you,
washes over you,
carries you along,
but she's cold inside;
uses honesty
as an excuse
to beat you down.

Overthinking

I saw him behind
the gas station with
a paper bag turned
upside down over
his face. I don't know
that he was drinking
alcohol. Coulda
been Coke. And so what
if he was - it's a
free country; it's not
illegal or immoral -
at least to me. Hell,
I've been on a binge
or two myself in
the last fifty five
years. If I give him
something it won't be
mine anymore so
I can't say how it
should be spent. I can't
afford to give him
enough money to
get a room, or a
suit of clothes. (He
sure won't take any
advice. Should I make
that assumption?)
Maybe I'll give it
to some shelter;
maybe he'll go there
but probably not.
I could give him an
odd job but he might
hurt himself and sue
me or he might rob
me or just not show
or he might do a
crappy job or a
real fine job but his
hands sure do shake.
Maybe drugs ate his
brain or a war ate
his heart or both. He
looks like he could be
a Viet Nam vet.
If I give him five
bucks now, does it make
me responsible
for him? Does it
obligate me to
continue to give
him money each time
I see him? Would he
be pissed or hurt if
I pass him by next
time? Do I care? Should
I care? Why do I care?

Goodbye Mary.

Lavonne, I love this stuff.  What ya hidin' it for?

cheryl

:)