Ocean Haiku

Ocean Haiku

Pale white eye rises from the horizon
Waves pulling sand from under my feet
A hungry tide wonders if I can swim


For today’s Living Poetry prompt.

 

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There is only Ball

There is only Ball
— for Rocco

I never trot until Ball
is secure between my teeth
until then I sprint

I feel no fatigue
no hunger no boredom
there is only Ball

Ball is the bright sun
I revolve around
the moon to whom I howl

I smile my best lopsided
cooling tongue dripping
out my eager mouth

Ever hopeful my furless friend
will throw dear Ball again


For this week’s Living Poetry Prompt and a good friend of mine, Rocco, a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, now passed, who loved balls more than me and I was okay with that.

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Moriarty Thinks

Moriarty Thinks

I’d rather watch the little morsels
dart over last night’s dusting of snow
outside my sunny window seat
turning up twigs and brittle leaves
than come when you call.

My affection is not for sale.
My spirit remains undomesticated.
This world is mine but you can live
in it, especially when you operate
the can opener.


From last week’s Living Poetry Prompt.

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New Year’s Haiku

New moon yoked to the earth
drudging us like a plow
around the sun again


Happy Year of the Ox!

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The Dark Sire, What Dreams May Come

I am proud to announce that The Dark Sire has just published another of my horrific poems. What Dreams May Come appears in Issue 6 of that fine magazine and I encourage you all to check it out.

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Poem-On-Demand: Jedi

This afternoon I was one of four poets talking with some students at the Research Triangle High School. We covered the basics of our background in life and poetry then we gave them a live demonstration of Poetry-On-Demand. We asked them to put some words in the the chat (this was online, of course) and we each picked a word and wrote a poem in about two minutes. One of the kids offered “lightsaber” and I couldn’t resist.

Jedi

Lost my childhood
Raised by monks
Don’t think this
Don’t feel that
Practice Practice Practice
I’m tired of being Forced
to use this flashlight in the dark
give me a real Lightsaber
so I can show my worth


Thank you, Pamela Taylor, for including Chris Abbate, Tara Lynne Groth and I.

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The Ideal Muse

The Ideal Muse

I love you so I’ve kept you away

My adoration is pure
unadulterated by the banal
I don’t know the sound of your sighs
the smell of your sweat
or if you smack your lips while eating

For years I’ve watched you dance—
your motion joyful and serpentine
once you stood next to me
I didn’t dare speak
for fear you would reply

And now you’re leaving
our common friends and city
moving too far away
for me to observe
from afar

I’m glad— I’ll leave
you on this pedestal
too high to reach
like some cold constellation
or the porcelain moon—

the slightest touch of your hand
would crush me

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How many…

How many sugared hearts
will it take to feed
you the entire poem
of my devotion?

More than all the insulin
in the world could absorb.


For this month’s Living Poetry Visual Prompt.

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The End of Everything

Last night I attended another Science Tonight put on by the North Carolina Museum of Natural Sciences in Raleigh. This is the first one I’ve attended since the pandemic so it was virtual, of course. The talk was given by Dr. Katie Mack, based on her book The End of Everything Astrophysically Speaking. At the end of the talk, my fellow Living Poets and I read some poems we wrote during the presentation. It’s all on YouTube. The poetry starts at 59 minutes but I strongly encourage viewing the whole show so our poetic references land.

Here’s the full text of my poem, for those who’d rather read than watch & listen.

Telescopes are Time Machines

You and I—
we know the math.
This is all going to end—
some day.

Our sun will nova,
our planet disintegrates,
the stars will run away from us
and slowly blink out.

Or maybe some petulant dark god
rips the universe apart
or flips a field
and we all collapse.

But lying here with you,
in the afterglow of the big bang,
underneath a star speckled sky
in the expanding dark—

but not made of dark matter—
so we can hold each other—
stave off the decay
if only for a moment.

Right now, right here,
with you in my arms—
I can believe
the sky’s the limit.

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The Tricky Chickadee

The Tricky Chickadee

He sneaks into my yard
all sharp and tenacious,
wearing a face mask
as we all do these days.

He rushes a sunflower,
steals savory seeds
right from its heart
then makes a frantic getaway.

From the safety of his gang
high in the trees,
he shares a joyful snicker
at our human gravity.

In victory he cries—
trick-a-dee-dee-dee,
trick-a-dee-dee-dee,
trick-a-dee-dee-dee!


This is the poem I wrote with my pals at Charles House yesterday. We focused on bird poetry, including Dickinson’s Hope is the thing with feathers, Shelley’s To a Skylark and Frost’s The Last Word of a Bluebird, which seems to be a fun one he apparently wrote for his daughter Lesley.

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