Summer Swinging

Gardenias scream louder in the brain
encouraged by the tender summer moon
glowing silent over a manicured lawn
with the hard pricks brough low.
Smells go brighter still slowly
to the steady movements of swings
twinned in their syncopated moans
and high-pitched retreats.
The gardenias and singing sounds
make islands in the dark
of a long, lonely porch,
while two invisible people speak with one another,
the gardenias and the moon.
     "What about when the hungry winter comes
     With all of your pungent desire" sounded,
     the higher of the two.
     "I'll just lie to you to keep it secret.
     Those secrets, they will keep you," moaned.
That summer moon kept glowing
till autumn made it bright
and gardenia blossoms waned quieter
in its harsh, October glare.

Sickly-swee smells must go with the cold
along with the sounds of swinging.
That porch is not deserted, though now it is the foreign orchids
that bloom there instead.

Where's Newton?

A moment ago I wrote a poem
About itself
It was brilliantly connected,
Theme to metaphor, form to function.
Loke Newton's nail-less bridge.
It hung suspended by its own 
Gravity.

A moment ago I wrote a poem
That fell apart,
Partly because I've never seen a moment
.  Partly because I've never seen a moment
.  But, though I know I remember,
Word for word recall the lines
That stuck together like calculus,

I can't be the same person.

A moment ago he wrote a poem,
A poem that I can never know.
I only know it like a freezer,
Rigid and cold.
Soemtimes that other person gets out
Stumbling like and ice man thawed,
He has my face, but is really out of place,

A relic poem writer. But where then
Is the poet? Or rather, when?

A man named Newton made a magic bridge
Where wood's weight pushed up wood
So no nail need scar it. But,
Not to be outdone, Nature worked away
Till the wood rotted away,
And all Newton's students
Couldn't put it back together again

Without nails.

Breaking the Leash Laws

Let loose the dogs of war
for Death is coming over
and she loves to nag about
going to the Jones'es
instead of visiting quietly
with the TV.

Let loose the dogs of war
for she loves dogs a lot
and will want go out and find them
and maybe even walk them about
for a visit to the Jones'es.

And when you let loose of the dogs
put on a dark suit or serious
dress if you're a woman as though
going to a funeral. Funerals
are boring enough to keep her away
and they keep the time occupied with dressing.

Let loose our dogs of war
because they are restless and too big
to stay couped up in the yard
and too annoying to be let in the house.
And also, wear cherry red ties

for after you let loose the dogs of war
you'll want an excuse to get Death
when she brings back the stray pets.
Like the Jews and the door thing (only less messy)
you might make her thing she's been there already.

For she's bad about spilling cherry Kool-Aid
and prone to forgetfulness.

Fighting Flowers

     You couldn't kill that old honeysuckle
That crawled over and crushed the neighbors fence,
Those sweet white and yellow flowers curling under
The metal mes. It was like those lazy dogs
That lay under your feet for years.
They just get fatter and more fragrant.
The time came when we had to cut it back.
Thin green vines had ripened until they became
Thick woody branches, full of water, so heavy
That it all slumped dangerously into our yard,
Threatening to lay waste to the boundaries
That make living life in suburbia better
Than whatever it was people did in the cities.

Though we fought the sugary intruder with courage
There was no stopping its whirling, crazy courage
There was no stopping its whirling, crazy assault.
The flower power was killer. We wanted to get the roots,
Throw a shovel at it till it cried mercy, but
They were over the line, Wat do you do to a plant
That refuses to stay where it's planted,
That refuses to play nice with the fence?
There ought to be laws against nature,
Thistles and all, from making itself such a nuisance.
Then again, I guess we did go a bit far. Perhaps,
Thoroughly too far with the poison idea.
That was a catastrophe waiting to happen.

The notion was to spray the damn weed and kill it
Then and there. Herbicide. It rings like homicide only
There's no guilt attached. So we took the stuff,
The herbicide, and sprayed it liberally onto our enemy.
There was no reprieve! No noticeable death except
The young trees in the front yard, the saplings,
That did it for us mostly. After that, only token fights
Then and again were wage. It had won and now even
The consolation of its nectar was denied to us, since
The residual toxins might do us more damage
Than it ever did to the flowers. It's sad we fought them so.
They didn't turn ugly like most vines I know.

Resolution of the Identity of Crisis of Tweezers

The tweezers are joined
Two opposites together
To a single purpose

I take them together
Pressed tight 'tween finger and thumb
Read to grip. It is the mouth of a corocodile
Swimming smoothly forward with firm intentions
On a hold. Snap!
It is the click of shining enamel.
His smell is hidden as an animal underwater.

I turn the tool delicately
So the pinch is up and release
Its tension. Points swerve upwards
Into antlers of a gazelle
Picking the end with with a nail
Makes a clack.
It is the impact of fighting horns.
His taste is what he's been eating, as with all animals.

I twist the two together
where they seem to become one
in an instant. It has killed the others
at once with a spear
As if striking its target with
Deadly force, it tongs
The reverberation of a long-shafted weapon.
Its heft is easy like all good tools.

The name of the tweezers is real
Because they do what was intended
And I recognize the features.

Old Purpose Remembered

i feel sick digesting my history
not from lament or remorse or headaches
but real indigestion of Purpose;
there're images that stick and people we see
punctuation marks on life that last
to conflagrate our visions of Purpose;
i'll go through this mighty realm of others and read
all about their stories in books and magazines
and ponder what they mean to my Purpose;
what does poetry do on paper, jealous leaves,
when all it does is muck up your mind
and all you want is to crum up that purpose;
that purpose is old and dirty prose
keeping me from my duty
my newfound gifts of futuresome deeds
and Purpose.

Economics

copper up a holy sacrifice
of learning
we build up a mighty ladder
reach out starved as the stars
and open wide the pockets for
pennies that we love.
there is a great grumbling that kills
because it is Death
coppery tasting death of lives and
their minds and all the cats and dogs.
regard the absurd, regard the circling
viscousness. hope yourself and anyone
you can hold out of the empty mine.
this dust is beautiful and useful.
both beautiful and useful.
copper tongues to copper minds.