The New Never Ending Poem of the Poets of Everything   Leave a comment


The poet of time
must waste it
a requirement of the job
to loll lounge languish
until the mind seeks images
of hide-and-go-seek playing
seven-year-olds whose cheeks
smell of October
or the feel of a pregnant cat’s belly
and the delicious time lost at Ralph’s Jumble Shop
where ten cents drove a kid crazy
with so many ways to spend it

The kid-poet of crazy
spins fast in circles
arms catching air
kisses dogs on the mouth
pulls belly button fuzz and smells it
pees standing up just once
tells her mom, “I can’t be babysat
by Miss Snyder
her name sounds like snot
and by the way have you noticed
how the name “Raymond” seems
like scalloped potatoes?”

The poet of potatoes
gathers in late September
feels solid ground through her dollar-store flip-flops
yet the floating repetition
of seasons spins her tipsy
she’s becoming the age
her mother once was
they both peel skins in gentle curves
though one is dead and the other alive
potatoes fall like years
eaten raw with a bit of salt

Salt peppers the poet of thyme
whose spring has come
hands deep in loam
placing seeds in tiny wombs

Seeds wait for the poet of rain
to drip, slip, spit, pound,
hail, drizzle as Pollack-like painters
who see the dampened wooden fence
take on new shades
and flower petals hold drops
for thirsty robins
who swallow fat worms whole
worms who only came up to feel the rain

The poet of worms settles into night
sucks dirt from his fist
thinks of the worm
its tender moist skin
much like his own tongue
he put his tongue on the worm once
just to feel      compare
to taste with no harm
the dear wiggly thing
that undulates across his palm
he exhales loud dry sighs when he pulls them from the earth
to re-plant where they work the soil
for his vegetables that set his table that fill his belly
seasoned by the work of the worm
soft as a tongue

The poet of sex
puts his lips here and there
wraps limbs across limbs till the tangle
tingles all lines of communication
an ear here welcomes a tongue there
in efforts of ahhh almost alliteration
nibbles on a shoulder
the underarm’s dips and slopes shape under the palm
toes finds spaces between toes
eyelashes flutter across a nipple
and the small of the back sighs

The poet of bedclothes
uses cotton and down covers
writes what heaven feels like in the blank stare of night
as icicles hang on eaves worried about tomorrow’s slips
all the while mocked by muffin-heads
with cozy grins and ruffled hair speaking night language poetry
where heaven is a warm bed

Warm beds made by the poet of housewives
who writes of the reach behind toilets
the swipe of rags
the shine on counter
the shine of apples in grandmother’s basket
the spin of kitchen dancing
cheek-to-cheek with baby one, two, and three
the corners and cracks of blackened casseroles
she knows the gods of the oven, vacuum,
and lawn mower
she wanders outside

to walk with the poet of wind
who breezes by light as a leaf
dropping colors around your feet
or brisk as the chill that takes
its way into your coat
down the neck up the sleeves
sometimes with a force
that makes you gasp
you try to catch wind in your hands
but the poet slips by
taking words no matter how strong
and whips whole pages
from the mind
sticks them on bushes
blows them
to the gutter

where the poet of garbage
gathers the words re-shuffles
them in her noisy truck
where they mix with baby sounds
spit onto bibs
torn nylons from lost nights
toy trucks with no wheels
old lettuce and green bread
school papers not hung on the frig
unpaid bills tossed from fear
rumbles of cross words and kind words
all garbage now roiling together into a new ocean
that only the poet of garbage
knows how to contain

The poet of oceans
meets with the poet of prairies
to talk about expanse
waves
horizons
sunsets
food given to nourish
storms that toss one’s home about
the poet of prairies says
“It is the same for me”

The poet of sameness
says it is not so bad
this job of sameness
the sun comes on cue
she knows how fast to take the corner of Otowi
at Osage
knows how the beans taste with the same spices
her feet travel the yard path
and don’t trip on rocks near the hammock
or tree roots coming out of the ground
the knowing of same things
makes the raven
not seen yesterday a most
extraordinary experience today

The poet of extraordinary experience
licks her lips and taste cracks
of a deep arroyo
sits with owls as they wait for a catch
listens as stars drop tales to fence-sitting tomcats
mornings her coffee comes in a deep blue cup
where foamy creams of whites and beiges
look like a vacation where she swims
each morning back and forth  back and forth
her head turning often for breath

The poet of breath
watches her baby breathe
to make sure to have no doubt
to relieve a fear
she puts her cheek
to his tiny mouth to feel
brand new into-this-world-exhales
these freshest of puffs
not long from the womb
where no
gasps, pants, or holding of breath occurred
but now
each rise of chest
monumental
each stutter of unsmooth respire
stirs the poet of breath
to check once more
the tiny exhale
that means the world
will go on

The poet of going-on
and on in a never-ending poem
of the poets of everything
will never run out
but may run on
until her trigger finger
won’t straighten
and her wrinkled frog eyelids
droop over pupils
when hearing becomes only the imagination of sound
and scents become flowers in frozen ground
and the tongue tastes only the feel of goodbyes
then the next poet of everything else
inherits
all the rest

but until then the poet of rest
learns how to recline
while dogs ask to be walked
food hardens on dishes
exercise calls to soft thighs
thoughts of the 9 to 5 job
seep through until
all unrest leads to words
tempting her to twist them
into new intestines
that squeeze and grind
like the best coffee with a
hint of ginger and cinnamon
for holidays
or any days

the poet of days
knows each one
but the blend smooths them together
the way summers in a new place
delight with crocuses and tulips
then return every spring
making one year
into the next
the poet of days must mark them
with the twisted-ankle-October
the move to New Mexico
summer or
“It was in the red car years”
“the spring before mom died”
while every year next-door-Mable
pulls her decorated
Christmas tree onto her porch
waits a year
pulls it back inside

The poet of trees
feels loss
sitting in the cubicle
the box of work
hearing voices
drift over walls
she hangs a photo
of the oldest living thing
a Bristlecone Pine
gnarled ancient knowing
at lunch she walks
to the cottonwoods
to touch trees
that tell her
she is alive

the poet of alive
lets a mouse live on her body
and in her hair
slips unknown veggies
in your soup
has stare downs with her dog
thinks germs might have feelings
sees faces from shapes of sidewalk cracks
thinks slips of the tongue and wrong words used
make the funniest jokes
wishes she were Little Black Sambo
because of buttery pancakes
and shoes on tiger’s ears

the poet of pancakes
remembers her mother
saying, “If wishes were horses
beggars would ride.” then her father
“and if wishes were pancakes,
they eat ’til they died.”
I wish, I wish, I wish
swished through the house
five poor kids wishing through
the Sears and Roebuck
Montgomery Ward pages
some days pancakes fed
them three days in a row
the poet of pancakes
dreams of batter and butter
spread in pans of the poor
mixed and poured
from hands of the plenty

the poet of plenty
is a happy sort
believing that the good
don’t always die young
and the only way from
the lowest spot
is up
things work out one way or another
she plods with lightness
when the poet of plenty’s
hopes go down the drain
she doesn’t go with them
she makes new ones
she doesn’t run out

the poet of running out
leaves lovers on doorsteps
as they cry out for words
arms extended
this poet disappears through cracks
between buildings
doesn’t call doesn’t leave recipes
of absinth or oyster dressing
she runs to buses planes and trains
her poor dogs follow ticketless
the poet of running out
leaves you with only
one half roll of toilet paper
and a refrigerator note saying
she ate the plums you were probably
saving for breakfast
they were so sweet and juicy
she draws a smiley face at the end

the poet of smiles
writes of lips that hint
of a small grin at a new mate
the mouth that tries to contain the full-
out desire to spread the lips
across the teeth then lean
towards the other
and press lips against them
but for now just a hint
written down by
the poet of smiles who next notes
an old man smiling
at an old woman who places
the chocolate sauce closest
to his plate
he knows she knows
his love for chocolate

the poet of chocolate
loves all things dark
and sweet
loves the dark Cuban lad
who giggles when the lights
go out, “Can you see me?”
the poet of chocolate
dips words in darkness
then brings them up to taste
she’s not afraid of dark bitter sentences
not ashamed to let them enter
hot liquid then put them to her mouth
where sweetness melts on her tongue

the poet of sweetness
sings with a voice
like untracked snow
her words-
lotion across a baby’s back-
a voice that unloosens
the stone of lonely
settled in a chest
and begins to break it loose

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Posted December 28, 2013 by strongjacksonpoet54 in Uncategorized

Tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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