I thought this poem might be longer or never end

This poet
always the headshot with mouth closed
no smile to speak of
a Texas bloke
not likely a smokin’ poet
talks of what was left unsaid
by not saying it yet again.

Some silent plea for patience
or a mystery set before an audience
for some
on the other hand sort of a play
for a delay in a main act
never begun without a fight.

September 15, 2019

imagine a car so sweet and low
smoothing across roads
on a cloud carrying cool
lines so soft it makes vision ache
to drive on down that turn
those curves

one could imagine
the fellow who spurred poetry
made this electric thing
whirr within me
as an abuser

this is a whatnot
mostly not
a pursuit without
cause or effect
and unappreciated to boot

elseways might say
now no escape
a life’s singular
objective not so much
a cage as a cloister

an unusual union
a gallop to nothing
in great haste to find
empty spaces
meant to be written down

it would be ingratitude
to construe the devil
who brought me along
as anything but beautiful
even if only as an absent glade.

does the eagle consider the egret
a delicate creature perching
in high branches?
does the egret see more than a threat
in the soaring of same? or all being beyond comprehension
are they indifferent:
one not fat mammal
the other not crunchy frog?

july 28, 2019
Gays Mills


a walk in the woods
too hazardous with ticks
and a perfect politics
in this hard modern world

then a dream of meeting
his family of so many
and a room for us in the back
so civilized and welcome

then a walk around the grounds
to familiarize myself
not a thought of dangers
no tracing wind.


It seemed a pretentious journal
Long in the tooth, satisfied
But poems were there
That drew me

My email was curt
Your pages don’t work,
The online subscription

Their reply, equally forced
Noting a homepage link
Press a button,
Clearly there

And my reply, their direction
Sends me in circles
And never
An ever-loving form to fill

Now, with usual frustrations
My temperament is cool
But this exchange befits
How lost poetry has become.

they talk about whole
and accessible
soul sort of existence
like a given

invite those they-sorts
in and the shredding starts
with some hope
of a final braid

a plait straight
and narrowing
down the erect
spine in back

fiddling with the stubby
end in a fight
or fright sort of
standoff, waiting

The news reader
said something about
decolonizing data

but no, that’s not right

it was an email that mentioned it
as if read by a newsperson
who could have read it
if there was money to be made

or maybe someone who

would understand it
as if it was a real thing
full of emotion needing decolonizing

but numbers really

that mean something
if we know how to think
about it.

Strikes me
His book collection
Was probably little more
Than disposed of
After his death.

I would have liked it
But in the end
He was not nice man
After years bereft
It rubs off, makes impressions.

The continued concuss
Of being ignored
An empty marriage
Decades of the desert
Nothing ever good enough.

We lived parallel lines
Surrounded by books
That couldn’t betray
Sat silent with great weight
Accusations aside, he read them, every one.