Five Observations

I.
Smoke. His pipe curls
from his mouth like smoke
or a branch waiting for something to perch.
His lips like two fists pressing together
or perhaps a wine press holding the bushels
of life's grapes, squeezing out the frustration.

II.
Waves. The tumult above my head now.
I sink beneath to feel the mini-tempest
massage my head. My knees slept
like two smooth stones in the sand.

III.
Rest. She’s like a lump of coal under a blanket.
Her geology about to spark. She’ll burn
for years: all of the compacted
rotting things raging.
She sleeps like a box of mexican jumping beans.


IV.
Father. A man who bit her head off
and desperately sought to sow it back on
but never learned how to sow. Her neck
the repair left wanting, so she covers
it with the mouths of boys creating an air-tight
seal. It will hold for now.

V.
Pelican. Rip and rage for fish and bones
beat the water with your wings,
take the carcass underwater.


The above poem is the third draft.
 

A Poem in Five Movement

Smoke. His pipe curls
from his mouth like smoke
or a branch waiting for something to perch.
His lips like two fists pressing together
all of life’s frustrations
or a wine press holding a grape
on the verge of popping.

Waves. Held the sun in tumults.
Sink beneath to feel the mini-tempest
massage my head while my knees slept
like two smooth stones in the sand.

Rest. She’s like a lump of coal under a blanket.
Geology is the art of time and pressure,
one spark and she’ll burn for hours
all of the compacted rotting things
suddenly raging
but not now, it’s sleepy time.

Father. A man who bit her head off
and desperately sought to sow it back on
but never learned how to sow. Her neck
is still healing, so she covers
it with the lips of boys.

Pelican. Rip and rage for fish and bones
beat the water with your wings,
take the carcass underwater.