As July Passes Test Patterns
Test Pattern Poet
This is to inform you that
The poet is not in at the moment.
We have no idea where he is
And if/when he will be back.
He could be out somewhere thinking
By himself in a place where nobody
Can get at him.
(He’s been doing that a lot lately)
Last we knew he expressed he was
Just out of words that he thought mattered so much to anybody anymore.
His images and sentiments, trivialized or ignored
Just coolly appraised from afar without any passion.
And he is as hurt as he is bored with letting that to get to him.
He realizes fully well how little
This poetry matters these days.
In a sentimental millstone to drown him
around his neck, heart or skinny ass
Of course we have heard all this bullshit before
Rather self indulgent despondency
And we have told him in no uncertain terms to:
…..get over himself…
So If we hear from him
We will let you know.
But don’t expect much
After all…….. he did learn that much
– Uncollected July 2012
Tones sound, and roar and storm about me until I have set them down in notes.
July will linger just near the door
as it is time now to go
and in a sigh or perhaps that ordinary roar
informing the waning afternoon in the calendars’
numerical voice that your number is up.
What startles you is the whispering in distance
Those concussions that wake the waves to break
and recede over the endlessly eroded
rocky regret infested
I hear strange voices in this ardent insistent wind.
I feel a tongue just inches from my ear that speaks
….in that sigh or ordinary roar that after all these years
I was assured….. I wouldn’t be able to hear this anymore.
All about this hazy animation of dirty white foam
You get left behind …..driven madly upon, away and over
So parade a secession of strollers across your face
Like on any anonymous beach.
They nod or speak appearing as apparitions
that drift windblown on the most silent of feet.
Only some will find the courage to speak
More will hide behind their own callousness.
Scraps of paper and fragments of prose
difficult to define
whip by in a helpless driven fury.
Now expression has little opportunity
The art of language has been lost in
the stiff insistence of a brisk sound gust of wind.
And the sky above is so blank and blue
and it is almost like time herself has slipped out
of her harness and runs on the shoreline
laughing in the wind, being blown all over the beach
naked, wild and free…..
of any memory
…… of the sigh or that ordinary roar
of us once
but now no more
……as July lingers near the calendar’s door.
-From Another Rubbereden 7/1995-2012