April- Still not a nice girl after all
April 2017- I sing in the lawn mower Chorus resounding in the distance back to life
The Missing Thread
Trying so very hard
not to miss this
The tail end of the shadows
contains it like it was pulling ink
in a thread line pinpoint
needles eye of the lines on this page.
April ignoring Spring
Back turned smirking
lusting in the gusting
of a premature barbecue twilight
gale burning hotter
wanting Summer now
No time foreplay.
April pleading hot and fast
Jump me now
Instead of holding the fool May’s hand
So in the hissing high unnatural
desire there is just enough
light and heat to make you
believe out of season
you’ve got a shot at all this.
When April wants to really taunt March
she uses his winds like this on you.
The roar of Winter in the throat of a August Dog
right after the Fools day with your name written
all over it.
April laughing in all their faces.
Calling then just a bunch of numbers with Roman names
don’t let the calendar door hit you as it clears
your ass clear away.
Not a nice girl
Knows you and your missing thread
and shows up on an afternoon like this
to taunt and tease you…..in knots. 4/2010
Why is April the Cruelest Month ?
Hard to put a handle
on this label.
So I asked my students
who originally wrote
They “peered” up at me
with such a deep bewilderment.
All except for that one girl who sits off on the left hand side of the room
who rolled her eyes and let out a sigh while huffing indignantly ,
“I don’t even see what that’s even supposed to mean.”
I guess now wasn’t the time to introduce the line,
“I see myself dead in the rain”
Maybe it was the bookend of chilled dawn memory
sandwiched between the evening dusk desire frost.
Driving to work in April ice storms
to be a teacher in a County Jail
tends to make you a “little thirsty”
by the end of the day.
“a lot….. of a “little thirsty”
Perhaps it is the distance taking hold
like one real “stick it to um” bastard of a Winter.
The distance of the years gone realized
in a growing, gnawing squeezing in your chest.
But really it’s that stranger’s hand in your pocket
You know that one you discover
upon putting your own in there
to fish something out.
And it looks like somebody already beat you too it
In some other April
where somebody elses memory
picked that pocket clean
of all you ever desired. 4/2004
In an April Moment
in oscillating cycles
My shadow lingers
in the doorway sighing
in the silent hiss of
upon fitful sparse green.
New red maple buds
burst on my daughters
Cardinals in pairs appear
nestled in the thick
wild golden eyes
They seclude themselves
hide deep red wings like
and in this late afternoon
translucent fragile light
I think the wrinkles around your eyes
and slight pout of your lips
are singing hymns of the
Terrible Now to me.
Christmas ornament Cardinals
seclude their love inside
while this intoxication
of the second is complete
every time when I keep my silence
you return to me.
From Sometimes Grief 2012
Why do I dream about you
around this time ?
Spring maybe the one I sometimes forget
from year to year
but not yet in the sky or the street.
Again last night
with that dream of you
the second in the
last few weeks
as I recall.
Much of the same thing
What I can remember about your face
It has been over ten years now.
The constant implication of
some sort of intimacy,
we never really had between us.
Just what was it we had between us ?
I’ll never be able to ask you now.
No now I dream in vague suggestions
of somebody calling my name
from very, very far away.
You left in March that chilly season
by the time April warmed
you were all memory and dull ache.
Why it is you would insist upon
visiting me now in this fashion
during this time of the year
in a succession of dreams
causes me to wonder out loud
What I ever really knew of you
What all this veiled memory
really reminds me
No matter how close,
these shadows of you
come to me in the night
as Winter succumbs in the arms of Spring
how my lyrical mind
wants to reconstruct the events
the landscape of our last time together
No matter what we did
on that May evening
in the street light’s glow
chasing darkness about the
inside of my car.
My head between your legs.
That last sentence of words
you lisp out at me
just below my threshold of hearing
All I can see now is a shaky outline
of a woman’s form directed towards me
the eyes discernible only by the glistening tears.
And then the slam of a car door
In the dream that visits me again
the same feeling.
It never happened for us.
We looked over that moment
of each other just so far… then
You walked away
back into the house.
I drove off
down the road.
And every year
at this time
tells this same story
just a little bit differently. 3/0