Part Two of Five, Summer

Part II: Summer
I’m quiet, listening for Truth
On a day with red and green raining down on a
4th of July ballpark summer sky
Delayed since Apollo stays up late
And the red-fingered Dawn is rosy sweet
And a friendly face to these endless days
As her hair growing blonder
From springtime’s soft brown.
When daylight weakens
And night meanders on its way
I doze to swamp songs,
Crickets in an orchestra with
Bass singing operatic frogs
And the Mississippi blows softly on its harmonica

Part Two of Five, Spring

Part I: Spring
It is spring and the frolicsome brook laughs
But I don’t get the joke.
Courting birds sing
And the trees join in harmony,
Grass swaying as plucked strings.
Entwining ancient graves,
Sweet young white flowers
Rise from the dead in purity.
The rain jumps joyously
Wetting even tone-deaf concrete.
All of this I see through double glass
One shielding my eyes
The other covering my pale indoor soul
Even when the rain falls
I stay dry (even as the heavens cry)
On sunnier days
Hay-bales shine as gold
And my eyes redden (then I cry)
But I have no gold.
Even rats seem to find love
While crows linger over candle-light dinners
(Even if there’s only garbage to eat).
I am convicted; I am alone,
Still living at home
And so go outdoors
To lie on my back
And try to see Heaven,
I try to see my street,
My mansion,
My God,
But nothing can be seen
Through smog and a purple haze sky.
My friend, she tells me again that spring tastes sweet
But I can only taste
Summer treats frosted in spring-lenten mud
For Summer is the course now.

Part One of Five (Lenten Season)

Today I’ll start running a five part series of poems. Based around the seasons.
Please comment if you love it, hate it or to simply say I need to work
on my punctuation (that’s a given).

Prologue: Lenten season
Grass white in the cold
And trees solemn grey
Though the snow has
Removed its mantle,
A blanket soaked in age,
Withering in the face of a young Sun,
A glib Apollo disrobing for the summer;
But summer is now unthinkable
And spring isn’t close enough
Yes, the ice has cracked
And night arrives later during the days,
But the days are dry
And the wind blows unfettered
Taking care not to
Rouse the sleeping mud.
Long grey limbs still naked
Waiting for green song sleeves,
Bright white leis, and a chance to whistle
Spring may come but it is still not here.
As I sit amidst the mud, and nakedness
I feel my own desperateness,
Trying to endure an anxious pain
Constantly waiting for an ax to fall
Severing my neck, bursting veins of joy
And nerves of peace,
Peace splatters and covers its nakedness
And Joy stains the ash tinted bark
My head finding a pillow of soft mud
And the rest of me resting on the age wrinkled grass
And all of me resting in peace
In a stern old oak I think of things
And realize: It is spring

poem # 2 (funeral games)

How do I sleep tonight?
Yesterday I saw an old friend
Burdened with emptiness,
And an old tree in his
Backyard, apple of his eye
Fell from the tree and
Was downtrodden.
Dare I sleep tonight?
Men fight on TV, re-enactors
Of old wars, They play war,
The game was canceled
In favor of a brawl.
I saw them cheer, they threw
Beer and bile. They sat back in their
Seats when the fight finished,
They sat back relaxed, momentary lightness
In a heavy day of emptiness.
How does he sleep at night?
Medicine sings lullibies as
He sleeps during the uproar
Of gladiators make swordplay
On their sorrowful instruments,
Iron dirges sung at the funeral games.