Bumblin’ Bees

Boy, sometimes, you know, I just feel like a piece of dirt walkin’
Ain’t no use in being, even less in talkin’
There’s a burden to be, but I can’t feel it for nothin’
I guess it’s just for those busy bees we call sons and daughters

So, as expected, I walk just a little, here to there
Find a little shade ‘neath a bridge or a bench, up on a square
Being a bumble of a bum, tambourined extraordinaire
I sleep on the breeze; stained glassed windows, incensed air

Then as I go, you know, this dirt bakes, it cakes up and up
‘Til it seeps into my knees, creates in me a waddle and cluck
Then there’s that burden in mind; it can’t all be for nought
I guess I’m just for those bumblin’ bees we call daughters and sons

Fall 2019 #32

So long the sun of summer rose
And bloomed divine petals
Like rainbow stains from fallen rains
Pressed by judge’s gavel

But lo! the judge is gone from us
And scattered all in wind
Our babbled tongues and hubris
Caused summer to rescind

So in the winter of our sun
Our colors bleed to grey
What was pristine will lose its sheen
We’ll fall by scythe’s blade

And remain in the spirit born to us
By design? I think by fate
The heaven that was over us
Lost its pearly gate

Thus, in the fall, shall we revel
In colors’ brightened end
We know the cold comes for us
Our summer won’t come again

Fall 2019 #31

How quick it seems, the reds from greens
Comes earlier each year
Though summer’s longer, ever hotter,
Fall creeps ever near

I feel the chill of axis tilt
How breaths escape my lungs
And forms a ghost of memory
Past lives I abandoned

Remembering each noon that bloomed
Before each summer’s end
Beneath my sheets, where I retreat,
When greens again turn red.

Fall 2019 #30

the evening i watched bumbles in flight
has grown much shorter
while morning’s chill has stretched into noon
and continues to loiter

the breaths i breathe i find condensed
in tapestries and threads
though the sun dispassionately
sits high above my head

Hey, Little Momma (I’m a Bad Man)

Hey, little mama, whatcha thinkin’ thatcha gonna do?
Hey, little mama, are you thinkin’ that I’m through wi’chyou?
You go out that do’ I’mma tell you what I’m gonna do
I’mma find my nine, betta believe I’ll bury you…

Hey, little mama, don’cha know I know where ya been?
Goin’ out parading and a drinkin’ til it’s half past ten
You goin’ out to meet ‘im and tha good Lord is a thinkin’ it’s a sin
‘N you know that won’t do… so I’mma put you 6 feet in…

No, sorry, sheriff. No, I can’t say I know where she is…
No, sorry, sheriff. No, I can’t say I know where she went…
Well, you know, we’d been a fightin’, so maybe she’s a stayin’ with a friend
Oh, Sunday? OK. Alright. I guess I’ll be seeing you then…

Low River Bed

the river was low this evening
brown, with smoothed rocks exposed
and fowl pick clean the rotting bed
where flippers now repose

from a bridge i read this frightful scene
i stare -long; my mouth agape
yet walk along my merry way
like a good ape

and many more long languid souls
march upon my path
faster still as their flippers flail
even loonies do the math

no fright, don:t see the razor beaks
crack shell, break bone, lust sate
just walk along your merry way
there now, that:s a good ape

all hear the caws of dinner:s din
do each deserve their day
the fete of those fine feathers, lo!
behold, the sky:s now grey

NPB 2019

Pulpit pimp party!  Pulpit pimp party!
Throw your hands in the air!
Hallelujah!  Throw your hands in the air!

We got kids in cages!
Nazis in rages!
Blackface and stages!
Apologetics by the pages!
Can`t nothing ever faze us!
We are the merchants of the free.

And don`t forget
Your little pointy hats
made from mother`s sheets
And prowl and howl discreet
After our dark-skinned brothers beaten in the streets
(well, beaten if they `re lucky;
bullets if you feel me)
Brass badges for immunity!
My lovely land of liberty!
My pro-life coterie…
God bless the humanity!
It`s such a grand old party
Who`d ever want to leave?!

These vestments own their investments
And the nation waits for their testaments
Dear Calvin has blessed these sacraments
Their divine right, the establishment
Save grace be absent from the sanctity

So the gold laden robes
and multiple mansion homes
are His glory to behold
How these pious pulpit pimps scold
That these riches prove they`re saints

But now I`ll keep it simple
They ain`t.

School Window

 

a tangled lattice of telephone vines
making ties for the clouds
mixing, entwined
til the breast of a mountain cleaves their bonds
pushing puddles `to craters; living ponds

now scattered tatters against blue remains
and haze replaces the empty spaces
strangled by vines that our voices disdain
rending the safety of sacred places

lost, now fumbling,
tumbling through fujin`s winds
the apparitions from puddle`s prison
creep southeast, past the mountains meet the sea
fin`ly free to seek tranquility`s end

Now over the monsters too deep to see
A waving surface roils in ecstasy