Okay, three days to make up for, two here, one in the next post, I don't trust blogger. I have been writing, just not blogging. Still waiting for my fans. Fat chance of a fart on the farm finding me.
pad 8 from about april 2
This is not a poem filled with symbols,
symbolism, images. Driving to work
I'm always writing these poems,
looking for birds, egrets white
in their wedding dresses, wings
tucked into their tails, tight
dive maneuvers or wide
right over my car, speeding
the ugliness of the cars,
hawks, always I see them only
one at a time, decked out in his
claws, proud on tall chain link.
Today the white and brown,
the possible wings, are just
trash, muddy newspaper nests of
rain water, flapping bags,
electric white slashed to
those same fences. Not a poem
among them. Not even irony.
pad 9 from march 20
in my car
small against my legs, back
big view, hills, rain
enormous sky flying by
blue or wide
my head touches the roof
air tastes like breath, mine, kids'
breath off banana peel
debris
it's very quiet here
except the banging of my mind
against the glass
a hammer, a song,
a laugh.
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