Please Remove Your Cap When It Rains

English: This is one of the digitized images o...

English: This is one of the digitized images of the original painting American Gothic that Grant DeVolson Wood, a master artist of the twentieth century, created in 1930. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Were rain to fall in a Postmodern way

I suppose the pitchfork between Mother and Father America

should be the show

twisted, for all that, in the goatee planets

toes tucked under art’s carpet

with the Old World smokers,

awaiting translators with the appropriate hat

to drum up a cordial place

to set the feathered caps of preconceived seeing,

in preparation for a swim.

Now Boarding, Now Rambling

You'll see the imagery-relevance of this soon enough. Image by: Chris Galford.

In keeping with the Den’s theme of travel this week (see previous post for update on that little number, mind you), what few free moments I found today were spent typing up this little number for you folks. Wanted to capture a sense of depart-wait a second! What am I doing, giving away the meanings? That’s for you people to figure out after all – don’t know if I did well, if I just give all the secrets away.

Even so, I think it needs a little touch of work still (and yes, I know I get snipped at by folks for saying that any time I do it on here…but nonetheless!), but that’s the beauty of the blogosphere – so many wonderful minds out there, ready to give and to take, critique, grow, and flourish in the presence of their fellow creative community members. Some silly people believe that if you aren’t content with it, it should be hidden away, kept from public eye until you are…to keep one’s self-opinions and dignity high I suppose. Personally, I like the reality check – and if it’s bad, goodness, shouldn’t a writer wish to know? So as ever…critique welcome!

Consequently, if you haven’t, (and particularly if you’re not wandering in here from D’Verse Poetry), you should give this wonderful community a look. Lovely site, lots of great people about – and if you’re at all familiar with One Stop Poetry, you’ll find lots of familiar faces there.

Now Boarding

The yellow dress sits at the bedside table.

Bare feet upon the tiled trail,

smooth lines catch the dirt,

end in mountains under

Phrygian skies

where words give to mudslides

of heart; no sneakers

will bear them there.

 

It was the shoes they left behind.

When worlds light by tails

there’s no room left to fill,

the memories move like clockwork –

bodies remain,

lost along the long roads

rendered Silken; eyes open

to coal bell rings.

 

No one speaks of the bill till it’s due.

They always say to breathe–

she prays that he will breathe.

Across the prairie roams old

Model T

beating out the departure chords,

soot-lined; black worlds

always greet the young.

 

The yellow dress sits at the bedside table.

She would take his hand,

tell him blisters fade with time,

that their shoes will find him still

in Requiem

somewhere beyond that grey road

they wait; clock ticks

as she offers him the keys.

Bedside

* A work in progress – critique welcome!

Broad strokes, bedside

broached the topic of

wedded blasphemy,

through bygone whispers

renovated in bravado,

battered with the blue breeze

bloody braggarts call carnal bastardization.

An immigration of conscience

instituted something like incontinence.

Winged Aphrodite pulled hormones

through the shaft of her soul,

but ringed Bast barred in gold;

lovers circled bane and bust,

but the band bonded true—

like a shadow, lust, pulled

through the needle of love’s eye.