3/52: storm song

The snow is falling like down,
signaling my heart to rest
even as my tires slip a little
and the traction light flickers
on the dash board
warning me against the white song.

On through the storm I push
wishing I were on a horse
covered with a wool cape
and a brimmed hat,
easing along through the woods.
Yes, agrees the song -
this is what you want.

2/52: into the night

behind
like a black wall
like some life-sized Transformer
the semi's cab reflects
the orange of the sunset
in my rearview mirror.
the silhouette
ringed with fire
like a dark angel
pursuing me
out of Memphis and into the night.

1/52: not like a storm

the thunder is here and there
like someone playing with the balance knob
on my father's old hi-fi -

and then the flash behind the blinds
like my sister's dance strobe -
the one she bought at Spencer's -
she and her friends playing music in the basement
hair, arms frozen in ice light.

and then comes the rain
   on the roof
   and against the windows.
it's just like the tracks on my mother's meditation
tapes
the ones she listened to,
and nothing got wet.

tonight is not like
a storm.

***

goal for 2015: 52 poems. I know it's modest, but I tried 365 and it was just too hard. I figure 52 I can do. Not necessarily one a week, but 52 does have nice symmetry.

4/365: quantum

I sit on my deck in the post-storm morning air
and I find that all possible futures are open
and laid before me, so long as I sip my coffee
and do not rush into any of them.

the longest ones are perhaps the most frightening
as the odds of loneliness pile up
like diapers and jars of applesauce.

some end with friends and family
in a warm place,
but one cannot hope for too much simplicity,
too much easy happiness, because
these are roads that end in dull eulogies
and flowers
and indifference.

I recognize by quantum logic
(which I do not understand)
that all of these things will come to pass,
and they will all belong to me,
if only "me" were a singular being.

101/365: fig

the fig is jealously holding on
to its leaves
even as the other trees bare themselves
for winter's purification.

soon enough
the branches will be Stoic
and gray -
a bundle of knotted sticks:

unperturbed by loss,
indifferent to sun and cloud,
the fruit of next year's crop
deep beneath the ground.

100/365: very large hands

the very large hands
are below the waterline -
this is the ocean -
dark blue brine of the cold shores -
shores so far from your feet.

the very large hands
are there
just below the surface
waiting.
waiting as very large hands are wont
to wait
below the waterline.

99/365: the getting ready

before anyone else is awake
I sit with my coffee and
blank notebook page
and listen for a poem.

what I hear is the hum of the refrigerator
and the occasional pop
from inside the walls of the house.

no poems,
but the birds are making plans
for the day.

in minutes these are drowned out
by the movement of feet,
showers, and the getting ready.