Poetry in the Raw
Today, I present for your enjoyment some poems I've written in the last several months. Only lightly edited, and they still need improvement, but I'm willing to let them see daylight.
Summer, 1990
Give me the farm
instead, fresh manure
on the breeze in bean fields,
the cloying oil of musty dog
stuck tightly to each finger
as I separate berries from the vine.
Give me the farm
and naked, dusty feet
where I search for burrs and snakes
but never broken glass
where love is all around
in a faded yellow jingle,
and no shattered paper cups
listing in the dust.
Give me the farm
and a broken grey barn
and a road where one car
is commotion. Where a mud puddle
stagnates midst corn all summer
and mosquitoes feast
on sweaty, red flesh.
Give me the farm
and you can keep the rest.
Toxin
Overnight, my food
has turned to flower.
Damp roots have sprouted
deadly blossom
and stare out from the pantry
daring me to grasp
dark purple petals.
Tubers are now a morning
delicacy, a glory
I eagerly devour,
despite sly buds
that glare
accusation.
Grounded
We tumble toward
our futures, and
a current grabs hold
and shakes me,
a million volts
in a frozen core.
Grey is a burning nebula,
a grip that paralyzes.
And then there was you,
a tender touch
and the skies illuminate
detached palms.
Your eyes kiss mine -
a different song,
the same dance, and
I know it all by heart.
Summer, 1990
Give me the farm
instead, fresh manure
on the breeze in bean fields,
the cloying oil of musty dog
stuck tightly to each finger
as I separate berries from the vine.
Give me the farm
and naked, dusty feet
where I search for burrs and snakes
but never broken glass
where love is all around
in a faded yellow jingle,
and no shattered paper cups
listing in the dust.
Give me the farm
and a broken grey barn
and a road where one car
is commotion. Where a mud puddle
stagnates midst corn all summer
and mosquitoes feast
on sweaty, red flesh.
Give me the farm
and you can keep the rest.
Toxin
Overnight, my food
has turned to flower.
Damp roots have sprouted
deadly blossom
and stare out from the pantry
daring me to grasp
dark purple petals.
Tubers are now a morning
delicacy, a glory
I eagerly devour,
despite sly buds
that glare
accusation.
Grounded
We tumble toward
our futures, and
a current grabs hold
and shakes me,
a million volts
in a frozen core.
Grey is a burning nebula,
a grip that paralyzes.
And then there was you,
a tender touch
and the skies illuminate
detached palms.
Your eyes kiss mine -
a different song,
the same dance, and
I know it all by heart.
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