Rod Drought
The Dark Waltz
Vacant dance hall
Dark music
Echoes from oblivion
A slow rhythm
Like a dead foot
Dragged across a sidewalk
My own feet
Fall in step
A waltz
That circles inward
Muffled, old tunes
Never fade
Just me
And the music
Squirming
Cool worm
Channeled in the hole
Of its’ own creation
No eyes
To find light ahead
No up or down
Blue Danube drone
No river, all roots
Then I remember
To make tea instead of coffee
Take a walk,
See a friend
Blinders off
My hands push
The crash bar
Today and tomorrow
Step from the shadows
Outside
A bird is singing
Not for me
But I like the tune
Eulogy
Here lies
The child stolen
Buried in the space
Created by the rib
Given to Eve
This child
Died a pitiful death
Biblical in nature
Learned shame in
False sins
Made to believe
History taught by victors
Infinitive
Math problems
Adding up to nothing
The child was good
Dutiful to a fault
The fault being
He obeyed
Got in line
Like others before
Dull servant/robot consumer
Hair greyed, teeth yellowed
‘til the day
The child vanished
Vanquished
To the small space
Haunted by the ghost bone
Close to the lungs,
The shallow breathing
Of the monster it had become
Near the beating heart
Where the soul
Was last seen
Folk song
Every night
We made love
In her Yonkers apartment
The tenant above sang
“Where have all the flowers gone?”
She would laugh
I would a little although
I was well versed
In loneliness by then
The all too familiar
Polar vortex of emotions
Gone to seed
Every night
We loved and laughed
He sang himself to sleep
The three of us holding on
In the random accumulation
Of apartment lives
Like dandelion seeds
Cling to its head
Before the wind
Pries them away
I was a winter stray
Stayed to see the melt
Of exhaust blackened snow
The unveiling of candy wrappers
Rustling down avenues
Empty beer cans rolling
Tinny hollow echoes
Bottles not busted, whistled
A tune of absence
Soldiers without a war
Folksingers without a cause
Come dirty spring
I was a juror in White Plains
Listening to wire taps
Scratchy recordings
Of a mob attorney lying
Reading Yeats on lunch breaks
Retreating at day’s end to the
Transitory home of a young girl
That gave me all she had:
Her cramped city apartment
Nervous laughter
Sweet, purging love
Lullabies of protest
Between paper thin walls
Amid rentals, vacancies and perjuries
Where we once lived
And sang
from The Adventurers and other poems
Status Quo
I appear content
To you,
I am satisfying as tepid milk
On a summer day
You ask what do I want?
I have no answer
I have no answer
To me and you,
About the choices on the menu
Dropped at our table
I choose the first dish I see
The way I picked you
And here we are
On a restaurant patio
By a babbling brook
Near a village green
Where an old cannon sits
That children hang and leap from
Wars seem far away
But one is right here
Raging within
It is a cold war
With entrenching tools
We are dug in
Trench footed and starving
Through this interminable war
Peace only comes at Christmas
Climb from our holes
Cross battlelines
To smoke cigarettes
Play a harmonica
Dream of the home we left behind
Then the waiter comes
Asks if we decided
You answer quick
Warm milk on a summer day
I am clueless
Here
Rain is a big deal
It arrived this morning
Hesitant and shy
Barely audible
Taps on the shoulder of
this red desert dusted land
Streaking the massive saguaro
Where generations of cactus wren
Carved out their homes
They and wandering quail
Make the rain a reason
To huddle and shelter
Just like the doused sun
Which is too often the guest
That stays after the party is over
Laughing at nothing
Burning his drunken presence
On your tired head
I make a second cup of coffee
Take in the sepia air
Earth and sky
Blend as one
As do my thoughts and breathing
Not caring about clocks or calendars
Taking in subdued nature
Caressing a hot cup
A moment of grace
Can seem eternal
This rain
Will do nothing to sooth
Withered brush
Fill the Colorado river
But it is rain
With its’ bashful peace
That transforms
Makes obsidian mountains shine
Makes the second cup
Taste all the better
Day Life
Birthing sun
Dispels dead of night
Pre-school morning
Children temperatures’ taken
Hug teacher’s knees
They scratch and peck
Like hatchlings from Easter eggs
Striped legging girl
Dark curls and eyes
Hops on one foot
Sees her little blue-eyed beau
She will draw
Crayon hearts for him
Mid-life day
No cover, no shade
Power lunch martini’s
Sharp attire professionals
At the five-star restaurant
But under tables
Matchbooks balance uneven legs
Band Aid bleeding heel of the Stiletto lady
The executive’s Italian leather shoes
Scuffed, the shine gone, soles worn thin
Old man sundown
Walks scruffy mini poodle
Crosses the intersection
Traffic paused red light
Breeze picks up
Billows light white jacket
He is a wrinkled sail
To the dog’s undercurrent pull
The tightwire taut leash
White beard stubble
Knotted brow
Senses the umbilical cord snap
Into indifferent night
Knows he could fall
No safety nets
With a dog at the helm
Sniffing for god