John 3:16
Uncle Don is dead and gone
does anyone remember
When he wore a hat
and tall loose pants
Held up with two elastic blue
Or polka dot suspenders?
He socked his boys and locked
them up in the pantry for hours
Aunt Fran would hide
And make mincemeat pie
Rolling dough and lying low
Dusted with gold metal flour
One Sunday at the Pentecostal
church he found the Lord
He nearly swooned
In the spirit filled room
But he stayed awake long enough to take
His heavenly reward
He began to wear a wooden cross
And a PTL lapel pin
And he whacked his kids
Like he always did
for the lord above says out of love
That's the best way to repel sin
I began to think and dwell for hours
On how sins can be erased
How the first shall be last
And the slow shall be fast
And what is the same by another name
Is God's amazing grace
Elegies From the Dead
Rotting petals stripped of pleasant odors
Corrupting the rest of what’s corrupt
This is not a tulip bulb, not a cup of
wildflower seeds nor a pumpkin patch
Do you think I’ll naturally just hatch
with the first warm wind of March
Do you really fear the early frost?
Do I even hear those lazy lilacs start
to dare one another to wriggle out
Do I hear those whispers. Most
Garrulous incidental crop of quips
Dare me to speak? My lips
the ones that lovers, she or Paula, kissed,
are fraying like the covers of
olden pew Bibles. From kitchens drift
aromas— bacon fat or roast beef stew
or noodles oozing cheese. You miss
how moldy velvet lining tastes
collapsing into this elapsing face
Are you thinking some hasty thought?
Did anyone remember how deeply I
pondered, how the weight of an issue
stuck like moist snow on the feeble
branches in my brain. How can such
plebeian notions be worth so much
more than those? Have I gallantly tramped
an overall inch from the damp to the dry?
How far does a reckless boy think he
has moved. Mountains and oceans and free-
ways with calico cats and canvas campers
Where do they go, the group that dumped
me? Those who crumpled tissues, stone-
choked in their throats. So they won’t return?
Have I become so erased, so adjourned
Even you can’t cheer me up, won’t even try?
His Senses Sense Creation
Matted left leaf color of masan's egg
Three streaks of butter blonde
Glued by the dew to St. Teri's toe
Lizards in the mortar maze
Like the steel orb knobbed
Round the holes in a game
You saw our King?
Wide-set eyes creamy nape
Open collar, slim-fit pants
And that convergent bend
Wedged under the cheeks
The switchblade gnawk of the tongue
From the roof when the words
Exude and the unsealed lips
The third swallow after the
Foods ooze over the gullet
The barren nose that sniffs
And springs and clamps
A stinky clue or two left lying in a laptop
The swallow twits and the bat creaks
The Gourmand plucks the last
Off with a satisfied huff
The cypress tree is one or two leaves away
From the panes from the august
Chamber of King Widget
Apologia cum Concilio
Francis Fairfax is not a scam
Would a scam do this?
Serve time on school boards
Give bones to unwanted dogs
He forecloses or purchases low income homes
An attorney serving this neighborhood for years
Frank Fairfax knows a scam and wants to protect you
From unscrupulous makers of fake clubs
Spoiling your Sunday morning swing
Taking its toll on your handicap
Frank Fairfax won't stand for that
Know your dealer and the feel of real clubs
Be forearmed and ready in advance
And keep yourself in the swing
Non Haberes
Sealed envelope
Waiting
Vagabonds sip and talk
Sinatra and local produce
There is a handoff
Nothing else but
This will tell you all you need to know
A red haired woman wrapped in polka dots
Chirps venti latte soy one shot of espresso
Two comes a mouth tied up in a mustache
The sharp ice edges are barely worn in the coffee
He's gone
Could this finally be the end
Slurps of tepid cocoa
And a hissing from a barista in the
Direction of headphones and laptop
Grande skinny caramel frapp
Near the shadows of the restroom
Come pudgy quips about the sweetener
My cup, my cup
Invocation
Stained saints and earnest cracks
Simple formats and holy water
Songs from the frayed Hymnbook stacks
Preaching in the cedar larder
The Study Room swoons with inky markers
Archway books and musty magazines
a broken carousel and several barkers
plywood blocks bright blues and greens
On Sunday, Wendy was confused
"Gloria patri is a parish member!"
and Little Ed made paper cubes
from the leftover papers in the pews
folded shaped and pressed and blown
Around the middle of December
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