Back to School

The time of year when the sun takes the color
Of pages in a paperback left too long on a shelf,

September makes Underwood remember school
And a girl who gave him a book.

"You should read this. It reminds me of you."

September makes Underwood think of promises and lies,
Books he did not read. A sun will come up
Tomorrow
But not this one. Every day passing
Is a torn-out page.

Underwood studies the mirror, researching
The cause of each wrinkle. Considers

Buying a pink shirt, maybe some shoes.
This time of year everything's on sale.

Hurricane brings the beat, but we ain't dancing.

A storm down south pushes funky

air through every crack and wrinkle.

We cannot get naked enough

To vent the heat or cool our skin.

The clouds are clothing us. We wear

rain for a hat. The wooly-wet

a river-muddied Saint Bernard

who wants to be your best friend.

Venus Looks Downrange

As she lowered herself

Onto me, she took

A sharp breath and held it,

The way a marksman waits

Between heartbeats before

Pulling the trigger.

Venus on a Tile Floor

She emerged from the shower

Flourishing her towel,

The cape of a matador

In the heart of a warm

Spanish afternoon.

A Walk Through the City with an Invisible Bear on a Chain.

Listening for rain, like a kid on Christmas
waiting for the hooves of reindeer
on the roof. Please Santa, bring me
some lightning wrapped in a bow.

Thunder, the sound of a storm getting its license
to drive wet and loud, out of sight of the clouds
who now question the decision to give him the keys.
His friend the wind will lead him to trouble.

By mid-August, the sun seems a little older,
yellowing like the edges of an old photograph.
A scattered few leaves change colors --
in the mirror, the greying of my own hair.

Aging Bachelors Argue about the Thermostat

Smell fresh rain in the dark of the evening.

Brother Heat said "Oh, alright. I'll give you the night,

Brother Rain replied "Damn right you will".

Ozone and minerals rise in the steam
air and stone vaporized by lightning,
and the matter laid to rest until morning.

Jumping the gun a little for Poetry Thursday this week. Re-working a Facebook posting, maybe some good will come of this eventually.

Have I ever told you about the time...?

After the hail storm

turned the yard into a sno-cone,

The moon painted the whole world gold

like a carnival ride at rest.

When the tree frogs sang

over the sound of traffic,

the lightning seemed so far away,

Like a story a friend used to tell.