Category Archives: Poetry

Poetry

And Now the Spring

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And now the bulb is poised to pop.
And now the seed trembles in the soil.
The rhizome simmers sugars
Surging through cells to crush through mud.

And now the bud swells pregnant
And now the leaf grows shoulders in the bud.
The sun, the rain, the wind thrust,
All tremulous.

And now the yolk shivers in its sac.
And now the worm uncoils in a lurch.
Copulation is insistent and frequent.
The hive quivers its fertile breath.

And now the spring’s fidget returns.
And now the death must dither.
The rut is unopposed.
Even churches cannot begrudge a flower.

Poetry

Again, For Brenda

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Brenda Moossy (on left) with friend Lisa Martinovic (in hat)

As the number of my age
Rises by increments
regular as a plow horse
scratches furrow by furrow,
I look forward to the time
when Brenda and I
will soak in her hot tub
and drink strong drinks
among the stars.

In her voice,
the East Texas
will still subvert
the Arkansas,
Her tones,
(husky-sweet,
like Southern Comfort,
but only a little murky)
taking the time,
lingering in her mouth like earnest work,
Its presence palpable,
before it comes to me.

She bids me, “Breathe.”

Then lays that laugh on me, like light to a moth.

Poetry, Uncategorized

Dead Children in the Spring

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I have not obtained permission to use this photo. I mean no ill by using it.

Nothing breaks
a grandfather’s heart
more completely than
even-toned news reports
of bombs being thrown
on children.
It breaks his heart,
then breaks the pieces,
then pulverizes the little pieces
then grinds the scraps to dust
then throws the dust in the littered gutter and burns it.

Poetry, Uncategorized

The Lungs of Youth

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Baby Poet

Young Poets
are certain they see and know
all the things wrong in the world—
all the various injuries and injustices—
all the shadow forces at work on the human condition.
They bring hearty lungs and hale voice
to bear with lusty demonstration.
–
Old poets
know
treachery and
deceit and
iniquity in hearts and
the crushing weight
of patience.

Poetry, Uncategorized

It’s a Trick

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The angel of death striking a door during the plague of Rome, 1879. Engraving by Levasseur after Jules-Élie Delaunay.

Caution: frank talk of suicide. Not a plea for personal help.

There is a moment every morning
when I decide not to kill myself today.
It might be after making coffee, not always.
Or after the under-blanket stretch which brings
a shudder of bladder awareness.
It might be after toast,
after email,
but sometime in the morning,
I elect to to go on with the mundane
and put off the ultimate until tomorrow.

I may be lazy—
just can’t get motivated to finish.

I may be forgetful.
It often doesn’t even occur to me until nearly afternoon
by which time it would be irredeemably irrational.
Why go through the mundane start of another mundane day
only to end it after News at Noon?

I may be fearful that leaving such a mess for someone else
in full daylight would be an act of terror.
And some days it’s too cold to go outside. Or too hot. Or raining.

By the time dinner is over,
there seems no point in doing more than going to bed
in service to Depression.
No one gets out of bed to kill themselves.
Behind closed lids,
I listen to the background hiss of the universe,
which I just discovered doesn’t exist.
My doctor says it is tinnitus.
I also learned the sense of hearing
may last beyond the loss of consciousness…
meaning
it is possible to hear your own dying breath,
if it gets past the tinnitus.

I do not get out of bed
except to pee.
No one commits suicide in their sleep.
Maybe there should be a prime time show
where the sleuth sets off to find
why the old man committed suicide
in his pajamas,
or his boxers,
or with his wherewithal hanging out.
I never think about suicide in my sleep.

Poetry

I Said “Thank You” to a Spider

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Today, in the hot house,
I said “Thank you” to a spider.
She folded two legs across her chest
and tapped the toes of two others.
I said “Thank you” to a spider
and I specified her work
in the hot house,
though I did not mean it
as a loophole, specifically.
I said “Thank you” to a spider
and the fingernail-clicking
of her voice chittered,

“‘Bout damn time.”

Commentary, Haiku, Poetry

Haiku for a global pandemic

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I recently joined a FaceBook group called “Haiku for a global pandemic.”  Once or twice a day I drop a haiku in that group. I’m going to keep a little collection of them here as well. I’m sure mostly they will be my own, but I’ll put up ones I like with author’s permission. This will be a growing collection through this period of isolation.

4/13/20
Cold Michigan wind

the morning after Easter,

trails strands of somber.
–Steve D. Marsh

4/10/20

My highest highlight:
The most yellow daffodils
Telling Death to wait.

–Steve D. Marsh

Parody, Poetry

My Corona

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See, the thing is, Weird Al said not to do this and I’m not even the first. But here’s my version…and a link to the original.  But feel free to sing along with my lyrics below. Very 13 year old boy brain stuff.

 

UPDATE: Friend, Ken Cormier, honored me with this: Please listen.

Oh my little bitty one, bitty bug.
Are you gonna live in some grime, Corona?
Ooh, you make my sneezer run, my sneezer run.
Blow a Kleenex full of slime, Corona
Never gonna stop, give it up.
Such a dirty hand. Always get it up for the touch
of the viral kind. My my my i yi woo.
M M M My Corona

Come a little closer, huh, ah will ya, huh.
Close enough to sneeze in my eyes, Corona.
Keeping you so far away gets to me
Licking down the length my fries, Corona.
Never gonna stop, give it up. Such a dirty hand.
Always get it up for the touch
of the virus guys. My my my i yi woo.
M M M My Corona
M M M My Corona

When you gonna give it to me, give it to me?
It is just a matter of time, Corona
?
Is it just destiny, destiny?
Or is it just a game in my mind, Corona?
Never gonna stop, give it up.
Such a dirty hand. Always get it up for the touch
of the viral kind. My my my i yi woo.
My my my i yi woo.
M M M My Corona
M M M My Corona
M M M My Corona
M M M My Corona

(Apologies to The Knack)

Nature, Poetry

The Parable of the Otter

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The otter floats, playfully aware,
on the currents and the tides.
She dives to examine
an interesting stone.
She turns it every way
in the sunshine,
floating on her back.
She flips it away
and finds another.
It, too, is interesting,
turned in the air,
maybe for the first time in a thousand years
or, perhaps, since last week.
It smells of the water.
It slips away.

She does not keep the interesting stones.
They would weigh her down.
She would drown in her sleep.

She darts to the bottom.
She pries a fish from a crevice
and returns to the surface current,
always floating on her back,
enjoying her lunch.
Sometimes she spies a clam.
She also finds the right anvil stone and,
again floating on her back in the currents,
beats the clam on the stone
she balances on her stomach.
It is primal and
it is dinner.
She releases the clam shell and the stone.
One plunges to the bottom.
The other rocks back and forth in descent.

Parody, Poetry, Uncategorized

Draining the Swamp

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Sent a crocodile to Washington.
They sent that croc back to me.
They said, he can’t get along with anyone.
Sadly, that’s a fact, although he’s a she.

I should have sent my alligator
To chew through the hullabaloo,
‘Cuz a crock just hasn’t a clue
What a real live swampy gator can do.

So I sent them back a gator,
A big ol’ boy to boot.
Made him carry a crock-skin briefcase
While wearing a shark skin suit.

He was supposed to take your retirement
And turn it into a fortune.
Instead he pocketed the cash
And landed a round house on your chin.

He sold us out for a private island
And a cabana made of bamboo.
Turns out a man just hasn’t a clue
What a real live swampy gator will do.

So I just stay out of Washington now.
The dialogue’s been getting hotter.
Some say its the death of civility.
I think it’s something in the water.