Triplets on the mantle.

Three candles

red, brown, and green.

with blackened ash coated

wicks.

In front of the painting with the cracked

glass front.

You shattered Prince Edward Island

when you were a baby

your parents say.

Now they sit, dejected, on the mantle

like a losing politician.

burned out during a power outage.
And now sit on the white brick

fireplace.

Alone.

and dark.

November Morning

The sky is pale on this cold November morning,

Jack Frost has visited overnight and the grass is fringed with white.

I walk past the neighbor’s car, which has been hidden under a white tarp

like a blanket or a birthday present.

Few cars drive on the road at 7:15 in the morning.

I can see my breath and pretend to be smoking a pipe

sending clouds of water vapor into the brittle air.

And I am astonished and captivated by a single brown leaf,

hanging precariously from a single thin maple branch.

I know that the only leaf left hanging will soon plummet to join its peers

and join the brown heaps on the side of the road.

The deciduous angiosperm skeletons whose hard wood is bent

at random joints and angles stand and I see them shivering along with me.

Its amazing how time flies

as the birds fly south.

I wonder what the leaf feels like as it watches the cars go by

on the quiet road.

Soon it snow will come

and the brown heaps will disappear.

And the cycle will repeat as if time was reversed

and the leaves will grow again, green and beautiful and strong.

And the leaves will return to the same trees

that they left so long ago.

Sandy Pantoum

Rain falls drizzling

from the drab sky.

Pitter Patter.

Like slow moving oil.

From the drab sky.

Delicate lady finger clouds

Like slow moving oil.

Float through the sky.

Delicate lady finger clouds

wispy and whipped; frothy

float through the sky.

Like thoughts or dreams

Wispy and whipped; frothy.

Trees sway and puddles form.

Like thoughts or dreams.

The calm before the storm.

Like thoughts or dreams.

Rain falls drizzling.

Like slow moving oil.

Pitter patter

Waiting for the storm to hit. Good luck to you all

NBS

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He has his toys organized all in a row

wrenches, and hammers, and pliers.

Criss-cross apple sauce.

He has lenses over his eyes,

almost invisible

in the light of his office.

On the pelt of a

plum shag carpet.

Asking questions

that don’t make sense.

Taming the roaring lions

that prowl the wild

savanna of your

mind.

New Design

Blog has a new design! Do you like it??

Monarch

Such delicate things.

Lost in the wind and moaning breeze.

Wing in a sling.

Fighting for the courage it needs.

A monarch.

A king.

Brilliant and colorful.

King of the skies.

Lost in the night.

Buffeted.

Battered.

Going south as the chill approaches.

Migrating.

Patterns on wings, and antennae.

Too thin to touch.

Some alternate Haiku

The vines rowboat leaves

Swayed by the winds shifting wake

Struck by spring’s sea spray.

Sailing to clear places

And toward the horizon.

Lighthouse guides the lost

Far from lurking rocks and stone

Shying from harms way

Lighting the true path

For one to take.

He saw no petals

Falling from trees or flowers

With slow wind, but his

Feet brush the pink

Confetti from the cherry tree.

Scaling to the top

Shading eyes to see the land

Grabbing onto branch

As to stay up

And see as long as possible.

These haiku forms are called Tanka, they are just haiku with two added lines at the end

Pantoum

Pantoums are a fairly unknown form of poetry. It is one of my favorites. Learn more about them


Here is a pantoum I wrote about the beach:

Waves are crashing, snatching, latching

on a sandy beach lapping at our ankles

so many vacations,

And tourists with cameras around their neck.

On a sandy beach lapping at our ankles

single mothers escape work

and tourists with cameras around their necks.

Lifeguards sit bored, making 30 dollars a day.

Single mothers escaping work

keeping a nervous eye on their splashing children

lifeguards sit bored, making 30 dollars a day.

They wear sunglasses and slowly scan the water.

Keeping a nervous eye on their children

and watching surfers who glaze the waves

they wear sunglasses and slowly scan the water

unafraid of anything from the sea.

And watching surfers who glaze the water

boat captains smoke and weigh the days catch

unafraid of anything from the sea

mooring their boats onto rickety sea docks.

Keeping a nervous eye on their splashing children

waves are crashing, snatching, lashing

lifeguards sit bored making 30 dollars a day.

so many vacations.

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We sit watching the birds fly from branches in trees

and gargoyles spit out the rain.

Magazines are ripped apart

and used as lining in nests.

Photographs and all.

And we will only stop when the wind starts to sing lonely love songs.

The Lament of the Swan Feeder

He is there everyday.

At the edge of the ever lapping hungry waters.

Out of his mouth comes a gurgle of words.

“Venir ici mon cher,” he says.

The old ladies cringe away from him.

From his beard and mustache

As soft and tender as an eyelash.

He never notices everything

Living selectively

Around trouble.

His eyes milky white

And his shirt patched.

He wears no belt, it would bind him he thinks.

That is not allowed.

Lined hands covered in rips and tears.

His veteran gears need oiling.

Inside he screams and wails
He forces everything down deep inside

To where it pounds at his soul like John Henry’s hammer.

Crudely ripping bread

And tossing it into the swan’s water and onto the grass

Which is his bead.

In his palace of a grassy hill.

Tears have grooved deep canyons into his

Rough cheeks and bread crumbs cover his pant legs.

Sourdough and cornbread

From the trash.

He measures the days with wind and sky.

He never calls he has no one at all.

He is nobody’s son, an orphan.

He waits eternally for the sky to fall.

He wears an amulet around his neck which sways before he steps.

Shoes which have walked miles.

An antique, vintage man.

He talks to the swans as he feeds them,

“Maybe one day I’ll leave, where would you be then,”

He asks them teasingly.

Even putting on his shoes is like a journey beyond the sun

So sometimes he doesn’t put them on at all.

He wraps a scarf around his neck every day at noon.

Maybe

One day

Someone will understand him.

He is a dweller.

Not a lodger

Nor a liver

Or a fleer.

He has never gotten a valentine.

He doesn’t speak of the future or the past.

Only partially visible he winces behind his lips.

Etherized, numbed.

His world is angled with frayed edges and jagged curves.

We shall go to see him

One day, you and I.

And hear the songs of the man, the swans and the trees and grass.

Until the leave’s swaying

Lowers our heads into

Beds of moss and clover.

When bells toll and pigeons fly

Joining the swans.

In murky

Scribbled alleyways.

Swans as white as snow

Out of place with this mysterious man.

In his mind there are books of philosophy and religion

There are houses full of beautiful paintings.

And empty bookshelves.

We shall go to see

The man and his swans

Until the sun sets

And all the lights go out.

 Note- The 4th line translates from French as "Come here my dear"

Icarus

Escape by flight.

Looking at his father below with pride.

“Look Papa, I’m next to the sun”

Not noticing the hot globs of wax that fall

from the soft speckled goose feathers.

Each droplet melting in the hot Greek sun.

His father, “Come down child, lest you fall and die.”

The son smiles and shakes his head

and flaps his wings, just a bit closer.

Icarus pinned against the brilliant azure sky

like a giant bird.

6 foot wingspan.

Below him rolling hills and vineyards

beside him fluffy clouds.

Stratus.

His father below is engulfed in thoughts of machines

and his other contraptions.

Icarus with the heavens in sight.

A single feather falls.

As if plucked by a giant hand.

Zeus perhaps.

And then more and more.

Until he has nothing left.

Reaching with one hand.

Grasping at the air.

A grimace on his face.

Falling.

Falling.

As he remembers what his father told him so many times.

That what goes up, must come down.

Sorry I haven't posted in so long. I've been very busy. Please comment and enjoy.

HAPPY SUMMER

More poems soon.

-N.B.S

Star of Track and Field

Star of Track and Field

His dirty sneakers slam into puddles, slush and sun baked pavement.
5 miles a day.
1,825 miles a year.
Every morning, every evening.
through rain, sleet, snow and hail, he runs.
His apparel varies with the weather.
He is a star of track and field.
hurdling every obstacle with ease.
Long and lanky.
A fine specimen his coach says.
The coach:
a man with a round belly and a yellow visor.
he could never keep up with his students.
as his students run, the coach jogs around the track.
Yelling, "Faster" "Harder"
An ever ticking stopwatch clutched in his hand
as his shrill sounding whistle bounces
up and down on his chest.

Poem in Memory of Trayvon Martin

This is a poem I wrote in memory of Trayvon Martin who was shot in killed in Stanford, Florida for no logical reason. 

Do I look suspicious?

Walking in the dark.

Hood up.

There was no justice that night

Just prejudice.

To judge by anything

You do not know.

Skittles

Snapple

Nothing much.

Just a soul, a heart.

Life can be thrown away.

Wasted.

Just like that fateful night.

In Stanford Florida .

Rest in Peace Trayvon.

The Color Blind Bull

He doesn’t see everything in the world.

Only part of it,

It is simpler for him.

Fewer shades

Of color.

He sees the world through

Lewis Hine’s lens.

Black and White.

His ailment goes unnoticed.

All the crowd wants is a show.

They shout and cheer until their throats are sore.

What do they care anyway?

It should be his palace; He should be comfortable there.

He’s more of a Ferdinand.

Would rather sit lying in the wildflowers,

Then be in the arena.

Where the ground is covered in thick dust.

And there is no peace and quiet.

The matadors don’t understand.

Why he doesn’t respond to the color

Red.

Crimson,

Scarlet,

Burgundy,

Rose,

And Raspberry.

They’ve tried them all

To no avail.

He doesn’t understand why the crowd

Jeers and boos.

The other bulls do.

The tease him

A simple “Kick me” sign would do

But no

Bloody scratches

Made by horns

Line his side.

Everyday

It’s always the same

The Matador reluctantly

Drops the red cape

He looks half asleep

The crowd boos.

He is led away.

He has

No Wins

No Losses

Just 54 ties.

It is no life for a colorblind bull.

Sorry

Sorry I've been such a pathetic blogger lately.

Random Story Beginning:

Prologue

The wind blew remnants of the house across the forest scattering debris among the trees. A long piece of gutter blew and entangled itself in the branches of an elm. The trees were green and vibrant but no birds were perched in their lush branches. The whir and rumble of a car motor broke the silence and soon a Model T slowly came into view. The car drove on a dirt road and its tire crunched over small pebbles that were lodged in the dirt. The windows were tinted and the car looked out of place in the spring foliage. When the black car was parallel with the remains of the house it slowed to a stop. The window slid down and a man with binoculars looked out of it. His pale skin had a green tinge to it and he had bags under his narrowed eyes. Underneath the navy blue binoculars he smiled and rolled up the window. The car drove away leaving tire tracks in the dirt. Silence was all that remained.

Chapter 1

Bells tolled loudly sending a startled flock of pigeons into hasty flight. The dark square was relatively empty except for a few street performers who stood drearily in the thin drizzle. Most of the shops in the square were closed and the cobblestones were lit only by a couple of dim street lamps.