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Collected Poetry
(rd king dot net)poetry and digital art
The Big Picture
Groups of short poems.
Alone in the Afternoon
1: Nominal Perfection Water droplets on the lupine leaf, diamondesque. White iris, bearded white—flawless astonishment. The Spanish lavender in low ascension: tiny angels, purple wings, nacimiento. 2: May Morning chiaroscuro: ill thoughts, quiet rage, anger and frustration; I take the long way to work. Lingering, I notice: on a morning like this I think otherwise, things could change. 3: As Love Continues The dry heat of summer comes too, too soon. Yellow weeds line my yard in mid-May. My wife sighs and takes to her bath. And again I marvel at her glistening submersion, the aureoles. 4: The Sway Middle of May—mid-afternoon; sunlight filtering through the maple's leaves—the sway a journal of breezes: butterflies, poppies, dragonflies, English lavender. A spotted Towhee sings, it seems, with my neighbor's string trimmer. 5: Outright The world is full of little beauties especially outright in May—the Scotch broom blooming, a road ditch bank of red hot pokers, the black dog riding in a white pickup truck, the young woman behind the steering wheel. 6: Catalpa Years ago, in a smoky workshop a woman read a poem titled Catalpa. An unfamiliar tree in an obtuse poem. But on this warm morning in June I clearly see it bloom. 7: Day Off a Work I take a day off of work, decide to go for a jog; I find the park empty of its usual crowd. It's only me and the sun (my struggling to breathe), the birdsongs, the dog poop, the horse shit. 8: Wind Chime Alone in the afternoon—sitting in a chair, thinking, drinking, sweating, renewing life's irritants of work, friends, and promises— not hearing the wind chime, not hearing the birdsongs, not seeing the breeze vibrate the window blinds. 9: Remembering Susie Her father died in the war in France, by a dirt road behind a row of elegant poplars that could not save his hurried life, on a June day much like this one. 10: Nominal Eternity June 5th: the wild grass long dead, now moving into the mullein, the mustard, the wild sweet pea already dustblown and quite haggard where I then paused to wonder: might this become a memory? back | ToC | next » Spring, Again
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