22 Georgic (sort of)
The small key to the riding
mower hangs behind the door
on a red fob. Winter was mild
but the engine wont turn.
the grass is long, brown
mountains of mole hills dot
the field, tall stalks topped
with dandelion fluff, send
feathered seeds forth on the
generous April breeze. Half the old
maple tree on the ground needs
to be dragged away.
Chain saw froze up,
the hand saw rusted. The cows
across the way don’t much care.
They watch us run circles around e
each other making do with what works:
hedge trimmers, axe, leaf blower,
hoe, rake and scythe. Some days
chores insist, but the tools don’t work.
The ghost of our great granddad,
Percy, shakes his head, spits
into his coffee can. Time was, winter
was spent sharpening blades, oiling engines,
greasing things so they’d slide easy
come good weather.
Those old men
are gone and the younger ones
moved to town. We find it doesn’t
take much more than a season
for the whole place to get
away from us. We take ourselves
inside, put the little red fobbed key
back behind the door. You say,
“grab a bucket”, I say, “water and
a mop”, simple enough. We’ll
clean where we can and leave the
rest for another day.
23 Double Elevenie
Tree
Broken tree
Middle line fracture
Tears something deep in
Me
Tree
Old tree
Alive and broken
New leaves emerge
Proof and promise of
Hope
24 Medieval Marginalia
Well, there’s a rabbit hole:
The smutty preoccupations
of a hungry monk
scribing scripture
poking at his orifices
with a quill and some
mulberry juice.
I picture him pissed.
The morning’s meager
portion of broth
jostling cold in his belly.
He blinks in the weak
light dreaming the
beheading of his
superior, the flaying
his own sinful skin
dreaming snails
bodies on fire
breakout- from the
bleak holy house
his father banished him
to as a boy.
Some days
amused, sitting there
in his cell, looking out
over the garden
at secret shenanigans
taking place in bushes
being watered many ways,
postures and poopings
he makes pictures
to chase away his
rage, remind him that
for all the torture
of the cloister
hell, it’s funny:
Brother Dom’s
bum boil, out to air
bird-doo on Brother
Gabriel’s bald spot,
rabbits on horseback.
Early Morning Poems 