when foxes come

swallowing moonlight
with half naked humility,
aftertaste of unpleasant cloud
the day would sacrifice me,
me a host to the yellow sun
wrapped in a fleece
of further understanding,
a measure to the international indifference
patron to the act of ignorance,
this is a race, our race
spend life in an aggrieved chokehold
as time seeps the stupid sore
picked at by eager interference,
of state
in desperate need of rescue

ticking

ticking

only asses and chickens
claw at the dirt
spreading a mess
soiled by their own entrapment
it would be unforgiving
when the foxes come

Franz Kafka’s It’s a wonderful life

Ben Howling & Yolanda Ramke- Cargo (2013)

don’t forget old poets

old ghosts play in a orchestra

before painted ladies

across a golden bridge,

memory sepia toned

kodak instamatic

lingers too,

white house lawn

protest placards,

my poetry read aloud

younger me

more potent then,

squint at the sun

absorbing light,

nature my bus to salvation

notation and tune

may argue with me,

i know where i belong,

war and ever wishing peace

the lick of history

cannot salve wounds so many,

shade of tree a haunted place

my grave and i

knew what path was ahead,

so remember and read

wisdom is a growing child

needing nurture along

the way

 

Wendels Elm Moment

the leaves on the tree

are thinking of falling,

boats burn on lake at night

as descending sun

gives a moment,

the surge in your fig eyes

brings the languish

of body and spirit,

sweet seasons juice

almost quenched,

bringing bitter almonds

to my heart,

music dense in bone

we have to expect a something new

tentative bridges to fragile blue ice,

the surge will come

i will be at your door

under shivering boughs

backlit galvanized lights

fold into the night,

for it is to come,

but for now,

as silent gardens ponder

vague unfamiliar shapes,

the song still plays

as a moth takes descent,

it is a lonely outpost that i

maintain.

 

It Becomes True

bough bent in curious arc

protecting from the sun,

two people sat upon

roots gripping earth,

she held her dress

snug about the knees

avoiding embarrassing  breeze,

he beside her

spoke more softly

than his baritone normally

allowed,

below the village

red slate rooftops

refracting light,

he place a hand upon

her arm,

assuring the words spoken

meant something,

birds added chorus where once

shellfire boomed like a bitterns

cry,

these houses below

pocked by bullets,

he looked at her

she still stared

at rows of houses,

laundry being hung on line

children playing tag,

normality, a calmness

a unification occured,

love was shapeless

without borders,

it could solidify,

and become that unbroken

bond,

she turned moving

loose hair strands

from face

and kissed