Poems
thin blue chalk line up on black tar
gone gray called concrete curbs
set -not reset- since The Great Depression.
where old weeds
the same weeds
new weeds grow
sometimes, though sometimes
a dandelion grows, too
sometimes, though some time
a kid picks it up -plucks it up-
blows the parachute cotton-
picked soft seeds to the wind
sometimes- so few times
float to full wishes fulfilled
sometimes- so many sometimes
no wind on never fall flowers, but turn flat
and press down yesterday’s gray concrete
bought old sold older worthless oldest
windless without reason why pick up
pluck up a weed and dream it something
some wonderful some-any-thing new
hopes choke on dead dandelion parachute cords
tethered to hot black tar gone gray called concrete
set -not reset- since the Great Depression.
~ Wynn ~
My favorite poem of mine. I don't swear often in verse.
But as a poet's job is word choice, it's the right one.
As This Poem
This fucking world; it's so beautiful,
But the stories we tell each other.
-fuck-
I wonder if the wind that pushes the oak leaves together,
Makes them feel as uncomfortable as this poem.
~ Wynn ~
For,
My a Angel-Oh!
Singed, while her house
Went up in smoke.
While her neighbors,
-numbed and dutiful-
-drummed the usual-
Clutched their masks
To cough in an elbow.
In this suffocation:
Low never knew Low,
-And-
Dark never knew Dark
-And-
Hell was a thing that chilled,
While words never knew
Their names.
-So She-
Showed them- told them,
Showed them- and told them,
Showed them- and told them,
Their names.
-Now-
Good News is Good News!
Light is Light!
-And-
Joy is Joy!
-And-
Boy! Oh, Boy!
This Soul,
Is: This Soul,
That’s met,
Joy, who is
Joy!
And the fire burns.
And the fire warms.
And the soul’s name,
Is spoke with Freedom.
~ Wynn ~
Each day is a relay, a baton for tomorrow,
For adding to the dream you dream you dream is you.
Life is not a race against time, but a matter of the intention of each moment.
One pixelated promise, not promised.
There’s no way to hold a moment.
What is time if not a measure of the rhythm of our heart?
The pulse we step to is the measure of our life.
Time, too, is relative Al, when juxtaposed to our hearts content.
Literally.
~ Wynn ~
Two deer in the street at half past 5 AM.
A holy light around its face,
The one locked to my eyes with his.
Tall, a prince, a gift of Grace,
A reminder of the awesome power of gentle kindness.
I took a few pictures.
Clear, good shots, but dishonest.
Some light won’t stick to film,
Won't break to pixelate.
~ Wynn ~
Prescott Park
People stop to smell the flowers in gas masks.
People stop to smell the flowers in gas masks.
I wonder who keeps the Mayflowers at Prescott Park,
Wonder who keeps the Marigolds on Marcy Street.
I wonder at the Mayflowers at Prescott Park,
Wonder how they stay and go year to year.
I wonder of Plymouth down the coast,
Wonder of Mayflower landings to our land.
This Land.
"A rock don't do much; don't grow."
A mouth-masked kid said.
How many Mayflowers drift into Prescott Park?
How many wind glide and set down seeds each new May?
I wonder how many minutes and myths make a Plymouth rock grow.
Wonder if the scent and sense of flowers in May can ring memories
Through blue masks, of the scented and sensible ways
Of Marigolds and Mayflowers, in May, on Marcy Street.
~ Wynn ~
The Sky Goes Wonderful
Once in a blue moon the sky goes wonderful.
Once in a blue moon the sky goes wonderful.
And all I think about is the moon.
And you... marvelous you.
And chocolate...
And apple pie...
And I wonder...
Chocolate...
And apple...
And pie...
The apple pie.
The chocolate.
The Marvel Us.
Just you.
Just me.
And chocolate...
And apple...
And pie...
And
Just
Us.
~ Wynn ~
You’re as fragile as a sky, as constant as a cloud.
So willing to hold a sunrise you know has no choice-
But you let yourself fall from the setting.
Why do you hold on when you know
That’s what a sunrise does, sets?
Why do you fall down when you know
That’s what a sunrise does, returns?
It must.
Why not stay so tall you can catch a sunrise?
Why not let fall what was made to fall?
Why not know, how strong, how light
How fierce, how wild wonderful a gift,
It is to hold fire, to survive fire,
To let fire drop to drown in the horizon?
An embrace is not an embrace if it lasts forever.
It’s standing still, squeezing the Sun,
Falling, flaying, shouting saying: “Not this time.”
Ears too full of fire to hear, you said,
“Not this time.” Again.
Let a day burnt be ash; yesterday’s Sun is gone.
Fire burns the world turns, each star finds
Its sky again, by making a new star, each sky is relit.
Brighter, hotter, truer, every Sun returns home.
He must.
Why not stay so tall you can catch the sunrise?
~ Wynn ~