Poems
Frost's Shooting Range
Rode around Frost's farm.
Rode around Frost's farm.
Windows are boarded white.
Closed sign. Historic landmark.
The grass out back is mowed to look like a shooting range.
Hard to see the birch trees through all the saplings,
Shot up young since Route 28 was paved over.
Something about honor and profession and the poet Frost,
And his swinging trees colored over with brittle pines
To keep the scenic route of a poet looking scenic.
A skyscraper touched a sequoia
With a certain kind of light
In a certain kind of eye.
~ Wynn ~
I’m not ready for everything to die this year.
The wind is consistently strong the past few days.
The people who come from all parts of the world
To see our leaves change color are leaving.
The ground is a sheet of wax paper
Under a blood-let easel.
The firs will hold on.
The dust on the radiator floor vent
Burns from the steamed air forced,
From the hidden hot water
Onto the dead fly that won’t rot.
The firs will hold on.
Through the season of dying,
They don’t.
The refrigerator drones over the fly’s last
Protest as it falls to the faded floor.
The fan above the microwave still hums,
A little more dust, a little more hum,
But it still hums.
The firs weep weary,
Waist deep in wasting.
If you sit still, close
Your eyes and listen,
You can hear electricity
Go into the lights.
If you lie back, close
Your eyes and surrender,
You can feel
The Earth spin.
Winter's freeze freezes.
Spring's flower flowers.
Summer's swelter swelters.
Fall,
Leaves
Fanfare.
Leaves
Fall,
Fanfare.
Fanfare,
Leaves
Fall.
The Season's end
Ends The Season's
Season's end.
Words fail
Watching
Words fail.
Words
Freeze,
Flower,
Swelter,
Fall.
Melancholy mothers nature.
New England fathers poets.
Days you shut the door
And the hard frost won’t leave,
Days you open the door
And the fever lingers,
That dead fly that won’t rot.
There’s only:
Wasting time.
Watching time.
Watching
Firs.
Wait out the:
Inconsiderate
Sun.
Who won’t confess his light,
No matter what I say.
~ Wynn ~
We call it poetry for the ear,
But that’s not where we hear it.
We call it poetry out loud,
But it’s an inside job.
We call the meter measured.
We call the measure divine.
I call the words: All Words!
Sweet- Sweet -Tweet-Tweet
Twitter-Tatter- Beat-Complete.
A feat- of the feet- of the stomp,
Of the never pomp- of the heart.
We call it poetry for the ear,
But that’s not where we hear it.
~ Wynn ~
If the sky and the horizon bent properly,
I could see those paper barked birches.
Autumn -swung and knocked- swung and knocked
Oak and ash and spruce and pine and even
Evergreens
Grumbled.
Fat chirping squirrels bent trunks down.
Elasticity whip snapped shot them back up.
I crooked my neck waiting for the dome of Heaven to burst.
Home ten miles south of mine watching for Frost on the birch branches,
To shatter Coke bottle pieces on the bracken of autumn wet.
My whole young life long waiting for you to crash back down,
Back home;
You never did.
You must have found a better place for love.
You must have found a better place for love.
~ Wynn ~
Being too empty, being too full of love, for something too far away.
Rain.
Heavy sometime during the night. The puddles are ponds.
The energy is low and warm like snow is pregnant.
Snow is bound waiting for tomorrow. Rain is right now.
Pay attention: The rain demands attention right now.
I would like to have a day of sun be treated like a day of rain.
Landscapers and Laborers will see a day of rain and take the day off.
Dreamers and Lovers should see a day of sun and take the day off.
Not much dreaming or right kind of loving can be done on a sun-filled day.
We forget the beach on a rainy day,
But the beach loves a rainy day.
Someone to share a day of rain with.
Someone who is not: ‘not going out today.’
Someone regarding the rain shush the shock
And shake swagger of the sunshine days.
Someday a man has to face the prayer in his heart.
(Sao-
-Dhaj
-Eh’)
Thunder
Never a sunny day
Always never sunshine,
Even on a sunny day
A Sunshine- My dream.
(Sao-dhaj-eh’)
My sunshine.
Even on a sunshine day.
Where is my rain
My sunshine
Rain rainy
day
Today when the world is at bay
I can say what I say in a way
in
this
way
I can
play
all day
and say
what I say
in this way
in the
rain, in the
rain, in this rain
all day
we can
play we can say
Nothing.
My Sunshine,
My Saudade, (Sao-dhaj-eh’)
My Rain
We would do
Do nothing at all
We would do
Do alone together
We would do
Do Sunshine.
Do Rain.
If ever I do find you,
My Sunshine
My Saudade
My Rain.
~ Wynn ~
Giant
I am the mountain and the moon.
There’s a peacock sounding race relations.
There’s a fox snarling this and that amendment issues.
There’s an angry man, not really angry, playing angry
For your angry pleasure, on the AM dial,
All not-really-riled up-riled, rolling in his not-at-all-angry dough.
There’s a housing shortage in the neighborhood of the last school shooting.
There’s good people in blue and good people in red blood on the streets.
There’s medicine and there’s insurance.
And there’s the bank. The Bank.
And there’s a loan where the front door used to go.
And there’s a rainbow and there’s the way over it.
Now, we’re talking.
And now, I’m talking about living in and out of a white cardboard box.
So now he’s talking about a white-cardboard-Banker’s-Box-box.
The man wants metaphors.
But I don’t want a metaphor,
I want out of this cardboard box.
“That’s quite a cardboard box you’ve got there,”
He says to me from his perfectly good not cardboard,
White-cardboard-Banker’s-Box-box.
So, we’re healing.
So, we’re doing what we would not do.
We’re being who we were afraid to be.
Finally.
But we’re afraid of it.
But we ought not be.
Because we’re already what and who we need to be to do the thing.
It’s just a matter of doing it.
So, the only thing in our way is yesterday.
But that was yesterday.
So, we don’t know
What’s in our way.
But I do.
It’s today.
It’s this Right Now.
We spin against it.
We crash against it.
We wham.
We bang.
We boom.
Boom against the doom,
That’s not in the room.
But We
Must win.
So We
Do win.
One win
At a time.
So…
I am a giant and a giant killer.
I am the mountain and the moon.
I smash it down.
I raise it up.
I sculpt it
Into
Something
Beautiful.
~ Wynn ~
This one is brilliant.
Dancing genuine dances.
Eyes blush, roll beautiful.
Nervous with her wonderful.
Strong how she survives a solar storm of too little, too many bits of light, the normal world calls magnificent.
The world has never been enough for you in being too much.
Too much what others do looks nothing like you in quiet moments; that You- you call genuine You.
But how to say it through wanting words so an empty magnificent world would ever understand?
If only you had someone to tell you what causes you so much loneliness is so much connection to so much else, the so much else so many won’t ever see a connection to.
How can you be content in a world unable to recognize how much love you hold in your metaphorical heart?
You remake The World.
~ Wynn ~
Forever Moon Skies
What each night sky knows Each sunrise lacks.
I'd stare at the moon
All day.
All night.
Once with Love
Once with the memory
Of Love.
Without thought I'd feast
On moonlight and the memory
Of moonlight.
The Spirit of
The Moon and I
On the hillside in neglect
Of what others want
Of me.
What each night sky knows
Each sunrise lacks.
That Star.
That bully star!
Always
On the way,
(in the way)
Of
A perfect night sky.
Is there a galaxy anywhere
Untouched by starlight
Where poets sit on hillsides
In communion with forever moon skies
Unencumbered by the gravity
Of a ravenous star?
~ Wynn ~