The Coming of the Toads

A Notebook – Since 2007

Category: Poetry

  • Rowboat

    They said rowboat
    lost untethered
    with the ebb tide
    one day late Fall.

    She was to wait
    but waded off
    he back for the basket  
    she in search of shells.

    He forgot the sandwiches
    in the car up the road
    and the redundant bottle 
    of purple pinot noir.

    From the pier end
    she fell hell bent
    and got her into
    the boat and off

    waddled he oaring
    she at the tiller
    crossing the bay
    to the picnic beach 

    the old couple
    coming years said
    but the new owners
    did not know them

    said better keep
    an eye out
    not a good day 
    for crossing the bar.

  • If Less Is More

    If less is more
    how much more
    will it take
    to make nothing?

    One’s self-knowledge
    must be told
    monosyllabically.

    If less is more
    brief is the life
    of flatulence.

    If less is more
    terse the maid’s
    toil at the toilet.

    To say
    nothing
    too much
    is as vulgar
    as goatshit.

    If less is more
    how much
    more or less
    is nothing?

    Of the sages
    of long ago
    the coin fits
    seven no more.

    If less is more
    how do you know
    you’ve had enough?

  • Everything Begins The

    The ocean, the cellular, the crawling creature
    the blue ball, the yellow beach, the great divide
    the tree down the road in the August breeze
    tall in the open sky the dry leaves olive, the

    Pill, the body, the smooth quiet morning
    the block, the coming and going, the type
    ography, the distribution, the arrangement,
    the management, the workers working the

    Night, the day, the night, the day, the night
    we went out walking in the moonlight the
    shadows the pearly waves the rushes
    brushing cat tails on our legs the

    Hope, the restlessnesses, the talks
    the drives, the radio, the magazines
    the intervenings, the televisions
    the shelves, the house, the street, the

    City lights in the desert distance
    below the perimeter the parameter
    the fatigues, the background
    the text, the mean measley mind, the

    Second cup of coffee – would you
    like some more, the kind and the
    unkind the words blowing the gale
    the strong gusts the apples falling

    The squirrels, the crows, the cats
    the dogs, the possums, the racoons
    the weeds, the books, the bananas
    the rugs, the floors, the high roofs

  • Still Life with Onions & Bottle

    The bottle wormed open dark and furry
    glass greens and purple dried oils
    cork on the table crumbling aside
    five onions not moving or meowing
    and a peach plastered wall blistering
    in light from a dirty cracked window
    and the room smells of fresh onions
    pungent and biting squeezing eyes
    onion dry skin flaking in whispers
    soft petal whites like dark moonshine
    spill over the table onto the floor.

  • On the Patterns of Pairs

    Humanism begins with making connections
    which is drawing technique taught and ends
    with constellations for classroom discussion
    cafe conversations or solo contemplation,

    technique how guitar held and strings plucked
    plectrum or nails or La Pompe with tooth comb,
    poetry chords of thought arpeggio aligned
    necessary for navigation to & fro up & down

    back & forth, pitter patter, pitter patter
    this & that, that & this, pig and pepper
    pants the hatter all that matters as if
    as if nothing whatsoever has happened.

  • Otiose

    Put down the phone
    and write us a poem
    nothing to say
    the cell has not.

    Laptop almost
    too old for this
    slow prose style
    inelastic cat.

    The lazy morn
    the otiose
    slow afternoon
    the heat taut night.

    No notifications
    come this far
    from the signal
    symbol sacramental.

    Parts of thought
    the universe yet
    exploration sits
    unexpanded.

  • On No Progression

    The plough divides
    a worm multiplies
    where two + two
    equals five.

    To see a beach
    in a grain of sand,
    hold time in a glass
    filled clock.

    The privileged are due
    the poor overdrawn
    the middle class
    approves.

    The selfie shatters
    the looking glass
    the valleys are empty
    bathtubs slowly refilling.

    Politics is a rich ugly
    old man’s courting
    the priests and the
    prostitutes.

    Put out dearth stats
    in a year of death
    wear a mask
    and walk asunder.

    Walk in the morning
    nap at noon
    fast in the evening
    lap the night long moon.

    Culture cars cruise
    the city strips
    radios talk blaring
    the end of days.

    The wise avoid likes
    links and comments
    while fools post poems
    almost daily.

    The fool prepares
    to like a scholar
    a celebrity hires
    security.

    Devils eschew
    angels desire
    melting ice
    feeds the fires.

    Who teaches the tree
    to drink the child
    to nurse the old
    to appear free and easy.

  • Too Late Too Little But For A Banana

    Awake
    too late
    (bugged & rugged)
    & too little
    to compose.

    Moon long gone
    its ring through
    (fully foolish too)
    the open window
    I let it go.

    I don’t have to be
    anywhere but here
    (not new and worn)
    so to thee my love
    on the icebox door

    this note:
    “Awoke & forgot
    litter box, but
    poppy seed cakes
    & coffee

    await
    your awakening.
    I’m on the porch
    writing with a banana
    so soft & mushy.”

  • The Uncomfortable Rose of Refugio

    We were kids from the city hunting snipes.
    We didn’t know a rose from a hedgehog.
    It was night and dark green swells
    broke into laughing curling soup.
    The tide was in but we had climbed
    over the rocks and around
    the Point and couldn’t get back.
    We came to a cave in the cliffs
    where we waited for the rose
    to bloom like the moon out
    over the cove, light spreading
    across the ocean near and far.

    Our rose was not sick, like Blake’s.
    It wasn’t full of worms or covered
    with aphids. Through the hot
    summers and cold winters
    its mild scent filled the cave.

    At night we first felt then heard
    the train coming and by the time
    it crossed the trestle the whole
    campground was awake waiting
    for the shaking ground wave
    to pass through.

    Tent flies opened and a few folks
    went out walking in the night.
    The night did not howl.
    The rose’s name was not
    Germaine. Her bed was blue
    not red, unkempt and unread,
    saltish, seaweedy. We peeled
    back the pearl petals and spent
    the night on the sandy bed
    in the cave as the tide ebbed
    and even the waves fell asleep
    in the uncomfortable silence.

  • Poem: Handle with Care

    Danger!
    Rotating words
    in confined space

    May be placed
    down
    side
    up

    Tear Here
    Along Dotted Line
    … … … … … … … …

    Dispose of
    Hazardous Waste
    Properly

    Do Not Read!

  • Not All Blues

    Not all blues radical newfangled
    greens in blues blues in greens
    so what asphalt actually mostly
    walking away sweet summertime
    steps not very early carnival birds
    sing to farther extant songperch
    over lands & seas sands & trees
    trills of trains fading away full
    dress function over sidewalks
    across intersections red gold
    solos muted with olive tents
    “Ineluctable modality of…”
    commodities blues and greens
    all that is seen right under
    one’s nose walking to & fro
    stopping in 16 blues bars.