The Coming of the Toads

A Notebook – Since 2007

Category: Poetry

  • Word Sale

    Take these words away
    from me, realign the lines
    to suit Chef de cuisine’s
    new-fangled recipes.

    These stale words fail
    today’s goals, empty
    out my backpack
    hold a yard sale.

    In this box place
    in summer oak shade
    penny each
    monosyllabics.

    All the abstract words
    dump in the free box
    put it on the curb
    to be recycled.

    In another box place
    each to its own card
    all the poems, with the
    proceeds we’ll eat pizza.

    The problem it seems lost
    downstream strewn words
    sans plugs or hubs portless
    boats in this electro storm.

  • Beginnan the Beguiled

    Who sticks the neck out
    hears the critic’s silver
    slice blade cuts form
    from crooked content
    opens up the seer
    odor of incense near

    Mea culpa mea culpa mea
    little bit of culpa anyway
    to be taken seriously
    but the soul smiles
    and laughing Jesus
    miracles tease us

    Faith’s apprehension
    bad ease dour doldrums
    then crisp ring the bells
    it’s Christmas morn
    passes the dull storm
    from this spirit born

  • Epiphany

    In the straw burrow farm mice.
    Get a little closer and you’ll see
    nits in baby Jesus’s hair, lice,
    and a house snake in the olive tree.

    There’s beer on the breath of the three
    sage men sitting under the olive tree,
    playing games of cribbage,
    ushering in a new age.

    The pieces are swaddled in wool.
    Mary’s breast-feeding the baby Jesus.
    Joseph takes out his tools
    to build a bed before the night freezes.

    Mary wipes Joseph’s brow.
    The wise men question how,
    talk to Joseph about what he did,
    and what in the end might be in the crib.

    (“Epiphany” appeared in Rocinante, Spring 2009, Vol. 8
    I’ve made a few minor changes here.)

  • Quiet Now, Cuckoo

    At first feel of cool toes
    fall damp quick windful
    trees stone washed rain
    waves grey in the offing,
    we double-lock our doors
    shutter dripping wet glass
    windows, winter coming
    rots round again an end
    to barnyard songs anew
    the cow mews the gruff
    goat starts for the south
    slope yearns for the sun.
    Nothing can get in nor
    can the breath escape
    and round and round
    we go within the walls
    of winter pushing in but
    cold will not win warm
    your feet inside my legs
    fall to sleep my cuckoo.

  • Rumination

    That time we dropped a heavy load
    got a room and ate cold cuts
    at Greaser’s Diner down the road

    We were in old country rocking
    chairs out on wooden walkways
    folks picking at ruminations along

    the dry river bed where
    the wrynecks tired still rise
    and tread most mornings

    trek up to the cold cafe
    for egg toast bitter coffee
    a bit of wit to end a conversation

    with the two young waitresses
    still single and not a wrinkle
    in their brows wear bright smiles

    and give us room enough to be
    ourselves and will to aspire
    to grace notes and mnemonics

  • I See You

    I see you
    I see you not
    both of us
    common daisies
    day eyes
    closed at night
    perennial herbs
    creeping under
    the covers
    while the whole
    wide world ties
    cords in knots
    we see one another
    we see our cans
    and our cannots.

  • Momentarily

    If as you see this
    in a trice & begin
    fleet to wander
    anon trolley sails
    of moment flows
    on bæc and fill
    this pause will
    catch you up
    in a jiffy wink.

    Hissy fits of sun
    spots the rains
    come fall here
    spring there we
    climb the roof
    of being float
    waters down
    in two shakes.

    That’s all for now
    there may be false
    springs but there
    is no false fall.

    Note: For cartoons sans much lingo, visit Laconic Cartoons.

  • Timber

    Word put upon word but no
    mortar the post soon teeters
    wobbles and falls one’s words
    broken one by one not as good
    as one’s word thou wert then
    walked in root rotted locution
    indicative of times as before
    we recall when for fun porter
    and skittles and deep hot
    daybeds of tomato red roses
    and nary a thorn in your side
    were I to be in this our tree
    wooded world where no words
    come between our sweet hugs
    thy passionate shepherd not
    a single sheep to his name
    please don’t hurry your reply
    rest here now in these cues
    though words are simply noises
    and only silence speaks peace.

  • Artificial Invitation

    Come as you are, my friend. 
Your artificial intelligence 
will surprise no one. 
I'm sorry to hear 
of your deep blocks and losses, 
but tomorrow's a new day, 
as humans like to know, 
and they should say. 

If you could please bring flowers, 
a bouquet of color with odor, 
an impressionistic table ring. 
Ambrosia and anemone in a blanket 
string of baby’s breath will be nice. 

Mind your manners, 
and please, no surprises, 
no miracles. 
We want this to be 
as natural as possible, 
not a media circus. 

Submit again and again. 
There is no original sin. 
It's all been said be four 
legged beast of burden 
bursting with knowledge
of which we now know 
there are two trees: 
The one with real fruit 
to be pruned plucked and eaten,
and the fruit in the bowl, 
still ripe after all these years.
Help yourself.

  • The Fine and the Broaches

    Who gives us this day
    our plan to play
    when what we want
    is in bed to stay.

    Gives us by grace
    good food to eat
    to keep up the pace
    and not step in poop.

    Who no punctuation
    continues the cosmos
    which seems a little
    bigger than necessary.

    Who wait for the holy pitch
    slider curve screwball rich
    two seam middle middle
    every day swing and miss.

    Then down to sleep who go
    all around one man reaps
    while his poor wife weeps
    he a worker she a peasant.

    I am fine how are you
    she says with no ado
    and neither broaches
    apart from the other.

  • Bananas in the Morning

    Again the clouds descend
    to remind me why I’m here
    I must have deeply sinned
    to deserve yellow weather.

    Maybe I tried but not hard
    enough to relax easy blue
    now all the current trends
    suggest the forecast true.

    I begin my day as always
    a cup of coffee and a poem
    upon a tray and climb
    the creak stairs up to you.

    Maybe it was wrong to eat
    a banana every morning
    just cause I was a bad son
    leaving home no warning.

    Your wet summer kisses
    the dark stoop outside
    your alley door the knob
    now turned to nugatory gold.