Short Stuff

 Friday
I've got a lot of stuff to post. I thought I'd start with this one. Written in November and revised yesterday and today.

Short Stuff

1

I'm taking my dreams, my tiny dreams
rolling them up in loose knit balls,
placing them quite carefully beneath
my pillow . . . so, when I fall asleep,
my dreaming mind can easily find them.
My shoes too, my dream walking shoes
placed on the floor next to the bed
my subconscious feet can slip inside them
without disturbing my comatose flesh.
I for sure need to rest but that other me,
the dreaming me loves to stay up all night.

2

The sky too blue for me,
I miss the stormy touch
of threatening rain,
the angry rumble
of undigested thunder,
the black and white faces
spring clouds make
when they're ready to cry.

Winter is too subtle at times for me,
too cold and calculating,
too sure of itself.
No, need for theatrical tricks,
it just tortures us with
its blistering look,
a quick quiet lick of frost
along the windowpane.

3

She has an extremely long neck, giraffe like.
I'm not complaining. I love kissing it
from the collarbone all the way up
to her finely pointed chin
and then back down again.

4

The old Elm is feeling its age today.
Most of its hair is gone, the sun
has thoughtlessly turned his back
on her or him or . . . Funny.
I Don't know the gender of a tree
that I have known for years.
Perhaps, I don't know "it"
at all! So, how do I dare say
a thing for or against
its existence and the troubles
that it shares with the rest
of Nature's world?

5

I think it must be terribly difficult
to try and imagine nothing.
Much more difficult than trying
to imagine . . . something.
The moment you think of nothing
it transforms into something . . .
and something  always becomes nothing
when you think of it  too long, AND
on the subject of thinking . . .
some people do too little of it . . .
others . . . far too much.

6

Laundry day tomorrow . . . a Sunday.
Cleansing the spirit as well as the tube socks,
underwear, the t-shirts and jeans . . .
God does nothing on Sundays,
but the angels it seems
wash their clothes too,
their robes and wings.
They polish their sandals
and sing Sunday hymns.
I like hanging out with the angels...
and gossiping about . . . Him
and the things He did or did not do all week,
the promises He made but didn't keep.

7

I don't smile as much as I use to.
Gravity, I think, is such a grave thing
when you get older, when the body
begins the hunt . . . the long, steady hunt
for ground, for dirt, for motherly Earth.
Leafs, we often say we're leafs in autumn, in winter.
But some of us believe we are merely flesh colored
clouds that drift about, shed our rain and then
slowly dissipate until there's nothing left of us
but a faded, sober memory or two.
I don't like the idea of dying, I refuse to do so.

8

I'm allergic to rain, early morning in the rain
as I try drumming up customers for our
game day parking business.

Each drop of cold wet
like a spear driving itself
through my red and blue,

wool Spider-Man cap,
through my skull and penetrating my brain,
accumulating inside my left ear
when the wind shoots sideways
forming tiny lakes in my ear canal.

I'm a sickly person these days.
The weather doesn't care for me these days.
And I can say,

I don't give much of a damn for it.
rrw 11-21-13 (revised, o1-o2-14)