Wednesday, December 24, 2014

Santa and Me - A Poem for the Bearded

I’ve worn a beard for forty years
And now it’s white as snow
I like to stroke it when I’m thinking
It catches dribbles when I’m drinking
Makes me look as old as Adam
Shave it off?
No thank you Madame

I think I’ll keep it twenty more
And while your chin drifts towards the floor
My beard will keep mine tight and toasty
Rounded, pointed, comfy mostly
Nature’s gift to men are whiskers
Wiry wonders of distinction
Say Jesus, Che and old Abe Lincoln

Rich enough to forest space
Ear to ear across my face
Below my nose and to my waist
If I chose to let it grow there
If I decide to never mow there
That’s the thing
It’s my own hair

Life is rich with rules and limits
They grow like fungus by the minute
What I should think and wear and eat
With whom I tumble twixt my sheets
The righteous have beset my home
They’ve breached my inner comfort zone
Please leave my facial hair alone





©Berlinbound 2014

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Friday, December 12, 2014

Hands



My hands are rough, cut and scratched
Aching from injuries
Hammer pounds and plier pinches, rock scrapes and briar stings
As I grasp this pencil to write these words
My fingers tingle with the crawling sleep of some neuralgia
Crackle as objects pass over their brittle surface 
The finest dirt has settled into the deepening lines
Filling the now visible prints with iron dark dust
Extending through my palms

December 12, 2014

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Tuesday, December 02, 2014

December 2



I read dream sleep wake piss
Make a coffee two three four
A meal two three four
I talk and love and regret
I dig and dig out care for and kill
Toss aside without a thought
And sometimes I kill the wrong thing
By mistake in haste in the passion of the moment
Curse sweep up and forget
I am a gardener father husband or father husband gardener or husband father gardener
Now and then I teach or sing or make flickering things for strangers
And then I dream again

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