South Dakota poetry – tamingthemilemonster

It is a Cycle

my love, with you

and me and this rotating

love cutting through the ice

like a fisherman shacked

up with thermos in hand

and silence on his mind,

just before he begins the

corkscrewing of time.

Pavlova

a snowscape, blizzard

blown to meringue peaks

out along the razor’s edge

horizon of the soul sucking cold

Pavlova twirling winds

la petite sauvage shivers

dying swan with numb feet

in the ice snow- nothing grows

bared legs- light blue pale

light, grace on-point

tutu frosted like a skier’s beard

at the end of a hard-fought race

dark hair pinned properly in place

suspended temporarily atop

a pent seething torrent

nature awaiting release

arms spread wing-wide

moonlight’s shooting spotlight

captures her shit eating grin

frozen in place

Democracy for One

When the bombs come

ones-twos-threes like little

ducklings trailing along in

the pond’s flat gaze, seemingly

never ending; surface to air

missed. The screaming mono-

linguistic tongue, turned on deafened

friends who shrug, as capitalist

bobble head Jesus, nods

and waves, then with an indifferent

side turn, stares vacant;

as the proud suckling tit

withers, Madam Liberty’s

flamed-out.

Untitled Poem (feel free to suggest a title)

Unexpected like

the light snow

showers, stepping

outside the DMV

comes your voice

from my lips as I

encourage my baby

girl’s independent

steps. Ephemeral

dancing waves of

light, refracted

drops of tears

glistening glide

gentle courses

down the baby

girl’s peach flesh

firm cheek. As I

reach and hold

tight her hand.

Power is Still On

Christmas Day brought rain

out the mashed potato sky;

drizzled slowly on the winter

world like caramel on cream,

melting the snow top crust,

encasing the trees in crystalline

chrysalis, skate-rinkng streets

and lining the windows in rivers

of Vaseline smears turned

sparkling in reds and greens

as the wind kicked up. All

night it barrel-rolled against

the house pounding admittance,

as if too cold for even itself. When

finally the morning sun cracked,

glancing still it blows, shaking off

the ice crystal coats from the tree

branches, showering the ground

in rainbow husks of velvet, casting

limbs into slinky springing motion

ricocheting along the light’s

flickering life line.

Morning Tea

Walt’s beard

came curling out

of my teacup;

steaming.

Resurrection

When the blizzard came raking it’s

fingernails across the windows

and compacting the world into a

microcosm of prisimic crystal caves;

the heater, rust water seeping with a

wheezing sigh – bled out.

You swiped it’s

pipes with your crooked finger to clear

any obstructions and chest pump

compressed it back to life. I don’t

think it appreciated it.

When Going Hunting

When pheasant hunting

it is advisable to leave a thermos

full of espresso; shot through

with four roses, in the cab of

the truck to double

your odds.

Poem: Wool

For my friend Jessie who challenged my thoughts on grey days today.
Wool

Grey skies wrap

a blanket shoulder draped – Day.

Microscoping space-air-time

Into a manageable cocoon.

The fat – bottomed moon appears a

great slow blinking eye, lid

descending grace leaving

a white fringe eyelash coyness

as the clouds reform a homemade

woolen pirate patch blankly eyeing

this metamorphosing world.