How to read Burnsian – Just a note on a man who writes with far too many consonants

So we have had some time together
And this blogging thing is starting to work for me

A few thoughts on the way i am putting this work out there for your perusal and edification

I offer my work the way a mountain stream offers its water

I am an artist
i live the artist’s life

A life of living and loving
and Everyday Grind
It’s all part and parcel of the magic and logic of life
All an examination of my personal mythology

I would no more feel only one kind of emotion
than i would drink only one kind of wine

I present my works in yin/yang pairs
the helpless part of the heart in one poem and the enduring part in another

I actually study poetry and form
even though i mostly do free verse
(and let me apologize to all those who have been brave enough to read my work out loud)

I seldom put words with my photo memories because the images say so much that words will be diluted to insignificance

There seem to be themes in my work but remember
i am totally incapable of seeing them
My work is too much in my own heart. . .
i can’t be objective
But i will always be true

Mildred and Franky

Then there was that time aunt Mildred came to visit. She tries to nudge in and take the dish washing cloth from him>
Thanks, I already have a mom, and have more than enough trouble dealing with her.

{Mildred Abernathy} I don’t know where any of your plates go.

{Franky} Live a little, look through the cabinets, explore. You know me. Where would I put things.

{Mildred Abernathy} I want to wash.

{Franky} I know. Dry

{Mildred Abernathy} While we were at the DMV I noticed that you’re not an organ donor.

{Franky} How did you manage that?

{Mildred Abernathy} It says so on your license.

{Franky} And?

{Mildred Abernathy} You really should, you know. Don’t give me that look. You laugh at the strangest things . . . stop.”

{Franky} Laughing or washing?

{Mildred Abernathy} Both.

{Franky} No.

{Mildred Abernathy} You need to take this serious . . .

{Franky} Dry and talk or dry without talking

{Mildred Abernathy} You can be so . . . infuriating

The Unruly Pet

The human heart can be a really
really annoying pet
You have to water it
feed it
Take it for walks
And face it
its never really satisfied

But then again
you need the exercise
Exercise is good for your heart
And when its all asnarl
with burrs
and thorns
and bits of leaf
Looking at you with those
huge chocolate-amber puppy eyes. . .

Just remember
Its bound to keep you up all night
howling at the moon
And if it trips you up
pavement can be real unforgiving

Primal Drum

Primal Drum

You can not escape
the primal drum of your heart
Of your poetry
Hidden in your white bread reality construct

You take your vitamins
You insure your car
your house
Check the windows
bolt the doors
All the responsible acts of domestication

And without a moment’s warning
Reality runs the stop light
Comes crashing through the intersection
And you’re kissing the airbag
I’m gonna be late.’
And then you realize
You coulda died

Suddenly you need words
To make it all make sense
Poetry enough
to get you through

Poets. . . ?
Who knew

Consider This Photograph

those are the actual colors
Retouching was not required
Sometimes you’re just lucky enough to snap the shot the first time

The distant fog blurs the monumental tree trunks
fractal pillars holding a sky of leaf canopy
an ancient army fading into the distance
Silent giants of dark form
cloaked in shades of summer blues and greys

The wind has forgotten this soundless pace
and the musk of leaf and loam is overpowering
in the summer swelter

Occasional splotches of lighter grey
permit defused cascades of gentle light

The rust-leaf strewn road. . .
beginning at one mist cloaked infinity
widest here where the water has collected
meandering off behind you into another misty eternity

And there in the mirror of the water hole
His reflection
The first time you actually see him
A slender stalk of a man
as still and silent as his brother trees

You see him more as shadow than creature of form
Can’t really say if he is facing you
or facing away. . .

You would speak
but such a violation of the sacred silence is unthinkable

An eternity

He lifts his hand
A soundless acknowledgement

He walks off into the infinite. . .

Doretha in the Sand

Beside the Bay of Lost Memories
Not far from the Archive Halls
the Halls of Remembering and Forgetting
she scrunches through the tawny sea sands

Her pet
her gentle zephyr
tugs and plays with her fractal salwar kameez
Patterns in the weave colliding and undulating
twisting tiny universes from the dark scarlet cloth

Her skin the silk of a new dawned day
skin the colour of an elder bard’s song

Her breath is wind above the world
is the the ebb and flow of the waves

Her eyes . . .
her eyes . . .
eyes the color of the raging storm
churning the green slade sea