Larks
I paid to free from a dinner dish
two dozen larks, a great company,
and all were merry.
They drank a bottle of wine, fell down,
and ate from my hand.
Cheerful poems
Cheerful poems — a collection of the best works on PoemShip.
Legacy
Having been a dog
I sleep in Greek,
say I believe in
supper, not work.
A minstrel’s life
I drink with a seaman,
a half moon and a barber,
play harp for a bit of meat
and send broke thoughts.
The King’s Coffee
I troubled my hands
with rogue handwriting.
Let posterity know how
the King desired coffee.
I heard for certain that
it would prove small pleasure.
I gave a bottle of mist
at a great loss.
Self-Verification
old gray body
bound for no grave
for no grave
has issued us visas
and i am a law-
abiding citizen
which is to say i suppose
the law is my abode
so this carcass of mine
has standing
and grows more
and more abstract
taxed and insured
vaccinated and boosted
password-protected
two-factor authenticated
Postmodern Decadence
fallen leaves
slip into my boots
as if having invented flying
off the handle
they’re eager to plunge still further
become agents provocateurs
going to and fro in the earth
and walking up and down in it
like old scratch when he has
a job to do
but what bold and lurid
colors to go out in
painting the town
a sunset red
Ode to Old Shoes
the feet seek freedom
busting the broadest toe box
splaying out for balance
in an almost gape
at the gravity of it all
and the earth’s endlessness
such a repertoire
of grounds and surfaces
for the feet to savor without ingesting
to rely upon without clinging
a lesson from the dust
of the ancestors
who would’ve gone to rest
in their best shoes
the straight and narrow ones
that pinched all through church
Rainiac
In the house of rain, all are kin. Consider the toadstool releasing its spores when the rain comes knocking. Many of those spores drift up into the atmosphere, where they become cloud condensation nuclei and give birth to new raindrops—with moisture released by the trees. I recite this true fable to myself as I trudge through the downpour.
that scent
of wet rhododendrons—
Pop-pop’s place
I like how the world is textured.
Visually and aurally and in food webs and ecological niches.
The endless intricacy and beauty of it.
It’s utterly entrancing sometimes, like the best rave ever.
Whatever i tell myself, it’s never enough. Understanding begins with listening.
Puddle: four haiku
frog pond
reincarnated
as a puddle
enormous dead oak—
so much more sky
in the puddle
lone firefly
only the puddle
returns his blink
fear not
storms are on the way
little puddle
Illustrative
wren wiping his bill
on the ridgeline of the roof
his mate already brooding
on a second clutch
the first clouds always
look innocent enough
until they open
their rainy mouths
catbird singing out
instructions for assembly
a deer sneezing
from her day bed in the weeds
this is how one gauges
one’s aptitude for silence
in Figure 1 we can see
how the trend lines wander
Grievance Machine
let me brand myself
he-who-is-different
let me howl around
in lieu of feedback
then unwind
in a hot bath of outrage
feed the twist in my gut
that feels like hunger
we discriminating consumers
who like what we like
we must be sure to bark up
all the right trees
Pop-up monarchy
king in a box
to surprise us
as once he did
bolt wheels to a horse
went away and left us
our little iron lie
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