fuji, granny smith
red delicious, original
ornaments before christmas
was christmas, stems
like umbilical cords
dangling juice bulbs
filled with tree
strength inside
each one sways
growing seeds
bark, trunk
roots, sacred
dirt, water, all of
life between teeth
while chewing
this earth
black friday
pop up ads
vanity fair
folded perfume
possess, covet
objects of pride
I’m better than you
insistence that
moneyed hierarchy
is the answer
will solve
all woes
sorry, not sorry
to say, this
accumulating life
is wasting time
on things (and
you’ve heard this
before), stuff won’t
make you happy
but instead, yes
love, it is
so simple
also free
and when the time
comes, the sentence will
appear already begun, as
if words were writing
themselves, this is how
the subconscious works
creating narratives that are
never heard, only thought
until someone tries to
put it all in print, and
then what happens? so
tricky to harness the
stream, all this like a
dream become understood
or forever a mystery
Mary Oliver writes of
flowers and she does it
very well, as I just stare
at words, wishing that
goldenrod could mean
as much to me, stuck in
this urban world, nature
on the fringe, everything
I cannot see, because in
the car I move too fast
to even smell the air,
but excuses will never
win, nor are they really
true, so I keep on writing,
this much I know to do
Charley Pride on bathroom
laptop, while I shave, his voice
forlorn longing, whiskers
collect on razor’s edge, this
morning mirror apart from wife
and son. I feel for Merle Haggard,
travails, time on the road, love
found and lost, like Loretta Lynn
in Topeka, daydreaming of that
different life, away from crumpled
hamper laundry and the last
cereal bowl bits clinging to old
milk. Somewhere in Nashville
they are still singing with Jesus,
waiting for my return.
we talk about life
stumbling upward toward East
Peak, the fog slowly
disappearing into blue sky
day on this mountain
where we remember thirty
that age when last
here, ascending together as
if time remains still
but no, five kids
between us, balding heads
failing vision, and all
the rest of middle
age, to think in
another fourteen we will
be sixty, how long
will the mountain remain
ours, before it nudges
us off fire roads, away
from crow filled branches
we look down on
Lake Lagunitas, that water
holding minutes like a
Jim Croce song that
lasts forever, then stops
glistening needles
high beam light
soft snow
falling on
Umbria mountain
we freeze
this moment
black cactus
scurries
into night
we rarely speak
of God that
him her force
lives in heaven
forests oceans everywhere
we pray to
be always in
good stead with
each moment where
light is ours
this karma knowing
watching to see
if we are
truly in his
image like clouds
floating peace through
sky we try
meditating while walking
the quiet path
of constant love
and one day
may we arrive
wherever there is
union with all
that ever was
I once had
to choose between
dinner, potatoes, maybe
a steak, or
art. The food
salty with skin
drips of sauce
or Goya’s bulging
eyes. I only
had enough money
for one or
the other, before
flying back to
Dulles. You may
have guessed it
but El Greco
had his way
with shadows, that
light in darkness
and me hungry.
i give up
nothing to say
words won’t play
for me tonight
want the muse
to sing that
siren song, crash
me into rocks
but no, her
throat is raspy
and i’m just
a mere mortal
not a god
or someone worthy
of such love
but that voice
please, just that
strong slight voice
where are you?
Daniel W. Polk 