Whiskers start in June
mostly black, some gray
pushing through skin
like sunflowers they emerge
carefree, unrestrained by razors
of other seasons
when they are scraped away
like speckled truth
man’s primitive nature hemmed.
Summertime, I let them grow for days
like a backpacker searching
for my lost youth.
Long hours of shadowy sun
my face like time
standing still.
Everyone is Everyone
I believe
that you
are me.
We are
each other.
The same
but different
like stars.
Puppy
not even seven pounds
brown tannish fur wiggles
on grassy earth underneath
her tiny feet
little pools of pee
on hardwood
yellow circles
warm when wiped
barks like a high-pitched
fox, in her crate at night
hops with June sun
life just begun
Meditation Doesn’t Care
Meditation doesn’t care
about the book you wrote
what you posted online
or the car you drive
Meditation doesn’t care
about your rolex or
your job, so important
money made
Meditation doesn’t care
about all your friends
who go to parties
drink martinis
Meditation doesn’t care
about your writing
these words
bits of truth
William Faulkner’s House
I recently visited Rowan Oak in Oxford, Mississippi, where William Faulkner lived and wrote for over 40 years. My two favorite books by Faulkner are: Light in August and Absalom, Absalom!
Accumulating Silence
if anybody asks
I tell them that each month
I add one minute of meditating
to my days, accumulating silence
like pennies in a jar
until the day I’m
speech less
spirit full
The Day He Couldn’t Write
he tried to remember 1986, the 7-11 with
rolling hot dogs glistening on metal
smell of slurpee sugar, spoon straws
filled with red frozen slush, playboy magazines
covered, cloistered in the corner
laffy taffy, baseball cards in wax wrappers
but then he forgot why it mattered, and moved on
to dancing, prancing, using words like dazzle and
bob dylan, but it still wouldn’t happen
wouldn’t congeal into anything
just looking for truth, he thought
looking is the problem, let them find you
play hard to get, but sometimes that just means
you are alone, like a rolling stone
a complete unknown, a themeless writer
who couldn’t make it happen
not today
Long Distance Relationship
never thought you
knew how separate
lives can’t be
together when apart
only to remember
the always ending
after it’s over
this long distance
Who Was Judd Nelson?
St. Elmo’s Fire, now obscure
80’s movie, song, stuck in my head
I imagine myself ninety two
like my grandmother once was
humming lyrics, words
Bye Bye Blackbird
in a room full of people
with blank faces
Judd Nelson long forgotten
Walking to the Potomac River
that trickling water
goes somewhere, pushes
between smooth stones
decaying leaves
undulating stream
funnels through
all things but sun
that gravity exists
in memory moments
summer creek, wet feet
balancing on wobbly islands
holding boyhood time
until runnel becomes river
rushes away
Daniel W. Polk 