Little Vines 10/15/20

New Little Vines. Here is this week’s array.

all I know is:
though she told him the whole sad story three times
he has yet to have had time to listen even once

my thoughts so shapeless in public
the phrases I tried to form
blurred along their outside edges

I wanted to explore –
the mysterious attracts me –
and it was these phrases of the moon
I wanted to explore

a dim light
in public
she sparkled in her own living room

Her a shallow three
Him a wise eight
They an infant one and a precocious two.
I could go on. You for instance are an insipid four.

bedazzled by bard’s book
brandishing brainy blurbs, I peruse –
but… pot-boiling page-turners
pique my pocketbook into paying up

remind me who signed us up
to put up with you in a
blank rolling boil of a mood

ancient tan jacket
I had forgotten you, here at the back of the closet

don’t go alone
into the low mist

she said, her low voice thrilling with urgency
without your raincoat

in some empty seconds this morning
she found shreds of the last two years
under the stove, along with a dead mouse

moth buzzing the bare yellow light bulb
hanging from exact center of the ceiling in the garage
ten o’clock at night in the third week of July

competition that made claws sharper eyes keener
after which the ladies left the golf course
for lunch on the clubhouse patio

in my near panic
your screwy friends and their dubious methods
suddenly seemed attractive to me

the electric wire that swings in the wind
the bedraggled bird that sits on it
the neon sign that flickers in the second-floor window

the words of our ancestors rattle like coins in a bag
So I’m told. But how many of them
are counterfeit or of small value? No one’s talking about that.

a red scarf
knitted in the jovial intricacies
of laughter patterns unspooled in the living room

It was dark and I made a mistake
that’s left me lying on the wet pavement
strobing red and blue in the lights of the police car

oh surely there is somewhere
where my headache
would matter to someone

they wait,
hope washing their three small very young faces
their joyful patience will not be misplaced

I’ve got lazy and furious
in a jar right here.
Don’t pour it out. The fumes alone are toxic.

The wailing in the kitchen
a cherished melodrama that
I never have the heart to interrupt.
Instead I join in. Howl louder than any of them.

a key
a warehouse
a bolt of red shantung silk
Let’s see what kind of story you can make of that

a diamond pattern of tree branches
reflected in a puddle:
I slide the scene on to my memory charm bracelet

7 thoughts on “Little Vines 10/15/20

  1. So many wonderful images conjured up and fabulous combinations of words. The first poem actual connects with something I was just saying moments ago to two of my sons: there is a difference between hearing someone and listening to them.

  2. I agree. I know what I want to say, but it comes out as something else. I’ve always had that problem. My daughter told me once I needed a translator.

  3. I’ve been called blunt, tactless, or (when someone is being nice) forthright. I have no other way to be. On the other hand no one ever needs to wonder what I think (if they can figure out what it is I mean, I guess).

  4. That’s not my problem. One, as your first verse indicates, people don’t hear me when I speak, even when I repeat myself. And two, if they do listen, they either misunderstand or have no idea what I’m talking about. My verbal skills have always been bad, which is why I tend to be silent. For me to try to make a point in an argument is a useless exercise.. Writing is a much better means of communication, but even there I often struggle to get my point across.

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