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Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Golfin'

Flogging the Feathery
By GC

Steel, titanium, carbon fiber sticks
none have the satisfying clicks
of my old persimmon woody woods

Driver, three wood, five wood
don't match the poetics of the old
Play Wood, Brassie, and Spoon

We need the old names and old ways
for that wonderful walk in the afternoon; 
that commune with the Gods we call Golf

Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Losing it

The Fallacy of Aphorism
By GC

It's said that most women
who go mad 
go mad in kitchens,
but me, I dunno about that

Now, I haven't
taken a poll nor have I
conducted a survey
and I'm not Doctor Kinsey

But I'd think
more women 
who go mad
go mad in bedrooms

Coupled with
fumble fingered
short tongued guys
those women's essence is certainly missed

Kitchen madness --I think a rarity
bedroom madness --I think so commonplace
in bedrooms getting to essense is essential
where a kitchen needs just pots and pans

I'm near certain a woman for whom
the essence of her essence is missed
must, without doubt, go mad, whereas 
feigned kitchen madness might be simply revenge

Sunday, October 19, 2014

Of Time and Tide

Hurtling Cycles
By GC 

Marshland grasses brown as winter approaches. Waters cool. Shrimp, crabs, fingerling fish abandon flats for deeper warmer water. Summer birds have flown replaced by wood duck, bufflehead merganser, canvasback, and green teal. Pelicans dive bomb tidal creeks.

But now, again, pale nascent greening
harbinger of the eternal cycle
hints of spring's return

Ducks flee northward as temperatures inch upward and as crane, heron, ibis, egret come on home. Sea life finds shallows once more. Otters frolic in warming currents. Raccoon babies investigate this new world. Cotton mouth, coral, rattlesnake, indigo, hog-nose, garter snakes slither.

Seventy-five years cycled, gone
passed on like scudding cloud wisps
cycles may slow now, hopefully

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Sunday, July 27, 2014

Question?

The Question At Sunrise After Sleep
By GC

I don’t sleep the sleep of a child
mine are not the dreams of innocence
I carry the weight of seven plus decades
and what I have done with that long time

I don’t sleep the sleep of a child
mine are not the dreams of innocence
I carry the weight of seven plus decades
and what I have not done in that long time

I don’t sleep the sleep of a child
mine are not the dreams of innocence
still I sleep pretty well for a wordly old guy
‘cause my deeds, my avoids have been mostly benign

I’m sure I won’t go to heaven
I’m sure I won’t go to hell
I don’t give credence to angels or devils
they’re myths, nothing more-nothing less

So you ask, why do I wake up early?
the answer to that question is easy to tell
it’s a mysterious world come each sunrise
and I think that living with mystery fits me well

Sunday, May 11, 2014

Plight of the Naugas

Hammer Mammer
By GC

Copious copulation within 
the herds of supple Naugahyde
is required to satisfy the never ending 
demand from Automobile Upholsterers Of America
that ancient guild of pompadoured plastic artisans 

Jetted extractions of Montsanto’s
watercress, sauerbraten, and gazpacho
mixed with bluebird plucked feathers for bulk 
fill the stantioned herd’s cowlike twin stomachs 
despite the hew and cry of the angry anti-GMO crowd

Despite the reproductive prowess 
of the once thundering herds of Naugyhidys
we find the messy abattoir sufficiently repulsive
to give second thought to the hammering of their heads
and that causes within the slaughterhouse workers a manner of mammerism