Tag Archives: weather

Regular Poem: Sometimes the fog

17 Apr

Sometimes the fog
is sumptuous
romantic
enveloping
like something
Mr. Rochester might emerge from
out of a niche in a rose garden
and call you his little fool
and embrace you.

Sometimes the fog
is welder smoke
tasting of metal
and somehow
work
dental fillings and steel-toe boots
and it hurts like
a tine in your gums.

Sometimes the fog
is like an abrasive kiss
biting too much to be that
pleasant
but kind of fun
in an aggressive way
and you still taste it
hours later
and your tongue
aches.

Regular Poem: Early Ugly Spring

6 Apr

In the early
ugly spring
it’s half mud and
half purple weeds trying to trick you into thinking they’re flowers
some cottonwood blooms that pop up over night to look pretty
and make you sneeze.

In the early
ugly spring
it’s all
stripes and plaids and polka dots
one tube sock and a knee-high
scrambled together in a rush to get out the door
a mismatched season
who doesn’t even care that it looks like it just rolled out of bed.

In the early
ugly spring
it’s all hungover plants
a mimosa tree who growls it’s awake when you call to see if it’s coming in today
a dazed rose bush gulping down an aspirin and a cup of coffee
a couple of tulips making the walk of shame in the clothes they wore out last night.

In the early
ugly spring
it’s not quite
fresh and new yet
half dead and lumbering toward something
the birds can’t quit singing about
for a reason the
early ugly spring
can’t figure out.

Regular Poem: All quiet

4 Dec

All quiet
and foggy
and trains
and a porch light
and your exhalation
puffing three feet high and then
melting into the fog–
the cloud that has grounded–
and you can see it for a long ways
yet zero miles.

The only sound
is a foggy sound
of far off whistles
that sound as though
they’re coming from the
sky.
But nothing’s in the
sky
not even the clouds.
The clouds are
on your back patio, in
your hammock, around
your porch light.

And the moon
is
nowhere.
But wherever
it is,
it is
supposed to be

full.

And you believe
it–
not because
some almanac claims it
but because
everything
is full.

Full of clouds.
And full of
quiet.

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