Chauvet

Emerging like a sculpture 
From a canvas carved from stone,
A herd of charcoal horses churns 
The dust to blood and bones.

The torchlight this illusion 
Makes even clearer still, 
As from the flames the tossing manes 
Appear to gather will.

They thunder past on hooves 
Whose clap has not been heard 
Since darkness rode the mountain down 
In clouds of snorting earth. 

Job Description

Is easily distracted, lazy, prone 
To flights of fancy; can’t be counted on; 
Is often sullen, selfish and withdrawn;
Has few friends and prefers to play alone;
Skips classes often; never turns in homework;
Is overly and quite overtly fond 
Of members of the other sex; responds 
To criticism poorly; takes a tone 
Of disrespect with elders, which includes 
All teachers; has no use for institutions 
Of higher learning; steadfastly refuses 
To take direction; does not follow rules; 
Lies outright or exaggerates the truth;
Obsesses over meaningless minutiae. 

Orphans

Written after viewing the “Acoustic America” exhibit at the Musical Instruments Museum.

Supine in their cases;
Propped upright on stands; 
Suspended in the air like wraiths; 
Or in the outstretched hands 

Of fragile racks, the fiddles, 
Banjos, mandolins, 
Guitars with nicknames, basses, little 
Ukuleles limned 

In legend long for players 
To cradle them and sing,
And teach them how to say their prayers, 
And brush their knotted strings. 

Tumbleweed

Perambulating cloud
Of dust and tangles going down 
The sidewalk like a brawling crowd 
In comic strips, or Charlie Brown’s 
Buddy Pig-Pen now.

MS. Found Throttled

Dear Sir, there is a gentleman you know 
Beside me here, at Ryan’s Fourth Ward polls, 
Who goes by the cognomen Edgar Poe.

Admitted 5 pm on 3 October. 
As soon as I was able, I went over. 
Excitable . . . delirious . . . not sober. 

Saturday night commences calling, “O
Reynolds! Reynolds! Reynolds!” until say oh
Three o’clock Sunday morning, when he goes 

Into a stupor endlessly misquoted. 
Perhaps this current leads to the South Pole. 
Of course, there is no certain way . . . oh no. 

October’s War

Season of butterflies 
Colliding in mid-air
And spiraling to earth 
To smolder brightly there; 

Of noxious clouds of gnats
One can’t help but inhale, 
And army ants erupting 
Like lava from their hills;

Of humming, barbed-wire hedges
Electrified by bees, 
And grasshopper grenades 
Exploding at your feet; 

And after dark the sirens
Trembling through the night 
Of crickets crouched in crumbling 
Shelters out of sight. 

Chandelier

An errant piece of chandelier 
I almost missed it was so clear
Lay in the road this morning,
Like a giant crystal tear 
A cloud had brushed away the night before.

 
I picked it up and held it to the light 
To see if I could strike 
A rainbow, but all I 
Saw was a shard of sky
Multiplied a dozen times
Hanging in the sun on the other side.