Wheat Dust                        

Only thing I can think of as bad off as me
Is harvest. 
Yes it’s as flat as my face
And just about as friendly as a dead rock.
Try making anything out of this wheat dust
If you will.

Someone said just yesterday that my eyes look bad.
Well of course they do from no water.

Crows could tell you as much.
They’re not dumb.
No rain and they’re gone.
They’ve got good sense.
Fact is they flew off months ago 
When the going was good,
When I was still sleeping on the box springs 
For the love of pete
But not anymore.

Let me say again about what a joy it is 
To be sleeping flat on the floor.
Right down there with the mice and their musties.

I tell you if I didn’t have Jimmy
I’d leave too.

Damn I would.

Something will happen.

Wrong Things

I need to listen more to wrong things. Yes
I need to let talk that’s hard get
       close to me.
I need to believe in the truth of burned up dinners and
       take lessons from dogs that 
       sneak by with ticks.

In fact the only way I’ll learn 
       probably is from
       an animal that’s hurt or from
       a kid who’s shaky scared
Yes the hollow sounds they make turn
       my shivers into wisdom.

So with all of that in mind I think 
       I’ll turn my back on the
       surest things in life because 
It seems
       along comes a mistake or 
       bams of angry lightning and
What had been neat and locked down tight
       splits apart 
       wide open all at once 
       with over-flowing concerns yes 
       but also with revelations.

Front Porch Lights

Lord god am I ever so glad to have bad weather
To talk about
And also all of those moths that keep swarming 
At night
That I can bring up and mention

Because otherwise who knows
How much more fuss and tussle   
About flag-waving fluff
There would be to put up with 
At church
Or the hair parlor
Or in too-long checkout lines

Yes thank gracious for any high winds predicted
(Or better yet hail)
Or those bright porch lightbulbs
And all that they do moth-wise 
To help me keep the riled up chatter diverged 
And off topic
At least for now

Amen

To the Limit

Someone asks what I would fight for …

Well I’d fight for the moon in a heartbeat 
With its halo of wisdom
Its cloud-cover of guess
And its wish to 
Even its merely 
Yes I’d march for its glowing

And I’d defend the moon with longings 
With anything I could muster 
No limits --
To keep it up over
For harvests or phases 
Even for no one

Then if allowed to
I’d rejoice in its quiet apart from 
That always wins me --
The moon’s mix of far away but right there
All gathered around --
For as long as what matters  
Lets me

Senses More Of

What I would give for a poem’s line
To love me --
To wake me unknowing with
What time it is
And hum words of purple for me 
Or write what’s new by rise 

       What I would do for that kind
       Of love that shies for sounds
       Or rhymes more of me than I have 

I would vow so my heart
So my days and any phrases
To say that much 
If I could 

       Yes for that gift of once  
       I would pledge my dreams and bounds
       For the chance to wake
       Beside a poem’s shoulder. 

Wilt or Stray            

I am incredibly lucky --
       even this haze knows it 
       even my useless gaze says so
       in every way.

To be where I am now
       living like this
       is like cherries on a branch.

In fact I’m not nearly grateful enough 
        for this mud and for its reasons.

Not thankful enough for fences down
       or kinked hoses.

No I don’t deserve porches.

In fact I need to tip my hat in love and honor
       to every buzzing swarm that’s coming at me
       to every wilt or stray.

And I should also surely thank my lucky stars
        my blessings
       for what last night had its way 
       with the row of beans out back 
       in the garden.

© Hiram Larew, all rights reserved