Displaying 1 To 28 Of 28 Comments Taking New Orleans Seriously That other world, This is where that other world lives, That other world wonders, is worth saving, » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On April 19, 2018 @ 5:55 am Haiku Kind reinforcement » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On April 12, 2018 @ 8:39 am Open Mic Come to the High Note! » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On April 7, 2018 @ 2:08 pm Undertaker Bees Here they come, » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On April 2, 2018 @ 1:47 pm Afternoon Encounter Ice eyed dragonfly, He struts and stills me Dragonfly moves aside. He calls me out; A warning caw » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On March 22, 2018 @ 10:29 am Particle and Wave Maybe time won’t tell… What if time doesn’t know Doesn’t ever crawl, Time must ignore the insult Maybe it labors, » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On March 14, 2018 @ 11:45 am The word: Heartless | Ice Cream Thanks, Martin. I am committed to some kind of response every time, regardless of how stumped I feel at first. I think stumpedness results in a product that is loose, which is good for me. » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On March 13, 2018 @ 12:44 pm Too Much Everyone says I need more. Saint Mark says “worry about I worry about Even ice cream Have you heard of too much? » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On March 9, 2018 @ 4:40 am Cascade Time Be willing This is your home, From here, you might live forever, » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On March 3, 2018 @ 8:44 am Sitting With Brian Even cells have to decide Stop it! bulging for more and more That’s my brother! Poison-drinking I’ve seen Leave him alone! That wide mouth tumor I want him back! I want an explanation, » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On February 22, 2018 @ 5:57 am Starmony Join the bats when daylight sinks Listen to » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On February 14, 2018 @ 9:39 pm Over The Pass The road has a way of climbing By then you are Everyone downshifts, Rest now if you like » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On February 8, 2018 @ 3:14 pm Yarns I watched closely. alongside her mother’s She is ancient, It’s a soft breeze drifting » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On February 2, 2018 @ 1:09 pm Flowery Lane He claimed it the oldest A map He was seen It can only wait He claims it the youngest » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On January 28, 2018 @ 10:41 am Disabled with a Dog I am But he is calm. We wear down the day He shows no conscience » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On January 18, 2018 @ 7:44 pm Dinner, On the Road If it was me out there, » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On January 14, 2018 @ 10:10 am I Belong to the North The Canadian sky » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On January 5, 2018 @ 5:18 am Longest study ever “Correlations suggested no significant stability of personality characteristics over a 63-year interval,” wrote the researchers. Personality…. » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On December 31, 2017 @ 10:30 am Creamy Irish charm antiquarian brogue and then the whistling. “A nice whistle” said I “That whistle was “I hope it’s both” “Then I’ll loan you a whistle” » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On December 21, 2017 @ 12:26 pm Leaving I saw the last chapter start, » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On December 13, 2017 @ 2:49 pm The Sunday Visit Meet the waiting Not today. » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On December 7, 2017 @ 6:42 am Sunrise Sit long enough » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On November 30, 2017 @ 4:07 pm Age of Reason You once knew the fortune You had to be told Did you believe them?… about the weight of » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On November 22, 2017 @ 11:50 am Leaving I saw the ending start, » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On November 17, 2017 @ 1:24 pm My Pink Pony She Rides, naked and blind » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On November 8, 2017 @ 11:11 am Same Old Home I hate going home, » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On November 2, 2017 @ 9:42 pm Salty humaness, » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On October 25, 2017 @ 7:43 am I know you won’t agree » Posted By Kevin Geraghty On October 20, 2017 @ 4:51 pmComments Posted By Kevin Geraghty
the one that plays
peek a boo
with your serious life,
rides in and out the wormhole,
clarinet in hand.
You might see it through the
stained glass of St Stephens,
stopping for jokes and
a sip of holy water
to ease the way down
Napoleon boulevard.
mowing the lawn,
fixing the screen door
dreaming lottery numbers
until the music starts
and plays the long night down.
when it’s time to leave,
If serious life
with those storms
coming year after year.
won’t fool my dog Finn, smelling
the enforcer’s will.
Stay to hear
silverware back-sounds
fade away, to
silently say
the world is ready
for those ephemeral sheets
of you,
finally escaping their
dusty home.
Each poem,
a fireworks show,
lit and lobbed
overhead,
so briefly bright, moonlight
starlight, maybe a flashlight
that points your way
to the backseat
of your Dad’s car,
Into the box of
your Mom’s secret letters,
Across the threshold of
that dark room,
where you can finally
enter,
now that your words have been heard.
You will be moved, shaken
by echoes that don’t even
sound like you,
can’t be contained
in any of your old ways.
You’ll be ready
to live both these lives at once,
screaming and holding your ears
at the same time.
Let them fight for you if they will.
dancing,
their bee arms entangled with
their dead.
Undertakers
struggle bodies out the door
try to let go,
but the dead forget
to cooperate.
They grab and hold,
the partners roll,
flip, lie on the carcass pile
slowly pry free the
small hooks and hairs
of their shared lives.
Quixotic drones
stopped flying,
eating, working,
but never stop belonging.
silent motor spinning,
watches the crow,
watching me…
curiouser, curiouser,
more abrupt
than a beat cop.
in raspy call.
“C’mon, C’mon”
I’m ordered to
dance my understanding,
show my ID,
hope for the best.
The cop with steady eyes,
beak and claw
waits for the mistake
that always comes
in time for dinner.
“someone new…
soft-skinned,
weak eyed,
phony feathered,
No Food!”
from the cop who knew
I was only pretending
to belong.
And even if it did tell,
would it tell the truth?
Many regrets are polished
into pretty beach stones.
a single thing about flying?
or stand still?
of ferns, tulips, sunflowers
who still refuse
anything more routine than
light and dark.
deep into the starlit hours,
repairing railroad watches,
glorified, in that golden filigree.
your camel’s fat ass,
the needle’s thin eye.”
Too much sunshine
Too much ocean
Too much meat,
not enough motion
has learned to scream
about too much fat,
heartless lactose attacks
It’s everywhere I go,
stuff I don’t know,
too much,
everywhere.
to crawl through mud
if it takes you
to that spot
where the earth finally speaks.
Listen with forbearance to
granite, basalt, piney loam.
Even the owls
have been too hurried
to hear their thoughts.
concrete, fieldstone, timbers
that witness
your stormy dream,
your family of twisted shoots, limbs,
needles and leaves.
fed to the babies of your babies,
and theirs.
Your name, spoken in a toast,
and in outrage or laughter,
remembered, at least,
by cognizant mud and stone,
still in the middle of
saying hello.
about selfishness.
tumor.
Lymph-eating
puss glutton
savages!
half-lived lives
flash goodbye,
fireflies trapped
deep in that membrane.
has his body, and all he knows,
swallowed whole.
I want an apology
for hanging his star
in some other sky.
among Ponderosas.
Watch that black tide rise
up the trunk
erasing red-brown bark and
viridescent limbs.
moonlessness howl at you
and the coyotes.
Learn to use peripheral vision.
Stars may be as far as they say,
but the light,
the light will be right on your face.
Sing starmony until the moon returns.
before your eyes notice
the uphill tilt
the wider spacing
the more and more glinting rock
where the sky opens
and curves tighten up.
part of something
you have no choice about,
even though you could pull over
or should have, when you were only
tilting a bit.
steers with both hands,
you know you will, too.
The climb is the inspiration,
It’s all you want to do
until you summit yourself.
take in the view
pat your dashboard with thanks,
no matter what you do
you will soon be on your way,
pumping the brakes
undoing yourself.
She was knitting in silence,
fingers so focused,
her head slightly cocked,
eyes watching nothing
she lightly rocked
mother’s mother and
the sheepherders,
the giving sheep, the goats
and llamas
who warm the infant feet of each family,
who shield seamen and captain
for the cold chase of cod.
grateful,
open to voices
who speak without doubt
about
who she can be,
how to catch fish,
what the gravy needs
to make her father smile.
from ear to ear,
knowing the world consists
of puzzle pieces
that take years
to find their spots.
bridge in the country,
while we travelled
the wagon road from Plymouth.
from his pocket
showed where the stranger lived
last October,
when the Goldens got soft
beyond anything but sauce.
throwing those rotters
from the new freeway bridge,
contracted for forty years
of white silence.
for brown apple mush,
or the red- blooded last second
of rabbit life.
bridge to learn how
concrete groans
before the first
Nor’easter cleans
it’s brutal skin.
a mobster of omission,
my fedora, sharp enough
to cut his witness throat.
Nothing to witness,
nothing to fret.
He likes to say..
“Doing nothing is
a hard crime to prove.”
together,
leaving only
the impossible repair of
unfaithful muscle,
broken promises.
about days of nothing,
pretends to sleep
through my apologies,
having leaned faithfulness
generations ago.
I’d keep eyes on the squirrel,
not the cars.
Jump
some plump part,
search
bloody fur for a grip
Stay
in position to
Listen
for traffic.
Dodge
that pick-up,
Pull
meat and bone
toward the roadside weeds
Hope
my beak
has the lift it needs
to free organs from asphalt.
Our voyage can’t wait,
it’s time to
Swallow
that small smashed life
into mine.
Communion,
then flight.
becomes unframed
east of Calgary,
a full generosity of blue
stretches
roundly north
and only north.
My own eyes
feel the muscular pull.
East and west slant downhill
and the green muddy south becomes
only that land behind me.
I’ll follow prairie to tundra,
to ice that joins sky
the way an ocean can do
when the shore slides from view.
Today, I’ll find that place where
God’s lips inflate
the white world
with blue blessings.
What if…
“There is growing neuroscience research that suggests that our notion of a stable “self” is nothing more than an illusion,” wrote the researchers.
What if…
the cash cow concept
may be running dry.
And who says a stable self,
a personality,
was ever our notion?
Your tool
Your weapon
Your way to fool us
into shrinking.
We are so used to
life in tiny boxes
we might not ever
stretch
Or ask
What if…
makes the rounds,
wafts the terminal…
my father’s before me”
said he.
“And is it a visit to Ireland
or a coming home
that you’re about?”
pieces of us
coming apart
your coat peeling off
with your heart
still in it.
I couldn’t feel happiness
in your skin.
I waited
…but you slept.
Every inch of thigh
of you
every too-large dream
of you
all the storm that
is you
was perfect
in fading light.
I wanted only to fade
that gently.
the wounded
their rubber-tipped props,
broken histories
have stopped.
“Mother is coming today”
“Help me find the way”
Missed buses,
missing spouses,
estranged shirt buttons,
they refuse
crestfallen mortality.
“Can’t you stay?”
“Let’s go home”
to be blessed
in pre-dawn silver
not waiting
nor recording for
another time
only sitting to see
how a planet dances
around a star
How silver fades
to golden sunlight
and tight Aster petals open
in harmony
in peace
in honor of the
planet dance.
Sit long enough
of tender pink skin,
free to touch
every bit of it,
commit every sin,
when you lived on the other side
of the age of reason.
of innocence
after it had
tumbled down the street,
outgrown, they said
never offered again…
your free will
with no mention of
your wings
and all that sky
so high above you?
pieces of us
coming apart
your coat peeling off
with your heart
still in it.
I couldn’t feel happiness
in your skin.
I waited
…but you slept.
Every inch of thigh
of you
every too-large dream
of you
all the storm that
Is you
was perfect
in fading light.
I wanted only to fade
that gently.
the stallion
who was pink pony
just last week.
Restless in her body,
unsure of what it wants
when it wants to be seen
by sweaty men who smell
of green earth
and see her as blue sky.
Proactive moisture invites her in,
through caution words
now so thin,
she can breathe them aside,
ride and ride.
finding my bones
so carefully displayed
for me to see
the selves
rejected
left behind,
still wrapped
still waiting to say
“Told you so”.
enough to sink and drown in,
clings to an eyelash.
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that I saw you bleed
more than
once
for my visions.
But I did,
and learned to open
my own veins
with razors so sharp that
scars don’t show,
or speak, nor remember
how easy you made it look,
with all your practice,
and heritage,
your swollen goodness.
I said “You’re the best person I know”
when I started
to measure myself.
It never moved me an inch…
until you scoffed,
looked at me
like I was empty.
Told me to learn
goodness with
some kind of grace.
I am at least
a little proud
of small thin scars,
a little surprised
to have learned
anything at all about love.
