how i lacked imagination

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we play rock-paper-scissors
and i lose

not because i let him win but
because he’s beaten me
with a well placed dinosaur;
hands chomping
                    at my fingers

                    / at three years old he’s figured
                    dinosaurs should no doubt

                    beat rock paper and/or
                    scissors every time

                                        which is true /

when i try to explain that the game
is in fact not called
rock-paper-scissors-dinosaur

he shakes his head as if
pitying me my lack of imagination

readying himself for
                    another go

some honesty on a tuesday morning

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there is that time in the morning when
bird songs mingle with the
sound of the sprinklers coming alive /

            < beads of silvery water cascading
            in succession down single blades
            of grass >

the gurgling of a percolator floats
through the still air;

watching the sun break
through a distant horizon, scaling single
story houses like an olympic hurdler –

the music of a coming day waiting for the
brass band of daily living to start up and
get us marching

i can think, with sincere clarity, drinking my coffee
with crust in my eye:

            damn, i’m tired.

A Process

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submitting work
to be published
       / like stepping into a downpour

is to submit yourself
to the elements

       in a way not
       felt since the first
       people leapt

across the high grassed plains
towards sustenance
and survival

       and away from the waiting
maws of a lion

una observación desde el patio

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la luz toca mi cara –

                tan fuerte, yo parpadeo

 

cubriendo con mi mano lo

que hace que las plantas crescan

 

            lo que crea la vida

bloqueado por mis pequeñas manos

con un suciedad todavia abrazando

 

mis palmas /

desde trabajar en el jardin

 

mis manos

deben tener un poder

/ desconocido

 

                para parar

                el sol de brillar

 

Sunday

Image

A bird fluttered by my window,
small breeze formed by her wings,
torn from spring,
born in wind blown sighs.
She flitters,
balances a word on each feather tip
that tips the smooth glass
with me behind. We danced,
aloft in soft visions, freedom forming
your hovering glance through glass and wooden pane