salmon of the stream.
<>< <>< <><
sweet slow summers,
shy skittish kisses by the swing set,
picking and skipping rocks by the shifting stream.
the soft petals of callow youth fall silently on oblivious grasses.
time has no patience.
how your bloody clock hands are choking me!
now your summers are begging,
and your kisses are begging,
and the stream is crying and burly.
and i beg of u sweet summer water,
let me swim upstream with the spry scarlet salmon,
through the salty blue pacific,
slip by the frothy currents,
and sleep eternally in silky grey sands of innocence.
5:00 AM
This moment of silence is just for me.
Cut out of a time when sleep's avoided,
I sit alone.
A bird chirps a song of morning dew,
and sometimes others join in—
A chorus ensues.
The sun has hours to arrive.
Once in a while, the hiss of a car zips through.
Moisture on tires ripping across asphalt
then back to silence.
There’s something in the silence that can’t be engineered.
Because it’s more a feeling than a sound.
There are always sounds, but not always peace.
and peace is everything in a world where there is none.
So, I sit alone and steal this moment for myself,
while you lay and dream of better years,
better days,
or better moments to come.
I wait patiently inviting the sun to peek its curious eyes over that mountain
so when you wake, I can greet you with a peaceful start to your day.
Your smile is worth the deprivation I endured.
Forty-Two
Natural woodgrain, smoothly shaped into
the form of the thing it will be.
“It’s a good line,” he says of the boat,
running his hand along the raw gunwale before
eyeing it once more from the stern.
The sawdusted floor dwarfs his house, and that’s
room one. He’s reorganizing his tools, and we
walk among their groups to the door and gravel path.
He almost died on his fortieth birthday.
He was not, luckily, in this cabin, where pain would have
rendered the phone bric-a-brac among the books.
His mother had said he needed a doctor, and
his father had helped him off the floor.
“Forty-two is time for a partner,” he says, a
second tumbler of fine scotch in his head.
Another friend has another someone
to meet, he says, strumming a few chords.
But what would he do in Wilmington, he laughs.
He has an open-air bath tub, a reloading table,
a coop with three chickens, DVDs from the library,
a whiteboard wall with three dozen recommendations
of books and poets and conversations and films.
Tomorrow someone will pay him a few grand for
new molding, and three more word-of-mouth jobs await.
For now, he sleeps in his loft next to books from seminary,
dreaming perhaps of a boat that will wend toward
in-season geese, maybe soon.
The sage, the kid, and the pebble.
I am not a poet!
Okay, the voice stated.
Then it waited...
...Patiently...
For the kid
To listen
To the sound
Of the gentle breeze.
I am not a poet
Alright, said the sage
Who sat with no rage
Quietly
Beside the kid
Waiting to
Hear what more
She had to say.
I am not a...
Aha, I heard you
Like for the first two times
If you are not a poet
Then...what are you, kid?
At this the kid
Stared, gazed,
Into the sage's
Supernova like eyes
All three (oOo)
(the third eye was open, too).
The kid picked up a pebble
And tossed it
That pebble bounced
Across the water
Like a tiny, smooth ball
Until they finally heard a
*plop*
The pebble went
Deep into the belly
Of the pond.
The sage chuckled.
Smiled at the kid,
And then said,
You are not a poet,
But a good pebble tosser!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NDk4P5pzC_E
All Rights Reserved.
Written on Juneteenth.
Earth
Dear Earth,
How much are you worth?
A rabbit is shot,
but stew is put in a pot.
A lion is maimed,
but that lion is tamed.
Your heart is fading,
and people keep trading.
Metal for machines,
New submarines.
An explosion to rattle an army.
You suffer me.
You suffer us.
When is this enough?
When will the cogs turn?
How many forests need to burn?
We are a bruise
causing all the blues.
We are leaving you behind.
Going off to find
another place to harm
to make another farm.
But you still fight back,
making an attack
that will keep the good
and i have understood.
We need to stop.
We need to make a new crop.
We need to change
and We need to behave.
You have nurtured our hive
and because of that, We are alive.
But now let us give,
and hopefully, you will forgive.
Empty Lakes
I can't seem to escape these mistakes.
Like a man who fishes in empty lakes,
Every moment I'm haunted; morning, noon, and night.
My dreams bring with them no delight.
The darkness seeps in, like winter on roses,
And with every pondering, my open door closes.
I feel trapped in a box, with no hole to breathe.
Washing blood from my hands, but holding the sheath.
They creep in my mind, and tap on my skull.
They won't let me fall to a daydreamy lull.
I try to get out but they pull me back in.
They burst in my eyes all over again.
It seems I'll never escape these mistakes,
Like a man who fishes in empty lakes.
between
wrapped in night silk
jewel eyes glinting
from beneath heavy brows
prowling the shadows in
between pages, lingering
between lines to someone
else's lovesick dialogue
soaking in the letters
and standing among
dog-eared stories, stalking
the world for more
more
letting myself take it,
digging my fingers into
the words like they're flesh,
like i can rip them from the paper
consume them
just become them
if only i could flatten myself
into a heart-shaped sheet
and tuck myself safely amidst
the flowery writing
, but,
i can't be confined to the parchment
which might be why i
was washed away into
the midnight sky
originally posted 2/25/21
Under a Kevorkian Moon
Show me somebody screaming
For reasons that benefit
Not only themself
Show me anybody willing
To become the embodiment
Of humility unrestrained
Not just taking
The baby talk of the afflicted
Angers and bores me
Shed your cruddy rags
Flesh of my flesh
Let's crawl all over each other
I've got a Ouija board in the glove box
Let's summon the ghost of Dr. Kevorkian
Make love to me fellow traveler
Among the shovels and lime
Take me with you
I'll go first
David Burdett
3/13/2023