by George Frederick Watts
Pouring buckets outside. Came across this image and am fascinated with it.
Have Olivia tonight . . .
Manifesto
Before I’d fallen through,
I’d hated all unhappiness.
The brassy sing-song doorbell,
the basement’s rude ceiling.
But a door countered
and the basement steps forgave.
*
An accident, a big blue
smiling cat untreed by a sandstorm.
Birches swung and bending.
Under weather-repellant jackets
there was nothing
but claws, digging through a surface.
*
Buckets of hoarded feed,
yard grown high and wild,
it was early June when I started
whacking at the grass with a stolen scythe.
Got goats and turned
the shoulder of the road.
*
Now I’m a windup toy
steadily clouding steam.
The way I love
is to pace your pen
alone, pounding
on my cymbals.
*
All the blinds inside buildings
create their certain moods.
Give me a balsa easel
to right that wrong.
When they tell you
“Real life is not the time
for originality,”
stop and spin the wheel
of your body.
Follow the dust-whirl
beneath your heels.
Milling around only tracks it in.
*
A handkerchief wiped
brusquely over a crane had caught
some delicate criticisms,
private affairs deserving
quick condolences.
Bobbing in and out of rain
squirrelesque begins to rattle
the pioneer spirit. My mission
is the beauty of schooling fish
without the constant dark dreams.
*
I like having a locker to jump out of
when nothing chimes.
I like having a well to jump into
when I’m all rung up.
Sometimes, when I am dying,
oxen-dotted landscapes soften
a gravel-pathed circling,
heavy boots slapped down
at the lip of the door.
*
Into a folding chair
snaps my happy place
like an overexcited dog,
its thick, ridiculous lashes
suddenly slack and intimate.
~ C. J. Sage
Lola's Curmudgeonly Musings 