if you have a gift, give it

if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it -if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it

Monday, March 28, 2011

Below the light of the lamp

A boy was hiding out under the kitchen table.
Had on him a head of gavels.
Held two pencils, two pens,
smiled four brushstrokes when he winked at ya.
Drew on the underside that wooden table.

Lived in a stacker-house made of pallets and crates.
Knife, blue, spoon, and forklift.
Built the mouth a rivers tongue, pierced and plugged it.
Pulled chains with oxen.
Took a breath stroke from the front of his pickup
escaped through the potato peeler
on the back of a frog,
on the bugs in the night.
Caught a cold sleeping in a spiders web.

Spider said, “kill me for spring rain and your dying watering holes bucket wish, for growing carrots on the deep end of a diving board, as deep as the wind of a fishcatcher pulling strings with an ironing rod to brand secrets and sailor knots on the back of a child’s oyster dome.  So he will not forget me when my eight legs are gone. I love him much.“

Come thumb dandelions on the side road of a hitch hike.
Watching from fishburn up through your sunkiss,
down past your tiger eyes, glowing inside a concert hall.
Will call for the whiplash of binocular hands
who have dreams about visionary candlewicks
holding on for a skinny dip of wax, or the circulation of a bloodstem.
Catch that boy.

Catch him with his head in whip cream clouds squinting airplane propellers.
Reaching out for a bundle of fugitive balloons like a bouquet of doorbells.
There is a city inside each green helium tank,
inside each cross legged sitting machine,
all coiled up and in searchlight of spring.

When standing on the roost of a suspension bridge
remember, it’s a great time to suspend time.
Watch miracles within each collapsing wave
die down to rise back up like a oven mitt chuckle.
Say it in a slice of berry pie,
“Please bring me,
the font of a footprint.
The bark on the trunk of standing water.
The breast pocket of an empty cup.
The plum on the windmill
playing dodge ball in the cherry orchard.”

Under the kitchen of the table
below the light of the lamp
slept a boy with a head full of fist marks
and a heart full of
brilliant,
bright, surrendering,
brushstroke.


No comments:

Post a Comment