|
|
Journeys On Kansas Earth
The leaves of autumn fall as winter whimpers the cold and lonesome songs,
Horace stays off the prairies these days, always yet never longing for his hoary ice
tongs.
Icicles of water bear polar witness, frozen-wise, to the bottom of my dianic soul,
Seventy-four phalaropes flare their nostrils of pity, wholly holy and whole.
"Corvairs of poetry keep one sane through the dizzy shifts of love, but
Oranges from nowhere, now here, do sense that of which I can't think of, but
Nebraska now, the phippses and the dales of spring do dust their songs of laughter.
Tuesday salts my wounds with savory seasoning, no matter that I'm the crafter.
Elvis' slive lives Levi's veils' evils, but never more sexy than only two teeth.
Smoothier than pianissimo, more miserable than largo, they oscillate beneath
Turkey's palindrome of the summer's splendthrifterous coniferous mistletoe wreath."
I sickle cells in the full fill of fall. A rope, I trip o'er the naked sheaves of
raked leafs.
Strawberries so soon again, when the bear'll drive and diddle her beeves.
Argyles in rust, ice cream in dust: They know my door hinge will be forever dinged.
Striven snow is pure again, and yet too soon the biliary duct of my sturgeon,
Carbuncles and all, can be removed with puppy's swipe of the sharp knife of life.
Aught and nought, all I know is I have to trust my surgeon,
Me here in the winter of my life.
--Jodhpurs, lo, in the bulge of their sideways springtime, forever honor Horace
Greeley and his minor key choice not to automate Morris.
|