Some of my very old poems…
piles of clean clothes
(grey from not using bleach clothes)
dog-haired and dusty from being on the floor clothes
Clean them Dry them Dump
them on my bed
My clothes his clothes
underwear socks linens for the closet making
piles and finally delivering
put mine away
put some of his away
put all of theirs in a basket and
dump it in their
on the floor
Someday they’ll decide
to fold their own clothes
but now they can practice
just making piles
underwear socks shirts and sheets
and pants and pajamas
and then just stuff it all in
or walk on them for a few days.
March 12 1993
I sit on the porch, somewhat hidden by an old yew
and think about things: how I’m going to redo, undo
my life…my tomorrows…and the people who live in
homes hidden away here on this quiet street. I don’t
often see them outside. I think they might be lonely.
Ms. Miriam (I asked the postman) has eight cats so
empty tins pile – up quickly in her bin. Mieu Perdu
Lost Meow visits me after finishing some tuna hash.
Eerie Eckhart (not his real name) is the strange one.
Sometime, I’d like to invite them to dinner; I will
solace them. But I need a job, a place, and soup.
Newport, ca. 1995
Springtime in an Old House
What started as a trickle
seeping from an unnoticed crack,
when winter snows were warming
and rain-soaked skies were coming,
found a flow-line in my basement,
towards a sump-pump, often fickle,
in a corner towards the back.
A fountain-pool of tinkling droplets
quietly collected as I slept.
Soon spring gathered volume and velocity;
by night, its sources gained variety.
Now in my boots and with my broom,
and frantic tinkering with the float,
I’m sweeping water from a moat.
April 17, 1996 (Revised 4/02/12)
I love your old poems. Imagine. Writing poems about the laundry. and the neighbors. So Simple. So True.