late summer

the tock of the clock

a wavering sheer curtain

in a room of old wood

the road

Scottsburg, Indiana
7/23/2010

a weariness drives me to go
a subtle pall that builds
from the waiting
and knowing it’s not yet time
a different kind of ache
that eats at your brain
like a cancer
that will not enter remission

i kid myself into believing
there is a cure
but there is none
there is only
the road bound fatigue
that propels me into anxiety
for the perfect vista
the ultimate sweeping corner
that constant human urge
to not live in this moment
but to desire for the next
hoping it will ease the fatigue

my body aches
from the heat and the physical task
of the motorcycle being
not an extension of me
but me
i am not an observer
or a witness
but a part of it
living in it
having it now

i fight the idea that
i will carry the memories of it
for future road lust
as a form of satisfaction
because it is a kind of distancing
then i will miss it
and it will be gone
truly gone
forever

i try to remember
that to experience the road
is to get it all
the love
the lust
the burn in my legs
the pangs in my back
the thirst and exhaustion
from the stunning southern heat
and moving forward
when it feels bad
to do so
it doesn’t matter
i go

Michael B

love in a dream

i awakened with a start
and the sickening reality
that i was wracked with a feeling
of deliciously rich emotion
in the pit of my stomach
and the hollow of my heart
and somehow it was attached
to a girl i knew
yet had never given
a second thought

my body pelted
with a blast of things
i had not felt
in places i did not know
that i could feel them
i knew it was love
yet it felt so tenuous
like a handful of cotton candy
stuffed in my mouth
the sweetness intense
for a gossamer second
and then it is gone

i was stunned
at love’s abruption
for someone i’d known
yet didn’t know
my whole life
where had love come from?
i had to know how it happened
i had to follow its flow

at once i am on a mission
to seek her daily
with a fidelity i could not control
to see her face
or the cut of her hair
the depth of her eyes
or the softness of her lips
or some other vision
i must have missed

i gave up my bike
and took to my feet
walking always
the long way home
from a friend’s
or from ball practice
so as not to rush by
too quickly
but absorb her
as slowly as i dare

i passed her house by
so many times
i came to know every flower
and every weed in her unkempt yard
and the yapping little dog
who rushed to the fence
each time i wandered by

i even noticed
the window that was cracked
in the front room
that was not the day before
on the white house with the dark green trim
whose paint was peeling
in places
yet i had no idea what i would do
should she walk through that door

i’m drawn to her street
over and over
sometimes twice or thrice each day
the one time in my life
when i hate the summer
and miss the school yard
for there i’d see her every day
without the aching
or the wondering
if today might be the day

and then one morning
hot and windy
ambling up her street
at last i see her
sitting on her porch
with a garden green hose
her perfect hands are wet
from watering her mother’s
straggly pink gardenias

I find myself there
barely breathing
frozen on the spot
on the walk outside her yard
in a place that’s perfect
from which to spy her
as her dark short hair
blows winsome across
the creamy white face
of an angel

something’s changed!
this cannot be
the same gangly legged girl
who once punched my eye
for hitting her so hard
with a red rubber dodge ball
that it left a welt
in a game i could not lose

i’m dazed and i’m gasping
from the river of emotion
that’s washing over me
i feel that i might drown
if i don’t awaken
from the purgatory
i’ve been caught in
midway between
the world and a dream

it must have been an hour
before i came to
when lightly she turned her head
to brush back her hair
gaining her focus
she sees me
and returns with a start
to reoccupy herself
with the watering
of the flowers
i know she does not see

and then i notice
a little smile
spreading slowly across her face
it’s wider now
as she tries to decide
to acknowledge me
or let me go

i hold my ground
and hold my gaze
emboldened by the
numberless days
i’ve lived this moment
right here on this street
in this spot on this walk
in front of this green and white house

a speechless connection
i feel her smiling
my heart is smiling wider
then she turns her head
once more to engage me
in her love while
a tear runs down her face
having never seen
someone cry with
a face full of joy

my fear subsides
when at once i’m struck
with the meaning of her tears
i believed i was stuck
all these long summer days
in this mire all alone
but now i see
that the two of us
are stuck
in this endless space
together

michael bratton

Our new US Poet Laureate: MS Werwin

MS Merwin is one my poet heroes. The US Library of Congress got it right this year by appointing Merwin as Poet Laureate. At 82 years old, he is still going strong as a literary giant and we are all much better off because of it. Merwin's prosy, stream of consciousness style is the style of poetry that I most identify with, and he is the master of it. Here's a sample of one of his best.

For The Anniversary Of My Death by W. S. Merwin

Every year without knowing it I have passed the day
When the last fires will wave to me
And the silence will set out
Tireless traveller
Like the beam of a lightless star

Then I will no longer
Find myself in life as in a strange garment
Surprised at the earth
And the love of one woman
And the shamelessness of men
As today writing after three days of rain
Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease
And bowing not knowing to what

The poetry of John Prine

Well, it got so hot last night I swear
you couldn't hardly breathe
a heat lightning burned the sky like alcohol
I sat on the porch without my shoes
and watched the cars roll by
as the headlights raced to the corner of the kitchen wall

Mama dear your boy is here, far across the sea
waiting for that sacred core that burns inside of me
and I feel the storm, all wet and warm, not ten miles away
approaching my Mexican home

'Oh my God', I cried, `it's so hot inside
you could die in your living room'
take a fan from the window
prop the door back with a broom
the cuckoo clock has died of shock and the windows feel no pain
the air's as still as the throttle on a funeral train

Mama dear, your boy is here, far across the sea
waiting for that sacred core that burns inside of me
and I feel a storm, all wet and warm, not ten miles away
approaching my Mexican home

Well my father died on the porch outside
on an August afternoon
I sipped bourbon and cried with a friend by the light of the moon
So it's hurry, hurry, step right up!
It's a matter of life or death
The sun is going down and the moon is just holding its breath

Mama dear your boy is here, far across the sea
waiting for that sacred core that burns inside of me
and I feel a storm, all wet and warm, not ten miles away,
approaching my Mexican home

a child of the road

the day i gripped the bare metal handlebar
of my friend's mini bike
was the first day i felt
the true wind in my face
the rat tat tat tat of the
little motor that burned my leg
through my gasoline and oil stained pants
its power sluggishly perfect
as i twisted the throttle with my right hand
i knew then i was ruined forever

we ran it up and down
the dirt road to his home
a million times
we'd have to drag our feet to stop it
or sometimes run it up against a tree
we rode hard and laughed harder
until after the sun had set
and kenny's father came out to get him for supper
i'd walk the two dark miles home and feel contented
cleaned out
complete

i soon was to learn
that my father did not share
my love of motorcycles
he forbade me to have one
or to go riding with friends
he hated anything
that traveled on two wheels
or was it that he hated
anything that brought me joy
one more chasm in our widening relationship
for i would find ways to go

one day he caught me
riding a sharp red and white yamaha twin jet
on the outskirts of town
its shiny deep paint
made no difference to him
with anger in his face
he told me to return it
to whoever it belonged to
and to get myself home
he never found out
it was mine

i garnered an ally
a kid being raised
by his brother
so that i could buy the ragged bultaco
with the faded red tank
which barely ran
and hide it there
the first of many
motorcycle mongrels
i'd buy and sell
and hide
until i'd wear out my welcome
and move on

then came bronson
and fonda and hopper
and the long roads became shorter
to me and my bike
i'd sneak myself away
for a day or two
destination not cared
ride to a new place
on the endless black ribbon
that stretched far beyond my front wheel
and sleep in a park
or a campground with no blanket
and live like a gypsy

the first time i rode across the state line
i felt a welcoming arizona furnace
gently roasting my chest and my arms
a benevolent wind blew
dry and different in my face
and made straws of my hair
the arid clean smell
of creosote perspiring
attacking my nostrils
it was then that i learned
the warmth of a smiling heart
trumps the brilliance
of the white desert sand

now when summer approaches
i spend wonderstruck hours
with my nose in a map
no need to make sense
of this arcane lust to wander
for my mind is a child's
awake and wide open
to the newness of every mile
to hear the doctrines and beliefs
of the people i'll meet
the shepherds
the innkeepers
the tavern owners
who will unknowingly teach me
a child of the road

Michael B

i wonder if

a woman feels

the weakness

a man feels

when they glance

at his face

in the same way

we admire hers

Michael B