Dynamo
Daily on my vertebral stack,
I teeter forward misstep-prone—
not oops-killed yet—in the world on its terrible
fire balling way dooms grain sprouts as mismatched sticks
in cracked fields and amps up
cold waves hot-blooded to shred coast cities. Exotically
elsewhere,
hooves below a white horsie,
with radiating black stripes, reposition a black nose
to a shrunk pond. Still, right here comes a water fest
of my personal bad-past tears—expert
on my best and worst, I’d redo only one flubbed
evening, when Veronica squeezed
my hand. And in global scorch, still,
the neighborhood talk of a child's spine
broke a stick. And what will we say later
of this metallic green-and-blue shingled head
whose long beak
dips into a yellow flower cone, then zigs
to another flower the humming, warming,
thumb-big dynamo of chic?
Rapidity
Your deep-chest brays gut-wrench me, Friend,
doe-eyed gray donkey from Nubian wild ass,
good-natured horsehair quadruped with backache—
across the street a man rides you, an outrage toes
brushing ground. But he’s got bad legs?
Well, see the monkey
touch a cheek the big cat one swipe ruins. Let's talk
the leopard's bad character. Or jaw and bite of a loyal dog.
Young, I was bit of a cultivated lily in my capacity, believe me,
for dumbass. A thoughtlessness machined into unthinking
endless doing, truly the model of innocence equaled accidental
cruelty. Now, I ask Who thrives, who suffers, and each
ocean-wave’s mouth opens and hisses closed no answer.
Seeing you, Friend, rapidity claims me, but I overflow
emotion’s belt, feel saddled—a lurch even is out
of reach. Though makes me ponder a second or two,
at least. Please, time to time reappear, swell
my throat, film my eyes. Tomorrow's in my calendar—
willing to feel foolish, to fail but not you.
Labor
Tumbling dark-gray vegetable clouds
push white fluff across sky for a
stormy business starts to chill my face—
gorgeous weather, and a few cold
drops crash my cheeks. Ducks labor
above trees across the city park’s
one square block. Next to a red-brick
building—on top a blue-green copper elk
looks up and left, with antlers—is the
glass-and-steel bank I pass, hard coins
gleamy in my dark pants pocket,
and I say Work harder!
4 peach, webbed feet spread on bright
green grass between sidewalk
and street curb, dark bead eyes
in 2 shiny green heads moving
forward say Let’s gaze about.
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George Shelton lives and works in Tucson, Arizona. His poems have appeared in The Massachusetts Review, Spork, The Iowa Review, Flashquake, NOON, International Times, and the anthology category (published by Cue magazine).
