ebbortz

Monday, April 28, 2014

earth note 279

ohio river marina
bobbing in the current
early in the season
they're still mostly vacant
     wealthy cabin cruisers
     dry docked or sold
     to the highest bidder

the bicycle trail
runs with the valley
making its land claim
empty docks sway and sing
     metal to metal
     the wind
     a tuning fork

--- e b bortz

(published in earth notes and other poems, Least Bittern Books, 2015)

Friday, April 25, 2014

what comes around

thinking that lone turkey
pecking around at the end of the yard
     wobbly
paying attention to the hillside drop-off
lost from a half-dozen others
     a roost of one
just might be
my mother incarnate

a true rosie-the-riveter
worker-like
scarfing up loose food
providing for the community
     if she ever reconnects
stepping through resurrected
green buds
new grass
a trail of her own

running away
if i approach

--- e b bortz

Thursday, April 24, 2014

poetry critic conundrum

first
don't ever try to finish a poet's thought

many think only
in code

seldom speak in sentences

never give up much
by expression

hand gestures
might be a distraction

a voice is still
only one voice
on one day

the paper is always a draft

everything that exists today
is considered temporary

locations are all in transit

spontaneity is a beginning
and end in itself

and most important
the poet always
gets the last word

--- e b bortz

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

internet walls

grow
in a closet
not unlike provincialism
creating its own rationale
friendship propaganda
notwithstanding

multitudes navigate
gated panaceas
exclusive interlocking webs
words & images pass
back & forth with quips
     & minutiae dangling
          for loose change

--- e b bortz


Tuesday, April 22, 2014

mother earth knows

you can't harangue
the children
into behaving
     growing up is painful
and liberating
all at the same time

watch out for the chest thumping
super heroes
they just might be hollow
     inside
& some stories just don't have heroes

holier than thou
isn't tried and true

but if you'll dance
with her
     your life will change

--- e b bortz

Sunday, April 20, 2014

this cycle is coming to an end

after the headache is gone
every word thereafter
begins a new poem
unfinished     irreverent     without cares
like throwing seeds
upon a blank canvas
waiting for the sun
to surface

--- e b bortz
 

Monday, April 14, 2014

a stake tears through pennsylvania

it comes in vertically
then makes a ninety degree turn
heart and lungs collapse
rigs      pipes      toxic fluids
compressors cough
bring up blood
cover the carcass
old scar tissue
cut again
methane oozes from the pores

the emergency room was torn down
     years ago
the land
an industrial colony
lost its way
when the creeks
dried up
and the politicians
     swallowed the silver

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, April 17, 2014)

Saturday, April 12, 2014

whatever it takes

will be less
than what exists
that broken down cityscape
might last a few generations
so get used to it

making the rivers run like sewer runoff
is like a thousand taste-dead
empty mouths
with nothing but salt
on their tongues

the fiber optic cable
offers very little light
so keep groping       imagining
when rubber hits the road
& skid marks go missing

what's the point
of disassembling every keyword
& losing random bits
there is no technocrat
with a new codeword

for happiness

--- e b bortz

protest in the street

picks itself up
& bounces thru the stop light
the newspapers
are but scraps
a gray courtroom
grows padded walls
deafening to all
but the powerful
     tuning out
     all but
     the secret codes

a voice escapes
justice waits

--- e b bortz

Sunday, April 06, 2014

earth note 278

unnoticed
in the rush
where leaves
find their final
resting
not because of any
higher consciousness
or new awareness
but because the hillside
is just steep enough
to keep leaf blowers
and their gassy assholes
off balance
confined to manicure
the cushy few
in the suburbs

a couple of squirrels
shift and chase their tails
through the maple leaf beds
     their playful softness in the brush
     is an illusion

--- e b bortz