A letter I need to send (from rhyming exercise)

I pretend to have a letter I need to send
and though writing is not a sin
heaven forfeits what it does not let in;
letter written in blood if I was anemic I'd been dead long since.

Everything's still the same
even when we change the rules or dress up the name:
society maimed made lame
no one and everyone is to blame
even though he never came.

In unison they swing their canes
dapper dressed they walk along
one way while our lives wind
not as a literal time-piece
but as wisps of wind that catch your face
and bring relief on a hot day.

In this autumn month (from Brainstorm #1)

In this autumn month
eyes gaze through thin window pane
down leaf strewn street
and scattered about rags plastic bags butts discarded wrappers
black gum-tar stuck everlasting a polka dot distraction
faded beer cans smashed flat like aluminum paper.

In this autumn month
eyes gaze through cracked window pane
unable to stop the loud sound
of other people's matters late into the night
lost at sea must be seen to believe but invisible to most:
like the late night moan of the trolley
letting the whole house know the weekend schedule of the number ten.

In this autumn month
eyes gaze through the thin veil of window pane
farsighted I bare witness to the long and slow groan
of earth's internal clock tearing a hole through space and time
seeping into living matter and finding its way into
blood choked scream screened streets
that are rivers in our lives.

Cicada's Song; Draft #3

Cicadas sing the clack and click of timbals,
a cacophony for hot summer days
when sticky sweat runs down slippery backs.

timbals buckle out bend back in,
dispersing a shaking sound as of rattles
the noise rising and falling like
deep and repeated knife stabs,
unending even deep past dim light into night
descending out from trees off into humid and misty airs over fields
of sword grass grown fat off flood plain waters.

And thus the male hearkens to its mate,
and screaming at me through ossicle and cochlea
he becomes proof positive:
time plays out moment by moment,
burdens are rewards all their own,
and the cicada's empty rust-colored shells shed
symbolic carcass an ironic but muted reminder of the cycle of life.

Brainstorm #1

Eyes gaze through window pane and down
street strewn with leaves in this autumn month
street littered with discarded wrappers and wasted human lives.

Eyes gaze through window pane and across
homes sittings on low hills slanted doorways
witness to the hard crunch of modern lives
for people that do not breathe the clean air
for people that do not breathe the free air
for others that do not share a sense of home,
lost in a sea that I see but is invisible to most.

Eyes gaze through window pane and far off
men strong and brave and men weak and timid
stand along side each other and and share in the contempt
that has been building in the sum of living matter in the sum of human thought
in the the blood choked scream screened streets that are rivers
in our lives.

Rhyming Exercise #1; Draft #3

I pretend to have mail I need to send
and though this is not a sin
heaven forfeits what it does not let in.

Everything's still the same
even when we change the rules or dress up the name:
societies maimed made lame
no one and everyone is to blame
even though he never came.

Together and at once swinging their canes
dapper dressed walking one way:
our lives wind away not as literal time-pieces
but as wisps of wind that catch your face
and bring relief on a hot day.

Rhyming Exercise #1; Draft #2

I pretend to have mail I need to send
heaven forfeits what it does not let in,
but this is not a sin.
Why do I have to start this over again?
Everything stays the same and even when we change the rules
the game is still the same but with a different name:
no one and everyone is to blame
societies maimed made lame
and he never returned let alone came.

Together and at once they swung their canes
dapper dressed walking down Main
a one-way route bargain:
your life winds away not as a literal time-piece
but as the wisps of wind that catch your face
and bring cool and dry relief on an otherwise hot day
Can we dance can we play, can we laugh our pain away?

whimper (final draft more or less)

passed down through generations
tangled fur, twisted teeth
the ragged glare of teeth bared
against the solitude of a witch-black forest.
Pine needles soften the sound
footsteps and sound of a dog dying,
so soon heard in echoes
as flesh from bone begins
the vagaries of rot

only to be recycled and found renewed in
the lives of other things,
as leaves of trees
or the moss between our toes.

But death sounds still long for tender days
not of misfortune made,
or truth that so too fades
into darkness turned soft blue
against the coming of the sun.

Cicada's Song; Draft #2

Cicadas sing and the clack and click of timbals,
not music but a cacophony for hot summer days
and sticky sweat running down slippery backs.

The timbals buckle out and then bend back in,
dispersing a shaking sound as of rattles
the noise rising and falling like
deep and repeated knife stabs,
unending even deep past dim light into night
descending out from trees
and off into the humid and misty airs over forest and field.

I imagine grasses thick with rattlesnakes,
or man made automatons set at times
to scream at me through ossicles and cochlea.

And thus males hearken to their mates
proof positive that time plays out moment by moment,
burdens are rewards all their own,
and the cicada's empty rust-colored shells symbolic
carcasses an ironic muted reminder of the cycle of life.