Frank Praeger

Inches Away

A cutlass at his side,

an unrecorded dream,

more than could have been anticipated

from unexpected lives,

crappy, cranked up, fell, yet, partial to full,

that will not culminate

much as streets covered in debris

nor is there a sunset in the western sky

but an evening streaked with color,

silhouette of a til now forgotten grief.

Elaborations on the unremarkable,

unwarranted green,

unasked for laughter,

unmerited rain.

Apart, together,

dodging would be assailants

transported by a hummingbird's ease,

by each one whispering each other's name,

by a fractionally easier breathing.

Larger Issues

Well, it may have been cactus sighing,

another kind of mayhem.

It did not startle bluejays, squirrels,

nor a hummingbird at the periphery of my vision.

The larger issues: cruel months, collateral damage,

days without rain or sun,

edicts of pain.

And to the finality of broken chairs,

discarded sandwiches,

a largeness inescapably so.

Frank Praeger © 2009

A Thousand Years End

A thousand years,

then, always, the iconography.

Would dwarfs be out of place

to balance the enormity of birds?

Alarm in the shadow of a beak

and sunlight

and icicles;

yes, tentacles

when we would have had feet.

And, then, again, why not radial?

Piqued being relegated to chance.

What, missing a day!



Spooked out?

Yesterday's wash that never dried.

A tide that never came in.

How inopportune,

nor will I belabor any further.

So, only humans fail?

Born visionless a soprano sings.

A thousand years end.

No one to call to,

no one to respond to the surety

of your own sudden urge

as the wind, nightly, scatters rain

and lightning hurtles through the hills

and no end to the heirlooms buried in the earth.

Frank Praeger © 2009