industrial music please

the industrial music on TV Oh Boy
during wake-up early Saturday morning off-hours
when no sane sponsor would pay a dime to advertise
ergo there was nothing decent to view

we watched until it made us tap our feet in joy
to see new clean shiny bottles passing by,
row on row, on conveyor belts,
endless bottles sans commentary

gleaming bottles galore
whoa, wha’cha watchin’ zombie kids?
watching bottles
passin’ by, nothing to talk about

only that music and bottles on parade
you have to have loved it, or hated it or been mesmerized
here they come empty, watch ‘em now
then full, then lidded – get the lids on will ya

sometimes you tuned in and saw the end
when all those full bottles were
boxed, packed, trucked, then sped away
all to that appropriately endless industrial music.

11-11-11 punkin house on a hill

ohio man grows largest pumpkin
on charming small hill
dries it out
scrapes inside clean

crafts bed, cabinets,
does plumbing, then electricity
paints interior, decorates
even adds a fireplace

hangs up curtains and lives in it
falls asleep with fire roaring
burns whole place down.
gets out alive




now years later the local beer joint fills
every Saturday eve when they leave the hills
to buy him ale
and to hear this tale

smoking in the dark

lights out blackness nearly
yet creeping neon proclaims the inner city
leaking into our unlit hallway
softly dusting a residual hint of glow

i open the door a crack
to see illusive curling smoke,
then close the door
welcoming the envelope of total dark.

even the glow of a puff
stealthy falls away
silent in the mystic lure
of golden tobacco.

ah, but i know the way
to idle swirling dream,
the light that follows spark
when smoking In the dark.

the leaf in the pond

it leapt from tall sugar maple
semi-circled in light breeze,
that leaf briefly glided
then came to pond landing.

large, twisted nearly into a great U
floating flat and steady on one side,
swan proud high on the other
as gusts took it round

making short lines in light wind ripples,
then circles, quickly here,
spin turn there, zipping
like a curious swan on the lookout

then swung about like a four master
in queen’s colors, my beloved red to yellow
swashbuckling dry dinosaur,
remnant of parting golden autumn.