Paper dragon

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Jukebox

 

Drum on your drums, batter on your banjoes,
Sob on the long cool winding saxophones. Carl Sandburg

 

I know that you think of the old jukebox,

when I see the dreamy look in your eyes.

Repeated soundtrack in dark bars

or wannabe coffee joints.

A coin inserted,

forgotten in back jeans pocket

pushed in with a trembling hand.

A moment of wonderment,

will the song come up?

And why not,

machines never lie.

A moment of crackling,

– A forgotten lullaby,

pours honey in your ears.

Wrapping sound like a loved blanket

of a childhood gone.

 

I know that you remember old

loved songs, slow as molasses,

dripping golden sweet nectar.

Through the piercing world’s soundtrack,

crunching day and night, grinding

like this broken machine, that
once played music in your ears.

 4/5/2025

Delineation

Stubs of hay, cut low to the ground, lifeless,

enclosing a decaying barn. Rust flowers inching,

on a wheelbarrow, abandoned in the field,

tilted on its front wheel. Big sky,

low to the ground, presiding over a dull palette,

of static steel and hushed browns,

streaked with orange defeat.

Strumming a heart-rending tune, the wind,

strokes the hay, inspiring illusions of life.

I know it well, the empty barn, the barren land,

the yearning hanging heavy in the air,

muted yellows, and a broken barrow.

A contained image, I etch on new walls,

every time I move away.

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4/3/2025

Words that Reverberate

 

Brevity – to me

Sounds like sadness

Grieving-

Letting go –

Things passed,

not coming back.

 

Perhaps –

Briefness…

Shortness…

Quickness…

Cut short.

 

A song that never ends,

Record that keeps grinding,

deepening the wound.

 

Perhaps –

Longevity,

Permanency,

Durability,

or even prolonged existence.

 

Sit better.

 

A well-worn garment,

soft with the years.

Your touch, on my skin. 
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 Legacy

My mother’s eyes,                                                                                                                           my father’s face.

Her hands,

his quiet voice,

an uneven landscape,

still in formation.

I was shaped by past-history,

by their-story,

 

To this day

I strip the layers,

to uncover truths forgotten,

vehicles to broken pieces

needing to be glued. 

Her curls, so admired,

his quiet courage, the one of a leader.

Her language left behind

with severed family life,

was never to become my mother-tongue.

 Turbulences I inherited from my parents,

their features etched into mine,

will I leave them to my children.

When the time comes.

Day 6  

Watermelon
“The taste of memory – The color that lingers in your mind. “Holding on, Letting go. L.B.

Splash – dash – twit,
I search the trees for a hint.
Quiet –
It sounds like a kitten.
A female cat in heat?
I turn my back, halt breathing.

Gurgle – water – a scream,
I resist – bite into the quiet.
Still air –warm against me,
sweet, red melts on my tongue.

Squish – plaster – spray
I quickly turn.
In my mind – red
In my mouth – sugary,
In my ears a mocking laugh,
imprudent – mockingbird.724519Day 6 Type your paragraph here.