Behind the Moon

I’m not clever at unlocking

doors. Never been clever with

hammers, scissors or pails.

Not good at unlatching bras,

or the mystery buried in

the darkest matter.

BFM

Autumn’s Bed

Aspens, maples

golds, crimsons 

raked, piled.

BFM

One Leg

At twelve, thirteen 

I lost the reins 

to my happy goat.

Waking I see

I’m the one legged child

unable to keep up.

BFM

Making Mud

I have been a poor collector,

abandoning hope after hope

enchantment after enchantment
charm after charm.

Instead
I collect wooden bowls
and in turn they collect dust
the dust waits for rain
the rain waits for clouds
and mud waits for alchemy.

BFM

Smearing

Our pyroclastic remains litter our once wannabe house. 

The first great dream is always a bruising lie, leaving one feeling cornered. 

Dipping our index and middle fingers into liniment jars, 
smearing balm like war paint, with an ash chaser.

We ready for something smaller, a one bedroom apartment, apart. 

BFM

Monsoon

Wet, you.

Oppressive, you.
Humid, you.

The smell,

…you.

BFM

Zen Masters

Comical
watching
two cocks
in the chicken yard 
fight  over
zen and
not zen.

BFM

Storm

Rain falls, words form, sentences puddle.

BFM

Hunter Gatherer

Walking the woods

gathering elm, maple, 

oak, birch, sycamore 
leaves, twigs,
patches of moss 
squirrel tufts, 
owl bones, feathers.

Hot glueing them to my
feet, ankle, calves, knees, 
thighs, buttocks, cock, 
stomach, chest, hands, 
forearms, wrists, biceps,
neck, cheeks, ears,
forehead. 

Hidden, I wait for prey.
I wait for you.

BFM

Bulbous & Red

I must stop making declarations,

’tis foolishness, a clowns nose.
I hate clowns, scary as a viper's pit.

BFM

House Poem

House Poem

House

Home Poem

Home

Poem Poem

Poem

BFM

Garden Path

Sometimes,
I exist

Sometimes,
I’m in control

Most times
my mind, a lie,
wanders
thistle paths
thorny dreams
swirling bricks
and chipped wood.

BFM

Sorrows of Sorrow

everything
i’ve
loved
i’ve
reduced

to art.

BFM

Watch

Dear poet, step away
from the laptop, put down
your pen and watch
the sparrow navigate
the Mesquite’s thicket.

BFM

Returning

after a long needed break

i return to being the self important
cartographer that I am:
the faux poet.

BFM

My Claim

Out here ---> 2 inches
to the right, I stake
my claim.

B.F.M. 2013

Swallowing is the Issue

The doctor tells me, the feeding tube is the size of linguine. There is no irony in his voice. Facts. It's temporary, to get nutrients into the old man. He had two small strokes in bad places. 

Carnivore octogenarian dilemma. The old man hasn't had a meal in five days. A man prideful about his choppers, his cock, and numbers. A temporary feeding tube?

B.F.M.

Stroke

Reborn, a butterfly with paws, gnarled breath and fangs. Letters crumble from your lips, your right blue eye dips, your brain hardens to an anvil were the darkest blacksmith pin points his pounds. Your hands fist, tongue strays, your swallow gone.

B.F.M.

Mothers See

The right hand is darker than the left. An apple is flecked with yellowish specks. Peeled tangerines sit on a blue and white checkered tablecloth. Horses are ridden.

Schooners hoisted sails fill the innocent bay with blood stained sheets, puffed up and out, gliding hulls through skipping waters. Gulls squawk.

Mothers standing on crescent shores seeing there daughters number, 543, 782 or 314, hoisted, skipping into bluer waters.

B.F.M.

Ox-eye Daisy

After plucking and eating an ox-eye daisy’s pure white petals one by one, her bright yellow central disk stood firm daring me to eat her too. So I did. This simple act of devouring, flooded my eyes with a million past meadows filled with generations of ox-eyed daisies, deer, buck, butterfly, buffalo, dawns, dusks, wooly mammoths. 

Out of my right eye a single tear, a sacrifice to the sun, out of my left a rivulet that became a creek, that became a stream, that became a river, that became a lake that fed a meadow, that fed a fallen seed, that sprouted.

B.F.M.