IJIPOETRY.COM - POETRY BY LARRY INGRAM

Waiting Cavalcade

3/19/2013

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Seconds are measured in colors I know.
It's clearly visible, and it works when people,
cars - grinding, pushing, hard, graceful.
But molasses pours across flat,
rock grade - black turns as we yield to other
clever headlights - boggled and
licensed to magically appear after work.

Capitalize on them, you see - cleverly.
Sprinting he goes, driving his steed
hard past sagebrush.
Pedestrian it is, taxing each metal and plastic in line.
So nice to see you.
But I never I knew you - and don't,
as we stare in space, normally pleasant.

Accelerate and nab that green, weeds grow
companion to tires.
Gasoline barters - smelly as it sits patiently
burning holes in drivers.
They dare to pour honey when water will do,
for vacuums are filled with precise eddies. 
That light deserves to die.

© 2013 Larry Ingram
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Worries

3/19/2013

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Drip, drips the day that
never comes,
sinking still as it warns
me with sounds, ghosts muffled
with laughter in my head -
at me.

Try to complete this in a
year, starting, sleeping soundly
when morning comes, as fresh
rain reminds of deadlines,
haunting ghosts.

It's clear outside, a cloudless
reality that turn to falling
snow measured by grey -
it's a reality accumulated.

But still choosing the
best, while fearing
sandcastles, built to
monstrous moats,
insurmountable waves.

They take white, vacant
napkin reservations here
with hellish kitchen snarls
as we count the clear days
for courageous bright dining.

© 2013 Larry Ingram
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Blitzen

3/9/2013

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The linebackers claim
they were from the north
peninsula -
or pole. Their secret.
But muscular, they face prepared
for a dazzling  stream of white confetti -
ticker tapes of bonded and aged holly
fixed to posts, bricks,
homes -
see the street animated for
fleet and frigid travelers.

Directions are easy as this
child waits for the boatload -
willingly donating
sleep for boxes and crates.
But today the sun sleeps
in shadow for flying in each direction -
flakes twinkling -
seriously dousing
toes and fingers for snowballs.

It's a good day for
pine, not pining for green parades.
They arrive with fallen leaves
too heavy for darling eyes.
Sleep while they sprint
the planet.
Easy for their flight in vehicles,
carriages all named for transporting hearts -
as dawn crawls toward urchins awake.
Back to the North Pole they
sail.

© 2013 Larry Ingram
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Emergency

3/9/2013

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None are too flashy as
to refuse this
deep round, cautionary,
but pleasing gauze.
White like carpet
going wall to wall -
on my arm, your
limb once red,
now somber in grateful
thrill.

It's a coincidence that
they were trained in
light-flashing -
a period here and there,
but willing that it should
stop, with pressure from
staring, and
blaring a siren at cars.

If he bounces back we'll
be ready with Type O,
a needle, but again
not saying the quick
trip saved time,
but me - or you?
We'll dare meet again
to see more plaster -
cast in light.

© 2013 Larry Ingram
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Trolley

3/9/2013

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It was the trolley
that whizzed in my
mind, uphill.
But impossibly so -
to stand our buffet -
encompassing cartons
of food, daring a spatula
to embark on down
the steep crevasse.

Sitting down was
a rice container,
pools of water near
the banks to
defy fog racing with
my neighbor, fellow
traveler, who
forces their tires
to idle in darkness.

I can make the mist
sunny, hot, as it drenches
tobacco white
cartons, tan, beige cylinders -
conduits really
for this train - no
screeching but obtuse
angles that dare me
to leap.

I grazed these streets
as a professional -
streetwise this concrete
was not hard to
bargain with for a slice
of happiness.
Gone is the fog,
personally rebuking
this trifle of electric
brakes.

It is sunny.
Yes. Happiness is
enough for a street
sign so gripping,
my hand - so
Olympic that a trial
will defy gravity -
to train for this would
not be fair or lovely.
It's free to trust brakes
wielded by the pen -
and silence.

© 2013 Larry Ingram
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Banking Numerals

3/3/2013

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Columns see to the stratosphere.
Blind but baring us all with -
a quick calculus.
But an awful exercise, no,
but brains of steel, when needed,
as the package clearly states.
It's the cosigner who matters in these cases.
A conscience that cares only for fours,
twos, ones in a row.
Balk at the sun and light of the
lonely the page that gives the same
robotic answer.

And how this tally of fools really rules -
lying crisply against the wall,
sometimes in aisles, never seeking
fame or -
a level heard by a morticians level
of friendship.
Amazed that it came from us, you,
me - we are shocked that the horses
stay in their own lanes.

Its what pleases this corner -
or worse a friendship
with granite and steel -
cold but stuck to you -
or ruthless corrections will ensure.
Suspended by a blizzard,
he writes well to his credit,
and numbers fall to earth
without blame or fireworks.

© 2013 Larry Ingram
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Stoops the Raven

3/3/2013

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He stoops, again, as it
flies darkly there
as new blood runs,
red and bright though
criminal it is thought to
be when meandering
through this life,
games for drinking as we
crow for its last breath,
Hacking its way to reflect sublime wings,
they take flight.

Unknown who revels in this
blood, but a beak picks
again the newly torn body,
it stoops at shingled bricks
to mock inspectors with
breaking news.
Yes, inspect  this lone cadaver
as it shivers across white faces,
staring there, longing for
premonitions.

Bloody, yet, but clean how
it flies unseen, as black alcohol
cleanses the soul.
Who knows that it will but
grimace on rainy nights,
as feeding for its young,
glancing off bricks -
they tell not a soul, clean
with new cold rain.

Ligaments of wood turn
their screws and print new
events, stepping on crumpled paper.
Crisp she walks, quickly to
avoid, never hearing this
black bird as it chats to
the night, clotting her ears
with time as it approaches
happy in the night.
Her last vision - the raven
takes her to bare branches
as it rests - incubating
this murder.

Oh, how it sings of approaching
dawn as life ebbs,
cawing at wood never holds no
water or nourishment
for beautiful eyes, hair -
though adorned in black
wings wearing the night.
Nimble claws pick its food,
longing to feed its young.

Sinews yes, but walking ceases
with bright moon, winds
screeching through the night
it sounds of music for the raven,
it listens closely for life.
But these scraps are plenty,
for a terraced black wing.
Of course these events
speak to this lone women
stopping while a black
wing hovers, braking for
life while it lasts.
It sails on.

But it saw you in flight,
Baltimore calling me to testify
that it would do no more harm
than fellows enjoying the view -
or a macabre breath - this body.
Criticize if you must, but the
morgue calls it does -
now that its drank it last pint.
Emotions run though they may.

Would you kill it, this flight
black it holds it beak so -
dancing on it scatters another
prayer for the dead.
You come to see those gone,
you will befriend this dead one -
lying still where it is raw,
undressed.
Unharnessed it makes a canopy
of graves and visits there.

© 2013 Larry Ingram
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    Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture.
    Check out his columns at ijiblog.net.

    Contact him at
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