If we could make it clear to the walk,
make it corner and curb on it's own,
make it a nicely formed combat to 
miss nothing, weeds and all to eliminate
greed, greedy edges spoken well of,
spoken like a true walk, green though
it wants to be, to meander through.

Posts, borders at will softly make all
the other ways look, look impenetrably,
impassably, without all guards down,
without a handshake to seal anything,
but it actually, really was all the right
protocol, protecting us all from virus,
wicked in our eyes, right by all others.

Then we'll never go that way, the drive,
the car stays, drives, all by itself it tells,
it wants to make do, expressly, impressions,
tired though they mock, as though reconciled
to all, to the very next day, how we embrace,
seen clearly, seen last of all, we are known
as if ever we will see an unforgiven soul.

​

What do we do with this darkness,
wanting to forgive but angry at the
unspoken, the tourniquet of unspent
favors, unfavored by God in this moment -
striking stones, snakes coil at that
thought of the meanness of the moment
when we will strike.

But I didn't do it then.
I missed out on the opportunity of a life
of gall, spreading out among all of the
rest of the star-gazers who will likely
look past us all; it will take another trial
before we can see clear, wipe the glass,
the wind that shields us from our feelings.

It's all I can do to start here and now.
A classic approach to others that will now
be molded into the past, into future
dates, schedules locked onto whatever we
can be last at baking in sun scalded items
of our minds, we mind this talk here.
It's only so we can reconcile accounts.

​

We'll look at this next,
the trapist conjuring a battle,
full of flavor and black paint to
cover other foibles, freshly minted
to contrast with a car, careening
beside what ails truthfulness,
truly a depressing anger,
unexpressed.

If we, I can decide what, will it matter
not the trip to the back of the moon,
sunlit, but canvassing a deranged look -
of trials, of skipping across craters,
moons battle across things unsaid,
memories lost, hugs not felt -
an apology wasted on sleep, sleepless
we wait for anger to fill a glass.

What will it take to allow momentum
to subside on this mountain of feelings,
this trial that we will dare to transgress,
together, at last. But darkness, anger
takes its spot on the planet adjacent to 
this curriculum, unsaid, unspoken at
last, when we will never see I'm sorry
or revel in a rocks and crags.

​

 If you'll just step aside the rest
of us will vote, soon the splay
of candidates take their places,
heated chairs, seats by far show 
we can take this race, this ballot
announced by letter, by force
or else we'll know you by name,
and we'll take it from here.

No electioneering, no staring down
possible opponents off a bus ride
or even car full of those casting
their nets across the vast plain or
daring them to be known -
know that the platform often extends
to where we've never been -
but naturally we don't know
what we'll do this that.

As though we didn't have an answer,
the crickets tell us to be still so they
can take over about ten or 15 seconds
of air time that was paid for by many
of the best in consulting fees,
ready to banish ads important to salt
and fat intake - dinners respendant with
effort, as though the speech were
written by the poet laureate himself.

 © 2016 Larry Ingram
​

 She will donn the black,
bending at the narrow breach of
froth, trying to make peace with
all the night and into more of 
the moon, shaded by drenching
streetlights, beyond the grasp of
the level, full of beer for all,
for just the one, staring at chalk,
percentage of the many looking
back at Sonia.

Next down the block, the wooden
bar talks to her, shoulders a smile
drawn before the stillness of a simple
shirt, worn for a customary look
into the embrace of dreams,
of fog blending into this one chance
to remember -
weird how it dances before her breath -
all together Sonia knows, remembers
the story, resting with her in a shadow.

What she knows, menus and flavors
of the dance floor, Bohemia, Backstreet,
boys she knew, boys she knows,
in synch with German descent,
far from the bar on the corner,
street lights shine as the curb appeal
knows no bounds, but nicely stays
wet for gardens, brews finished for
a full moon, unguarded, undressed,
she follows as night covers her,
dreams until dawn.

 © 2016 Larry Ingram

 So long the post titled there,
so remember not the last I wrote,
spied the title, spied the target -
I crowed a bit before the night,
I silenced the fevered pitch of
dawn, another rain drop inches
toward the next tumble of drafts.

It's not so long before summer
ends, ends the sweat of tears,
ends the yawn of bugs, bugging
the terror, the long beating of heat
again not caring if you stay or
depart, the cicadas dare you to
leave the ivy porch.

So long the daring dear, dare to
make another poet stare in the
night, lastly the moon beams,
then looks blankly at craters -
sure you'll remember this night -
taking turns stopping here,
there for the rain will end,
the rain will end.

​ © 2016 Larry Ingram