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End August 24, 2010

Posted by Bill Holm in Poems.
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A year today.
This must stop.
Now, I go back,
look, do it over,
every day
til a year passes.

I’ll return here
time and time
new old, old new
so thanks for reading,
commenting,
nothing is the same.

One Happy Brick August 22, 2010

Posted by Bill Holm in Poems.
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The brick enjoys all the attention.
Reddish brown, mossy, an Ohioan,
he never made it into patio geometry.
No, he rests alone atop the patio, stoically,
knowing one Sunday those people will
swath him again in glittering aluminum foil,
set his heaviness on splayed chicken meat
doomed to the grill. He will take the heat,
bear fiery spatter, without a twitch or hitch,
always press, hold firm, never a flinch.

“I love that brick,” a man will say.
“It’s the perfect size and weight.”
The brick will do whatever it takes
and wonders if he will ever press steaks.

Light in August August 21, 2010

Posted by Bill Holm in Poems.
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A goldfinch barely bends an obedient plant,
another’s scarcely noticed by black-eyed susans,
finds first seeds among withered petals
deaf to August’s heated cry: “Fight on!”

Strong Finish August 20, 2010

Posted by Bill Holm in Poems.
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An old hunter decides to head out,
reluctant, preferring yawn and rest.
“A kill should be easy.
Then I’ll relax awhile.”

Late afternoon air, cooling,
may light his way
toward snaking dusk rhythms,
painted dance, sparking fires–
another late night after all.

For now, a dream lingers
from his morning nap, replaces
wakening thought–groggy,
“How will I hunt?
Why should I?”

Death and God chatted by a punchbowl;
the hunter, cradling a cup, shabby, itchy,
saw them sip pink drink
between attractive guests.

Death was taller than God, and thinner.
God was pale, calm.
Death tanned, self-conscious.

Hatless, both wore white.
Neither smiled nor frowned.
The hunter glimpsed heads nodding.
No one’s eyes met another’s.

Just before the hunter woke,
God filled Death’s cup.

A cold river slap
sparks his senses to light
under a gentle sun.
Off the hunter goes.

Business Plan August 19, 2010

Posted by Bill Holm in Poems.
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Baby, we won’t stop
when the arm flops
we ain’t a payin no toll.
On the run, on the gas
headin them off at the pass
because they sit inanimate
inside the dumb-fuck limit
of all they care to know.

Story of My Life August 18, 2010

Posted by Bill Holm in Poems.
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When the mere thought, or the unthought fear, was roused,
pain twisted my throat or heart til my lightning brain was doused.

Nap August 17, 2010

Posted by Bill Holm in Poems.
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I pray death
eases in slowly
enough, leaves time
to savor ecstacy,
free at last.

I pray death
bursts my veins
in a rush, before
I have a chance
to think

Astronomy August 17, 2010

Posted by Bill Holm in Poems.
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Tonight’s half moon, a perfect yellow flame
atop a thick cloud quickly blown south.
Once a half moon starts really setting
nothing can stop it, especially clouds.

Justice August 15, 2010

Posted by Bill Holm in Poems.
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Blame hens
for cracked eggs.
Get even with roosters
for small yolks.
Off with their heads
off with their feathers
bleed them dry.
A word of caution:
beaks.
They’d love to peck
us to death.

Lunch August 14, 2010

Posted by Bill Holm in Poems.
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I first thought egg salad
but it’s fried egg sandwich instead;
we made good ones together last week.
Olive oil.
You, a last leftover black bean burger
cooked up in your imagination,
devoured between stunned superlatives.
No canned beans.
Wine and spaghetti tonight.

Thunderstorms slant south.
Gray shades in layered swaths
pose no threat, no need to find cover;
spotter activation will not be necessary.
Still we share in torpid heat easing,
finally roused and urged to lumber on.