Bill Holm's Blog

Outburst August 13, 2010

This evening’s clouds look like cauliflower
so I automatically think brain–lumpy,
folded, creviced, curved so it seems
by crazy light fired from a drunken sun
kicking and screaming bloody murder,
still angry as this blistered day dies.

Those clouds think the sun needs a shroud
to soothe its volcanic emotions.

Lecture August 12, 2010

A brain is a processor–
not like my sad friend’s father said:
“A child’s mind is a computer.
You have to program it properly”–

that seeks from life
works around mulls over
works things out with actual magic
if you stay out of it

finds a place where things belong–
like figuring out how to get around
donkeys blocking your mountain path.

There’s no such thing as time
or mass or energy–they’re
donkeys blocking your mountain path.

Don’t forget how all this ends
when your brain ends–another
donkey blocking your mountain path.

Hero August 11, 2010

Now I know a black and white cat–
long a regular visitor, too shy to
let us get attached–did not live
next door.

He only bedded there now and then
under a deck or in an accidental shelter
of trash, including a slab of foam rubber
our neighbor tossed alongside their garage.

He was no one’s cat.
He ranged blocks away
on regular routes to
fatten and amuse himself.
I could not have done it.

Accumulation August 10, 2010

“Why, when you’re done you’ll have
three hundred and sixty five poems,”
said my friend the poet.

“That’s the idea,” I said, though
inventory had not occured to me.

Now, poems waken, irritated,
anxious to flee, flash light,
flood drear eyes.

Cherry Tones August 10, 2010

Wine trail from kitchen to deck
tasted from fingers dripping
blood purple onto terrazo
spit cork into the sink
finding a way back to the bottle.

Later August 8, 2010

It’s an interesting question
and will remain unanswered,
really, not even considered
at least until crow morning.

My Neighbor Has a Truck August 7, 2010

Amidst a privet twisted with wind,
bent away from greater pain,
battered, I cut off weak offshoots
left to dry neglect. I mule away

the most dead to a merciless pile,
cut down a thirty-foot junk tree
for a young white oak’s elbow room.
Voila a grotto I carved chopping

waste vegetation where I can pray
as they say, but it’s more a simple
honor for the oak, free to rule.
A neighbor will let us load all

detritus into his dark truck.
Does he grind? Dump? Burn?
Do I care? Whatever he’ll earn
will be worth it to me–

one trip two, even three–
as will spasms, infected gouges,
deer ticks dug headlong.
Just haul it all far as need be.

Excuse Me Please August 6, 2010

Muddy shoes keep me outdoors
where violets line the way to an
outhouse, second home
while violent thunder punishes
below the belt for unknown sins.

Late End August 5, 2010

This day usually ends July
when a foray of chilled air
claims the end is beginning.
Asters stir.

Katydid mocks our brief relief,
sounds still strong and young.
But remember his slowing call?
Every year, summer weakens.

Every year is about the same.

Bad Timing August 4, 2010

Puzzling apoplexies seize
control, can’t even wheeze
without a dance, no song,
sprocket arms, no hands,
legs bend like old celery.

Wouldn’t you know?
That’s when a monarch butterfly
aglow in yellow evening sunshine
lights atop a dormant lilac tree.