Behind this incubate day,

mists spray silent but whispered.

A flood when our summer slakes,

leaves umber flaking to rust.

Soft ray settles petaled hair,

leaves bare the purple to rust.

Incubate these true diamond tongues,

not the sweet sordid language of teeth.

Please whisper while you soar.

Don’t forsake this sun as it breaks,

and please whisper your slow fall,

and send notes of thanks as they save

those gifts you feel that are yours.

_______________________________

Rod Peckman’s recent poems have appeared in Barnwood, Babel Fruit, Thieves Jargon, and Clapboard House. He lives in Washington state on a small lake in the woods, and spends much of his free time watching his Yellow lab swim for tennis balls and clearing nascent beaver damns.

Tweet Tweet

We really don’t want you to un-friend us. That’s why we’re a freemium site and don’t have a paywall. DSM aims for the top of online publishing, the present and future of our industry. Unless Katie Price kills it. She and the celebs that is. A doctor gave her her assets — those of the zombie bank variety, that is — and said doctor just might write a book about it. Plenty of his colleagues are. Louis Armstrong embraced those of all races and faiths, probably Koestler too. And remember, we may tweet, but we’re not full of sheet. — Andrew Geer

(more…)