Gordon S. Bowman III

Eel

Walking away from oceans of taxicabs, that is my gift. Quickly, you swim under the igloo and tell a ghost story to the elders. Such a boon, a curse for a second, a barrel of mustard on your foot. The slipper surfs up. Weeding warps my lips. Raucous round eel excavation triumphs.

Echoes of a Silent Gift

Silent echoes ring in your ear.

The emptiness is mystifying.

One crumb, a feast for a family.

Rats crawl out of the cellar.

What is the path to warmth

On this chilly day?

A gift is given in some time and place,

Far away from the city.

Stars in the swirling sky

Shine hope to a lonely heart.

Is there yet love? He asks himself.

Ah, but how could this beautiful world exist

Without it?

Fill

Evening blast tattered sprinkler cubes when lit bounce realm wheeze hut knitting center bye change culture in happy queen see just plank yourself winter like thus fear about nearby punted and youngsters hope delivery time isn’t goosebumps then until Wednesday order fill frame feel sappy right naysayers lame weed it

Little Things

As I strolled along the beaten path,

I thought of how a dinner roll

Might be the nasty thing to do the trick,

Or maybe some fried, breaded okra.

Do you see the harmony

In the little things in the cemetery?

Jump into my arms, just as the wave

Crashes upon the shore.

The tide is coming in, my dear,

So count your blessings for this year.

Gnarl

What mouth spring light maybe unless weed golf meandering Trollope cool manger wide real beneath house crazy wooden township endearing maneuvered weird cruise kneel apothecary negligence quietude sleeping not wheels pontoon bloated stevia bottom gnarl

Corn

No, not now. I have buzzards to feed. I have a car to wash. I’m not sure where I left my wallet. Where did you go? Where am I? I like lasagna. Meatloaf is tasty. Won’t you stay a while? Let’s keep it together. Ripe. Loud sounds in my ears. Teeth swinging on the porch. I have ten thousand ears of corn to plant.

Wrinkle

Rhino keepsake schedule rearranged open dead swing batter batter swing batter! Cleave trench Mary beef walking moose tan wrinkle only barbiturate kingdom relief vending marine happy go truck hollow vamp leased lamp lost castaway meal port wimp realm sap

Christmas Mess

Christmas comes but once a year.

Once a year is more than enough.

Couldn’t we change it to every other year?

That would be more practical, I think.

It would fit my budget and my

Planning calendar better that way.

Couldn’t we carol every six years,

And maybe give gifts every ten?

Traveling, and standing in line,

Making a turkey, a ham, or both;

Oh, what stress I’m in just

Thinking about all the fun.

Holidays are never as

Wonderful as they are

Hyped up to be.

Christmas is a religious holiday,

At its heart. But it’s gotten

So commercial, or it’s a time

For family to gather,

Which means asking off of work.

Can my schedule fit

The schedule of everyone else?

Oh, what a mess!

Stoop

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Let’s Run

Christmas is an echo in the scream of all tangents totally forgotten. Easter is a pulsing leftover ham hock in a pot waiting for the soup. Grain seethes up in a steaming geyser. What is keeping the pastor’s billy goat? Let’s run smoothies under capsized arrangements.