I just wandered here
down a dirt road of my day, here's today's poem, 5/13/13:

Four Big Mallards

Four big mallards come in 

over the eastside tidelands,

four abreast and heavy laden 

on mission and downcast wings

but spent of fuel.

Just under the radar like B-24 bombers 

returning from WWII Germany 

having chased Hitler back into his bunker.

Or maybe they’re Viet Nam choppers also 

just under the radar coming back from Viet Nam, 

that other useless war, or maybe they’re 

Blackhawk choppers coming back 

from the next two useless wars in Iraq and Afghanistan

where oilmonkeys and a President with 

lead for brains and torn wings thought he could fly 

one last time before he opened his Presidential Library 

to sell off his MAD Magazine comic books 

and Dick Cheney’s “1,000 ways to Waterboard 

or Frak Without Requiring EPA Approval.”

Four big mallards.

Four big mallards.

Four big mallards. 

All that’s missing is Robert Duvall and the smell of napalm 

in the morining or in this case the late afternoon.

©Peter Bray, 5/13/13 All rights reserved

Poetry and Income Taxes...

When poetry and income taxes

collide in inner space it’s like the apogee

and the nadir of the human race

have intersected on the dashboard of your heart.

The other day while doing taxes,

I wondered why my tide-filled, fluid well

appeared to have gone bone-dry and empty.

The guillotined sharpness of dealing

with pennies, nickels, dimes and dollars

had mortified my use of rhymes,

the latter were not to be found anywhere.

The usual group I float within my soup

were arid, dry, desert-like, and missing.

Not a shark, parking lark, thistle, whistle,

or crow’s shrill, head-banging call

bounced off my walls, only the dull thud

off bottom lines colliding with gravity.

Then I gave some thought and wondered if

both sides of the brain were mutually exclusive,

like portions of the human race left unseated

on an empty bus to Nowhere...

“Nah, can’t be,” I exclaimed,

“I can open the windows and

let them all back in again...”

And I did, like whispers and typhoons

they entered and took their seats,

rattling glass and lunch bags,

dropping their peanut butter sandwiches

and lunch money quarters

in both laughter and applause.

But no IRS agent I’m sure in cubicle’d grandeur

or cluttered counter space will endure the

atrophying of his brain while circumcising

the bottom line of my drain’s return this year.

If he or she can’t find this funny, all bets are off by 8%.

©Peter Bray, 3/28/10 All rights reserved

Hallelujah 3 (Oldtiredguy.com)...

My website looks like tired toast...

My FaceBook page is comatose...

Even my new Blog is singing, “Hallelujah...”

My body knows what old age is for...

I keep dropping stuff to the floor...

I’d pick it up, but say, what for?

Sing “Hallelujah, Hallelujah...

Hallelujah, Hallelujah...”

Oldtiredguy.com is where I’m headed,

where smiling house cats are often petted,

and angels sing Leonard Cohen’s, “Hallelujah...”

Seems like everybody else is singing it,

maybe a New Age of singers will bring it,

a New Testament of Reason back into the flock,

get this old tired planet and its inhabitants out of hock,

with Leonard Cohen, ahead by at least a mile,

our guru returning, High Priest of a turbulent

if not exhausting time...

©Peter Bray, 3/20/10 All rights reserved

www.peterbray.org

http://taprootandaniseweed.blogspot.com

Covert Agent on the Waterfront...

I was a covert agent on the waterfront,

I was looking for duck eggs,

but I knew how to hunt...

When a big ol’ tanker passed me by

and splashed high tides in my eye...

But I didn’t take it as a personal affront,

because I’m a Covert Agent on the Waterfront...

I’m NOT James Bond, but I’ll tell you this:

I like my V-8 with a lemon twist...

When we go out for breakfast I rarely miss,

my V-8 glass with a lemon twist...

I called in some seagulls to talk it over,

I didn’t want them to blow my cover.

I said my Alias was a Handyman,

they said that was cool, they could understand...

“Stop by some time and check out our nests,

and have a little bite of watercress...”

I said, “No thanks, I’m gonna pass,”

but I knew that offer wouldn't be my last...

Seagulls are a gregarious crowd, but...

(To be continued)

Scenes from Highway 24...

Bob Dylan on a CD preceded me

into the Caldecott Tunnel.

On the other side a gray day

was raining down with apprehension.

A silver lining of blue fell on San Francisco,

one block south of Market where cost-plus contracts

no long commanded any center of attention

or even notable employment.

Every memo, every note, every

employee evaluation we ever wrote,

now floats shredded and decaying in some

Central Valley landfill off to the east.

A CEO’s son holds the lease

on one floor only of his father’s

or grandfather's former dreams.

44 years ago this road was mine,

a student in another time and place.

A generation before that, this road didn’t even exist,

but the roadsigns through Lafayette couldn’t be missed:

Oakland/San Francisco: Somewhere off to the west.

©Peter Bray, 3/3/10 All rights reserved

Pedro's On The Road to Go...

Duck Gazebo...

Text to follow after three sketches...