Her Folkloric Senses
Castrations do not know my shadows—
My dog sleeps at my feet until I do not know
Anyone else:
The racehorses turn around like my father
Until this is no better news from Christmas—
And I have learned from all of the
Estuaries—
Strangest of cathedrals where no one plays football
And none of the babies sleep—
Across from the high school—or across from the
University where there is an ever busy beanstalk following
The fairytales up into the clouds—
As my make-believe wife rises from her bed of clouds,
And giving me her folkloric senses, pretends to love me
As best she can.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Seven Seas
Spindling ablutions,
The catastrophe of the weathers above the ways
Out in the make-believe of an ultimately beautiful day:
The frenzy of kites stolen away from
Little boys,
Who know so few words as never as yet to have
Surrendered to the loquacious avenues that birth the
Fraternity of sea horses:
Poppy seeds in the air, making an illusionary breakfast,
Cantankerously up from their low birth,
Gossiping their tranquilities over the low flying airplanes,
And their majesties:
Demigods who float on the breeze, in a woebegone
And yet innumerable sisterhood all over the seven seas.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Evaporating Sea
Another day finding out the tricks of angels:
My muse’s daughter is almost three:
Maybe she is almost my daughter too- as the trucks
Are loaded and loaded underneath the
Parapets of angels,
And the sacks of heavenly apples are loaded upon
The backs of stalwart ponies to be
Taken to other kingdoms across the blue and
Yellow mountains-
Along their way, the grizzly bears will pet them,
And the golden monkeys will pull on their
Reigns:
And when she gets up tomorrow, my muse will
See all of the bottles I have emptied to carry these
Messages to her
To be thrown in the evaporating sea.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Frog Princes
New hills in the Septembers the houses get out
Their drinking glasses to remember—
Trying to forget that they never kissed their husbands
Or whomever in a zoo—
Wet mouthed on the weekend of soggy letters—
The sunlight in ridges and ridges surrounding them—
The birds, oily winged—singing,
Christmas hallucinations—places to take off—
Multiple regresses in the bluer than azure grasses—
The echoes of their children like wind chimes
Saying that they are safely upon their way to school
And now is the time to enjoy all of this—
In the wetlands, in the Peitas of the frog princes.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Muse Named Kelly
Dance with a Chinese woman like a firecracker
Over the old trailer parks and
The dollar stores- dance the dance that costs
A dollar:
She says she wants to marry you for romance;
Her children are heavily overgrown:
They keep to above ground pools,
And they sun themselves perpetually like other
Things expecting metamorphosis-
Their scars are the wounds of past marriages
Graded badly- Maybe they can go to Disney World,
Or buy a Christmas tree,
As they lean into the outskirts of the dirt roads
Where the blue girls swim and the housewives
Have their own tattoos named after a muse
Named Kelly.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Stranger To Each Other
Looking up through the jungle outside of my
New window:
I can hear the airplanes roaring, the women on them as
Silent as snakes through the reeds;
And I remember a child hood of classrooms on cinderblocks:
I remember coming across her own childhood once in awhile,
And moving through it,
And speaking softly and reverently like a mouse in a hurricane
In a library;
And maybe her eyes lit upon my childhood, as she sat down on
The floor held up by the cinderblocks too,
And turned her eyes towards the teacher as our two childhoods
Separated, going away, becoming stranger and stranger to
Each other.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Your Nude Knees
I am as mute as the cathedral, and I
Am dreaming
And all of this is the reason that the snow falls
Across the television:
I don’t suppose it is anything entirely beautiful
But then it was just the weather
Across the television in her high heels
And then I guess I knew what it was you
Were talking about through the echoes
Or through the trees while there was still
A reason and it remained echoing- echoing
Across the forgotten chassis-
While the sweet- sweet pornographies sang
Of the open estuaries of your nude
Elbows- or, or they sang as well of your
Open estuaries of your nude- or
Your nude knees.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Lips of Fine Gentlemen
Clowns inside the spirit of the indoor theatre—like
Housewives spread across the backyard pools a mile away
From the sea—
Like diamonds spread across the mirages of a desert—
And their time comes every afternoon—
And when they look up every cloud takes their vision
As they remember the Alamo
Or somewhere else they had to live for awhile
When their mothers were not home but went about kissing
The lips of fine gentlemen on the other side of the television—
And it sparked our interests for awhile
As the forest fires burned—and the airplanes leapt like fireworks
Skipping through the ashes of the sky.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Fieldtrips of Stewardesses
As long as the stars and the moon don't care
We can go out swimming in the sea. As long as nobody
Can see us, we can continue swimming away—
Our backs pressed like butterfly wings beneath the
Zoetrope that is outer space—
There, the wild animals go running in the mobiles of
Gravity—and beauties linger with their bosoms
Indentured to the hopeless smiles of foxes—
Hewn into these aquatic estuaries, as if we were skipping school—
We will remain floating in the sea's memories
For a little while—evaporated busses will pass above us,
Of course—filled with the fieldtrips of stewardesses of
Long ago.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Shopping Malls Over A Tomb
Don't you know the cars driving away
Sounding like raindrops
On the highway that isn't a dream but is getting louder
And louder as it too becomes a vortex,
Or something else provided for that doesn't
Pay it back—and the otters who are another
Species and who could care nothing at all for
Baseball or any other sports that are never their own,
Still sleeping headily in the manmade estuaries,
Catering to their own hearts in the noontimes
In which all of the housewives I bet are too busy
To come home and see the heavens that bloom there
In their absences like creation myths over the
Shopping malls of a tomb.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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