Last night I dreamed of roughened hands,
And pristine walls with spackled sand,
And feeling less,
But wanting more,
Of windows open,
And a creaking door.

Last night I dreamed of voices mild,
And smiling faces, and laughter loud,
I dreamed of grackles in parkling lots,
Of finding familiar and imagining what.

I dreamed of witchcraft and of lore,
And linen hidden in a dresser drawer.

I dreamed of you,
I dreamed of you,
And all the things I'd like to do.

This unnatural light
like the last summer
before the last winter
sends the grackles
into the cedars
rattling their wings
in the evergreens
making a sound like Ishmael
casting his bones
on the deck of Ahab's ship.

birthed into a golden birdcage
safe behind upstanding spindles
endless nectars and suet at your beckon
knowing only the showcase of your plumage
and the sound of your tunes

layers remain
between you and the grackles
painted a nuisance
yet they stay unshackled
only poisoned and disregarded.

still they know the freedoms
not found atop
swings and perches
dig deeper
until you find what lurches.

the gate can be opened
when you realize yourself
to be the gatekeeper
yielding what's mine
using wings of more than feathers
making up for lost time.

looking back at the captivity
you couldn't see from inside.
entering a new world
with the grackle as my guide.

Summer singing madly
Over empty lot

The still grass
Stands near alone
Before the final crew comes
With trucks and blueprints and concrete
To slap together rent fortune
For the white cadillac man.

Summer swinging madly
Over empty lot

The post oaks
Hesitate along lot edge,
Wait to see what happens
To the few brave mesquite:
Better to stand on edges
And wait
Than venture
To vulnerable heart
Of empty lot.

Summer winging madly
Over empty lot

The birds wing madly over
Rarely dropping
To the grass for seeds;
They sit upon the postoaks
At the edge
And keep a watchful eye
Upon the road.
All wing madly to the edge:
Grackles, swifts, and doves,
The mockingbirds, all
Save one persistent meadowlark
Without a mate
That sings each morning
From the wire,
One silly songster
That loneliness has blinded
And brought to chime
Its idyll
Summer song
Over empty lot.

Summer singing madly
Over empty lot.

Grackles on dark lawn—
Black starlings whirl yellow eyes,
  .  .  .  Mirrors the night sky.

Wetted grass reaches for its rightful late afternoon -
zenith as winged acrobatic performers delight -
and amaze with great zeal and utter independence
Simple golden flowers fill luscious , lawn borders
Intrepid sunshine breaking free of the thundercloud -
shackles , cool currents struggle with turbulent
water borne Summer air , laughter of Grackles dancing honeysuckle
woodlands
Green grasshoppers with velcro legs , stuck to ***** denim jeans , Luna moths hold curious twixt bronze porch torches where Walkingsticks review the epic day to the chorus of haunting Night Thrushes

a murmuration of starlings
shivers over an empty parking lot

blue sky emerges from the gloom
and then disappears again

indifferent to my approach, a stray cat
yawns and blinks its copper eyes

grackles gather on the powerlines
in the middle of the day

weeks early, autumn winds
chase leaves down the sidewalks

anxious about the fate of the nation
I search for signs and portents

a wave crests and then is gone
I comfort myself by remembering

that it has always been so

Tom Spencer © 2018

Grackles
Pecking at the lawn.
Pulling out terrified worms

Grass
Still wet from spring
Showers. Bright emerald green

Green
Sunlight hitting the blades
Just right. Backyard lushness

Grief
Already grieving for the
End of summer. Why?

geese are gorgeous
but raucous and cruel
selfish fowls
small-brained fools

grackles are ugly
but travel as friends
it wouldn't be awful
to live among them

Grackles singing black
Beaking notes of melanchol-
Panoramically

Maybe I'll find
a 100-dollar bill amidst
the burnt umber
maple leaves.
Maybe the ambulance will
come disguised as an
ice cream truck.
Perhaps I'll find a
warm forgotten can of
beer in the dryer.
Maybe, I'll blow
up the moon.

I'm losing it.
My pants won't
stay up, and I haven't
got a belt.
I'm being devoured by
the autumn winds and
the grackles.

Insomnia is crushing me.
Febrile and ferocious,
I stalk the university streets,
too sick to work.
Maybe this abscessed tooth
will **** me.

I used to pound out
12 hour days in the
hot July bean fields.
Farmer John always
smiling and shaking
his head.

Life is a
bologna
sandwich, and
I write these little
poems in yellow
mustard.
And I wait.

Just wait.

the sky is clearing
from east to west
illuminated
by the dawn
silver clouds
stream by
for a moment
the whole city glows
for a moment
even the grackles
fall silent

Tom Spencer © 2019