robert dickerson Poems

Everyone on this bus has a destination
Everyone on this bus has a stay
They hold their destinations in their laps like handbags
Or carefully tucked away in their lapels;
...

Warmths and dews in the updrafts
medleys of auras and sheen
little tornadoes of bully music
wrestling branches
...

Heaving and groaning
bleating and sweating
humps awry, mahbol in disarray,
with a final squeeze and a fart
...

Leave your tender lambs, my friend
and leave your bailing hay-
all your labors end
and come with me this yellow day
...

Imagine a roomful of owls-
the little white hopping kind
that hail from the earthen bowels
of the prairie dog tunnels they find,
...

Just as there is pathos, ladies and gentlemen
in this sheer blue-blotted April day
so there is pathos in the aspect
of this prodigal bus, an errant M101,
...

Bolt upright, plying his lanky frame
and fled by panicky fishes and frogs
Death poles his coffin boat by night
along the shores of an immense lake;
...

poor, famished fly
wobbling crazily
up the mirror's plane you climb
grubbing for toothpaste and shaving cream
...

Getting born was the easiest thing you ever did
the rest of the game is uphill all the way-
so many fine and lovely notions cracked
by the bow-splitting storms that howl at the midst of things:
...