Telling Time

Telling time with watches
Telling time with clocks
Telling time with fossils
And the carbon in the rocks

Telling time to slow down
Telling time to wait
Telling time I’m right behind
But telling time too late



© 1983, 2007 Scott Burnett

theology

I scribble in crayon

According to me
Your head is oversized
And oddly shaped

I scribble in crayon

Beach Trees

The trees along the beach bend eastward
like brown and green waves

The wind has gotten into their makeup

Even when the salted air is dead calm
these trees lunge inland
as though pressed by a gale

Movement playing stillness

surface noise

an industrial diamond
extracts Villa-Lobos
from spirals lathed into black vinyl

thirty-three and a third
revolutions per minute

surface noise and Segovia

five junior composers
trade hometown stories
over Peak Freens and Red Zinger

Got Around

[DEAD END] meant nothing

when sneakers & bikes

were how I got around

Flashlight Tag

Puberty had just begun insinuating its fascinations
Sparking daring acts of bravery
Like holding hands with one of my sister’s friends
Under the contrived cover of flashlight tag
As awkward as it was secret
And sweet as breakfast cereal
Better than television

Tiny Sirens

On hands and knees I enter the loft
Drawn into the slow motion
Of floating dust and bale debris
Leveraging breaths like rubber
Stretched between shoulders and ribs

The price of my admission is asthma
Which is psychosomatic
According to my grandfather

My wheezing is a descant
To the tiny sirens that guide me
Deeper into the straw world
I’m creeping through ochre shadows
To find a crèche of infant kittens

Blame

Blame is legion
Seeking a herd of pigs to waste

Fuelled by a fifth of something
And targeting half of the truth

Impossibly bent on absolving itself
Of itself

Spark & Muse

The rhythm of poetic verse
Is not a prison – not a hearse
It frames a space for spark and muse
And fits the truth with walking shoes

The Adhesive is Failing

Cubes of cold marimba
Clatter against the shallow sides
Of a thick-bottomed glass

My grandfather grips the Manhattan
Like a handrail
Beads of condensation
Blink between his tanned fingers

His black Oxfords tread
Worn-out linoleum
Stuck to farmhouse floorboards

The adhesive is failing

Porch Piano

Unboarded for summer
June bugs thumb heavily
Against rusted screens at night

Cigar clamped in his unshaved smile
Cocktail nearby
Eyes the color of sea foam

His right hand pets a melody
While the left strides
Between chord comp and bass line

From a never-tuned piano
Whispering, Stardust, and Blue Hawaii
Drift nightward like spirits