8/23/10

the difference

between You
and Every One before You,
is how well, and
how completely,
You love me;
such that I feel
unworthy,
and daily am thankful,
for such an amazing woman
to yearn, to burn, to turn
to me.



July 26, 2010, for the Wifey. From the forthcoming collection,
For the Wifey: Lessons in Love, Passion, and Laughter.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

8/20/10

fight

the sounds of You sleeping,
so rhythmic, so sure,
lull me like little else,
and make me want more:
to cuddle You,
and feel You, like an infant,
as You mold Yourself
to me;
I am blessed,
even as I am distressed,
loving You now,
but dreading Tomorrow,
when You will be taken
from me;
I want You to live,
and thrive,
to shine,
to be alive,
and yet I know,
that without Your miracle,
these seeds will not grow;
I stand askance,
waiting, as always, for
Your glance of approval,
and I cry, inside, at the
thought of Your removal
from this life,
from my touch,
from my taste,
from all that we know;
fight, dammit, fight,
against all of the things
of the Night,
stay with me, please,
stay with me,
and let this illness
be blinded by the Light.



August 19, 2010, for the Wifey. From the forthcoming collection, For the Wifey: Lessons in Love, Passion and Laughter.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

certainty

not at all certain
if there is a Hell,
but I am most positive,
that if there is,
I am saving you a seat.



July 24, 2010. From the forthcoming collection, Spoken Rage 2.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

storminess

the storm rocks the sailboats,
gently at first,
but as it gathers strength,
with more violence,
more insistence,
that the boats give way
to its power,
several of them
seem in danger
of swamping;
but the rhythmic rocking,
I find quite soothing,
as I try to focus
on the storm
inside of me.



July 23, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

The Book of Ruth

Jane Hamilton's first novel
really deserved its
PEN/Hemingway Award in 1989:
Ruth's voice is simple, but strong,
and every sentence
pulls the reader along.



July 24, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

8/19/10

reversal

the irony of once again being
homeless,
just after learning that
my first poetry collection,
"Songs from the Road,"
written while I was last
homeless,
will be published soon,
is not lost on me;
on the eve of having
my first poems to be published
in "Notes" magazine,
I ought to be celebrating,
eating well,
and sleeping late;
woulda, shoulda, coulda,
and a little more misery
to feed to the Muse.



July 23, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

8/17/10

My Dear

memory fades,
and then comes into focus:
a few shots of whisky,
and more than a little
hokus-pokus,
and I remember You and I,
and a bright August sky,
and my nerves rattle
and my heart does battle
with my head,
and I remember how glad
I am that neither of us
is yet dead,
since there is so much more
to be absorbed,
so much time yet
for You to be adored;
I could stand on the highest
mountain, and shout to the
clouds of what I am certain:
that You remain
the most important link
in this life's chain;
nearly a year now,
that we will celebrate
next week,
and still the mere thought
of You makes me weak;
not gonna get all sappy here,
just some lines,
wound tight, late at night,
to tell You:
You're My Dear.



August 18, 2010, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

8/16/10

where hardly anyone dances

Thursday night
at the town wharf
the day's heat sucked out to sea,
taking the humidity with it:
good riddance;
the 200-plus
teenagers gathered
for the dance
suffuse the air
with newly brewed
estrogen
and testosterone --
birds with new feathers,
learning how to
walk the walk,
much less fly --
the air hisses
as the music
makes everything
THROB,
while the not quite full moon
presides over
the trusted ritual
of the dance
where hardly anyone dances.



July 22, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

Stuart Woods

it sure must be nice to be Stuart Woods;
here, in the fiction section of the public library,
he has a whole shelf -- three feet --
of his books, all shiny and coded with
the little white tags on the spine in the
secret librarian language,
thirty-three of them in all,
nearly as many as Buk;
not as satisfying to be Janet Evanovich,
though -- only nineteen -- but hey,
maybe she's still writing.



July 23, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

8/15/10

electrifying

the clouds do battle mightily this night,
with lightning flashing
across the whole horizon to the east,
crashing into each other
like hell-bent lovers reunited;
ah, the bolts and sparks
that do so fly, I know them well;
the negative
and the positive
smashing the air
in between them,
setting it on fire,
just to watch it burn.



July 21, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

lone man, in a harborside gazebo, late at night

where the day has been most surreal:
dispossessed of the roof over his head
by the Authorities, brought by
the mother of the only child
through a large prevarication,
to send him packing
in ten minutes;
and vocabulary fails
to capture the monstrosity of such;
best left for another day,
with dictionary at hand;
the sights of the day, ludicrous,
all of us and each one of us:
grown men trying to fly kites,
and others trying to know the likes
of certain doom, without too much gloom;
people being people
and blind to being observed,
recorded, set down, noted,
each and every one
their own fool,
like me, the lone man,
in a harborside gazebo,
with pen in hand,
late at night.



July 20, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

8/14/10

my blood

could run brown,
for Grampa's Pico,
or orange for
Daddy's Tennessee,
or gray, for my mother's
Massatwoshits,
or red, for my
Ol' Virginny;
but it runs true blue
for You.



June 29, 2010, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

a short one

just pass me by,
since you don't want
to see me cry;
I'll help you out
tomorrow:
I'll just die.



June 29, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

bloodstains on the page

the page of my pad
on which this pome was
written: stained with
my own blood;
no, not from a self-inflicted
wound, from the bite
of one of those plentiful
blood-sucking little bastards,
the Massachusetts
mosquito,
the latest mutation
of which are the size of
butterflies,
and they attack your face,
especially your eyes;
screw Al Quaida,
these skeeters
will finish us off first.



June 29, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

just You

mosquitos and spiders sleeping,
and the sound of my heart leaping,
when I see on my phone
that the call is from You,
You who among all, are alone
enough to sustain me
indefinitely,
with or without
a loaf of bread or a jug of wine;
promise me, mi amor,
to forever, siempre,
be mine, as I am thine.



June 29, 2010, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

8/13/10

the Celtic knot ring

I stare at the Celtic knot ring
on my left hand;
it matches the one I bought You

and even though they are
sterling silver,
You told me that Yours
turned Your finger white,
and that You couldn't
wear it

and I thought at the time,
"well, maybe She doesn't
really love me, after all"

such an ass I was,
since now I know
just how much You do love me,
en Su cabeza a Su pies

I will never doubt Your love
again,
and I will wear the ring
forever.



July 7, 2010, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

struggle and see

what will make
the next great thing?
trying mightily,
and seeing.



July 11, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

8/12/10

strong enough

only hope that
I am strong enough,
with hands
big enough,
to keep You
from being
snatched away;
for dozens more
chances
for lovely dances,
like those
that we had today;
te quiero mi amor,
siempre,
in every way.



July 11, 2010, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

8/11/10

the miracle

you might say
that neither of us
deserves it,
has any claim to it;
you might sit and listen
to our stories,
and to Our Story,
and laugh your way
through Disdain
and Ridicule;
you might discount
Remarkability,
and scorn
Serendipity;
you might look askance,
and shrug off everything,
as lustful Coincidence;

but we know --
we really know --
and you would be
wrong.



July 11, 2010, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

8/10/10

be

dammit
it is so hard,
these days,
to have Optimism,
with Hope
and Truth,
handcuffed together
to a drainpipe in a back room;

in a world where
Majesty is ignored,
and Travesty is adored,
we arrive at the
Tri-City junction,
the function of all our
discombobulation,
as the core of our nation
becomes:
"Welcome to the Tri-City area --
Mendacity, Duplicity, and Complicity --
and we commend nothing,
we are worth nothing,
and we have nothing,
not even Love for each other;

in what dark corner,
in what dank cellar,
in what forsaken spit of land,
will we find our hind legs,
and once again,
STAND?

not for me, or for you,
but for our grandchildren's grandchildren
once, but right now,
right now;

get up, dammit,
all of you,
GET UP!

demand that Love
and Truth
once again rule;
that every living thing
no longer suffer the fools
who would chain us,
demean us,
overtake us,
devour us,
eclipse our imprint,
deny our existence,
and run roughshod
over our dreams,
as the tracks of our tears
become just what they seem,
cascades of happiness lost,
signposts of the cost
of silent screams;

Buk said,
and Allen bled,
the central theme:
live with a purpose,
die with a wish
that you made come true,
but most of all,
BE:
and stand up on your hind legs,
shout to the rooftops,
howl, if you choose,
and be free.



August 10, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

8/9/10

birthday anniversary 56

in which She
began it,
perfectly,
the only one that has
found us together,
shared laughing
and loving
in sunny weather;
She looks in my eyes,
and tells me that
She loves me,
as I am consumed;
I have this night,
and this day,
and another night
with Her,
and I need only
to trap it under
my eyelids,
and barricade it
in my ears,
reverberating.



July 11, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

8/4/10

I really do heart New York

partly, of course, because
I spent the first one-and-a-half
years of my life as a resident
of 123 West 125th Street
in Manhattan,
which, along with Choctaw and
Portuguese genes, helped
give me my sense of rhythm
and even of blues;
but also because the City
gave me You.



June 29, 2010, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

8/3/10

disabled veterans' picnic

a couple of them in chairs,
and all of them
bent and twisted
into various
mangled states,
some with canes,
and all with a hobble,
or a shuffle,
having left
their agility and who knows what else,
in a jungle
on the other side of the world,
decades ago;
today, they are brought
in a Veterans Administration van
to Mattapoisett
Veterans Memorial Park
at Ned's Point
for a picnic
in the sunshine
next to the harbor;
I tell one of their
caretakers how inspiring
it is to see them,
and I remind him that
he has job security, since
we are creating a whole
new generation of them.



June 29, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

the little kid in the minivan

out today, doing some store-hopping
to stay cool and pick up a few things,
and I parked next to Ocean State
Job Lot, and get out of the PT;
next to me, a gold-colored minivan,
backed in, engine running:
through the tinted glass,
I can still make out a toddler
in the back, with a blanket;
but there is no one else
in the vehicle, and no one
around outside it;
okay, I say, mom ran in to
get something real quick,
and I go into the store to
look around;
thirty minutes later, when I emerge,
the minivan and the little kid
are still there, just as I had found them;
I go back inside and tell
the store manager, who goes out
to investigate, while I call the police;
next to me, standing in the line, a man
tells the clerk that he will be
right back, and hustles outside,
leaving his purchases on the counter:
you reckless bastard.



June 29, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.