Saturday, December 03, 2016

Memory

Just as a beach will remember the tide
long after the ocean that once ravished
it daily has ascended to air and
joined the clouds, so I will remember
the insistence of your mouth on mine,
the way your hands clutched like starfish
to my back as I moved both over and
within you, breathing your breath, matching my thrusts to your heartbeat, till for one moment, both brief and eternal, we are one.

Thursday, October 13, 2016

The "Don"

The Donald sat on his golden throne,
convinced there was nothing he could not own.
"No matter what! I shall not be beat!"
was what this madman was prone to tweet.
"I'll prove that America will swallow my lies
while a fact checker onto his laptop cries.
America's impressed with all my billions!
And just by shouting I can sway millions!"

Deep underground, was a red little fellow,
who said, "Who is this guy with hair like orange jello?
He lies more than me! And I'm lord of Untruth!
I cant let this happen! He"s way too uncouth!"

The next day in Ohio , near a town named Dayton,
a man named Trump met  a devil named Satan.
"Let me see your green card!" Trump loudly bellowed.
"I'll have you deported! Don't come here and freeload"

"I'm welcome everywhere! No borders for me!
Come along Mr. Trump! Dont try to flee!
You're coming with me to my fiery home.
I've got a cell waiting in a great catacomb."

A lesson to learn-a key to survival
the devil don't play wirh those he deems rivals.
So don't tell lies!  Don't tell them at all!
And don't tell Mexico to pay for a wall!

Tuesday, October 11, 2016

This is interesting (at least to me).  For the first time ever, I "work shopped" a poem. This basically means people read my poem and discussed it in front of me. I took their suggestions to heart. You can compare this version to the one I published on September 25. Please don't overwhelm Blogger's server in your rush to do so:

Salted Caramel by Michael Gerleman

I bought a salted caramel,
plucked it from a bowl by the cash register.
I was attracted to the brown glow under the
white wax paper, and the caramel drops
seeping from the slit in the wrapping were
as promising as locking eyes with a stranger.

I swear I wasn’t thinking of you.
But when I popped the brown sweetness
in my mouth, suddenly the salty sweetness,
the smooth, firm, yet yielding body of
the caramel, reminded me of
my tongue probing hollow of your neck,
the salt on your skin
at the end of the day,
and my mouth making you release
your salty sweetness to me.




Sunday, September 25, 2016

Salted Caramel by Michael Gerleman
I bought a salted caramel,
plucked it from a bowl by the cash register.
I was attracted to the brown glow under the
white wax paper, and the caramel drops
seeping from the slit in the wrapping were
as promising as locking eyes with a stranger.

I swear I wasn’t thinking of you.
But when I popped the brown sweetness
in my mouth and began to probe it
with my tongue, the salty sweetness,
the smooth, firm, yet yielding body of
the caramel, reminded me, oh my lost love,
of my tongue in the hollow of your neck,
the salt on your skin at the end of the day,
and how my mouth could make you
dissolve, make you release your

salty sweetness to me.

Monday, May 16, 2016

The Priestess of Morgan Boulavard

Her skin is tough, and wrinkled
like she is  some Mayan woman living
on top of the Andes exposed to wind and sun.
Her arms swing in great half circles,
as she walks along the side of the road,
her cracked lips muttering prayers, or rants,
or maybe spells summoning the loose change
out of the pockets of those of us she
stops in a Stripes parking lot as
we emerge from our cars to buy tacos,
or as we sit on a park bench watching birds.
“Can I have some change? I’m goin’ to K-Mart
to buy some hamburger meat” is her
usual line, and she says it with one
arm extended to you, yellow nails
on her fingers, the palm of her hand cracked,
like an old cement sidewalk.

She walks the same route every day,
as constant and as regular as the tide
or a sunrise, and her walk is metronome steady,
almost unworldly. She moves not sweating
in the heat of the sun, powered by
her madness, her addictions, her fear.
To see her it to feel the world tilt for a moment,
the battles roiling in her brain are visible
in her eyes and so fierce is her need,
it draws you to her like a black hole.

In another age, she would have inspired legends.
She is walking the roads looking for her lover
they would say. She can tell fortunes, but went
mad from looking too far into the future
they would tell their children. You must
give her a quarter or she will spit into the
dust on your car tires causing them to go
flat they would whisper. She might have
been a priestess, instead of the lady at
Stripes who accepts your change while
she looks at the other world she sees
just over your shoulder.


Sunday, May 08, 2016

 Three months without one and it's still there,
the itch beneath the scab, the nagging urge,
tap-tapping against my molars, and sending my tongue searching.between my lips for
the cotton, paper, and smoke.

The ancient priests knew the value of smoke,
saw the divinity in the ever expanding cloud, traced the prophecies in it's curls, and realized that our poor wingless prayers rode the rising
plumes like hawks gliding on thermal currents, circling their way heavenward.

So don't congratulate me on not smoking.
I have lost my prayers, my ritual, my vespers,
matins, and lauds, the punctuation of my days, the moments of respite, and  the fuel of my future plans. 

It is only the tube-brearhers, carrying their 
life support systems behind them on
two-wheeled carts, struggling across
the vast distance that is the doctor's 
waiting room who keep me from 
the box,  the cellophane, the foil and
the flame.

Tuesday, January 12, 2016

"The Serious Moonlight"

The serious moonlight glazes the tree leaves,
a frost without warmth, a worn silver plating.
Moonlight’s magic is transformative.
As photographers once dipped blank sheets
of square paper into chemical baths, 
and waited patiently for an image
to emerge from the blank whiteness,
so does moonlight bring us a new world
washed in her pale, cold flames.
This silver star tied to a naked branch,
is so much more under the moon’s caress,
than the limp leaf that dangles helplessly
in the breeze, beaten by the brutal sun.
The diseased branches, the sickly arms
of dying trees imploring for help from
a pitiless, blue, and indifferent sky,
become terrible and wicked
when bathed in moonlight.
We make our wishes upon the stars,
but it is the moon who answers.