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  • Writer's pictureDarigan Daily Drop

Lil Black Notebook-poems/bits

Updated: Sep 27, 2020

Lil black notebook,

August 2005,

Northport, Michigan


Barn swallow, barn swallow…

a mother and a daughter make bread

Hear the ricochet of a rifle

not a mile away

they say it was

a good year for cherries

even with the drought

Jars of apricot and blueberry


lying all about

The pear tree didn’t die

and the apple won’t neither

Prune the kiwi, there’s a sign

leaves rustling in the country breeze


what is that certainty,

that physical reality

that exists between people?

her name is Rachael

and I write it


a few hours ago

I stroked the contours

of her hair and cheek


Fruit flies in the flowers

the cat grooms himself

swats a moth and eats it,

comes over for some free lovin'

she swimming

in bad harbor

writing in her journal

I’m sure she lays in her bed

eyes open in the dark

as he sleeps slightly snoring

she doesn’t notice anymore

it's been so many years


She walks in a unique manner

musical flip flops

thru the uncut grass

the melody of her laugh

and willing mischief eyes

She goes home

to be a housewife

but no ring

on her finger

She lingers a little longer

every time she has to go


We had Scottish beer

we had lamb curry

we had native Leelanau corn

Lazarus the refrigerator

plugged in on the lawn

A cousin a sister a mother a friend

a father a grandfather a lover an aunt

There’s pain in such closeness

a simmer comes to boil


I love her

like I love my mother

-I wouldn’t make that up

I couldn’t pretend

to love the lake

anymore than I do

The blue mystery

of shades

and depths of clarity

Surface stippling

her laugh rippling


More clear than

the whack

of a zen master’s stick


Lazarus the refrigerator

lives again

plugged in

on a pallet

on the front lawn

I hear a voice

on the lawn,

hope it’s hers;


its not.


so you’re tired...

sip the yerba mate

hot desire on a tongue

Her scent hovering,

head nodding


against your shoulder

cause she can’t believe the feel.

“Now you’re here in my space,” she said

been over 4 years since we spoke.


“That’s a saucer magnolia”

Her smile

lights me up

What is it?

More or less

of a difference

when the point is

I feel good

When she is happy.


That saucer magnolia

was on its way out

when I rolled in

crouched there,

removed each dead brown leaf

pruned the branches

Now green leaves

all over

like children swaying

in the breeze,

lapping up the sun


Broken dishes in the garden,

where no flowers grow

She phones me at 1:30

in the morning,

her feet in the creek

She can’t stop thinking about me

and I know the feeling

She careens thru my imagination

a flock of vibrant dreams

My dreams are so close

I can smell them,

in her earth scent

sandy brown skin

and hay colored hair.


There’s a fresh roll

of paper towels

above the stove

a PSU* on the table

next to the lucky yellow lighter

and a bottle of Oberon ale

frothing over

A can of pomade

and a notebook open

with lists of cleaning supplies

to buy and invigorate

this old domicile

as records spin,

cats meander in and out,

Chizit lays on the cool

is it cool?

bathroom floor

* Pre-spun unit


Keep a notebook

by every window

and if you can

in every pocket

you never know


the muse

might abuse you-

just the way you like it

The ghost of

Malcolm Lowry,

Richard Manuel

The crackle of the phonograph,

the tongue of Chizit lapping

at the water bowl

once again


In this farm house you hear

ghosts of animals

and human souls

treading on creaky back stair cases

laughing in the closets,

rummaging for a lost toy

or bone

in an old wicker basket

The first night here

I heard children laughing,

laughter of my own

child-ghost and my siblings

Now the orb is passing,

guitar chords strummed

by the window

and the hummingbird heart

beating in time

with that tick tock


and roll

down a hole of memory

smell of soil

and freshly cut grass


A guitar trampling

off over a hill...

a magic only you two share

is it fair to toe a line

so finely drawn

that it does not


She turns a cheek to my kiss

calls me

her archangel,


I just may be...


She brought wild flowers

for her sister

stays longer

than she should

holds me tight

then turns away

to go home

and lay down by her man

Chizit wants in...

Neil Young yearns

from the phonograph

a lone candle burns

on the walnut table from Tipperary


Does a dream

only matter

for a moment

or does it

make more reality

less necessary?

I swim

in her smile

and she doesn’t know,


like an otter

in her


unblinking eyes


Full august moon

caught in

the branches of

the English walnut

We hold

each other

in dew-drenched


Shadows of bats

pass close


An 8 point rack

lined with

an inch of dust

rests on top

of the

old china cabinet

A helpless certainty-

there are children's books

not touched for decades

A duct taped croquet stick

in the machine shed

broken by

my own

8 year old hand

and her heart

is milk

in my mouth desire


Beers go down anywhere

it is true...

we were 70’s kids

now full grown

and then some

Leo the late bloomer

blooms yet

as another summer

slightly sadly

slips into autumn’s

cool dew

The mist over bass lake


a moon full of possibilities

The taste

of fresh berries

on her lips

my fingers on her hip


She listens to Neil Young

in her Toyota truck

calls me at 1 am

her feet in the creek

in town

her man asleep,

just down the road

If her desire

is a fire burning low,

like all fires

wishing to grow

and spread sparks

into the cool august blue

listen to birds

no need for words

to ornament their

midnight songs


New apples on branches...

she builds a house of stability

Perhaps I’ll find her that potters wheel

put in the dry and safe chicken coop

-she can come over and spin anytime

I see her,

a slight vertigo quickly replaced by the solid knowing?

A bud bursting from a branch?

Those plum trees stretch new green towers

from tips with all this good rain.

She takes the salmon out the freezer to thaw

get dinner ready

watch a movie,

fall asleep on the couch,

Do it all again the next day.


Her # on the phone raises an eyebrow, a heartbeat?

A brief flutter like the hummingbird heard

outside the window looking for the flower

that is now longer there.

A pair of pliers in a bucket of oil

An ache I ignore

like the dread metal taste

once again on the back of my tongue,

Sure it will pass and come,

come and pass

again and again


Sitting in the sun at the glass table

reading Neruda poems aloud in Spanish

from the book given to me 2 am this morning

at the party by the bonfire

How many souls how much love

such hardship and pain,

parents, youth themselves, partners,

the friction of the yin and yang

Balance is good but nobody said it’s easy to attain

sip a cup of tea, hear the rustle of the kiwi leaves

wind rising sun designing a halo around an image

a name a fascination, contemplation of that day I may

have a little one crawling on my knee, with she, not far away


"Tomorrow’s another day…’

spider webs beneath the picnic table

catch gold sun drops drenching

the distant lake-sea,

softly soughing

down the bluff

Red mites spider traverses

the forest of knuckle hair

and yesterday the praying mantis

or was it a stick bug struggled in the wood pile

til I put it gently on a bush

and it winked at me…

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