Atticusworks by Dan Collins

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Disciple to the power of nine,
at dinner he would add up the bill
to make sure that the planets aligned.
It was all about balance and will.

At the diner he’d add up the bill,
leave a tip that made sense in his mind.
It was all about balance and will,
counting down to the very last dime.

The amount would appear in his mind
if his math was in tune with the spheres.
Counting down to the very last dime
would allay his most troublesome fears.

In tones echoed back from the spheres,
he would smile and his face would relax.
Quashing all of his nightmarish fears,
number theory applied to the tax.

With a broad smile his face would relax
now that everything added up fine -
the meshing of tip and sales tax -
he always payed in multiples of nine.

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in still water
opus blossom

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Written for the prompt: Write about impossible odds

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There is a tightness
to sunlight squeaking under
the blindness of god

The trees now empty
we could have been many things
but for this rusty sky

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.Written for the prompt: write an evening poem / write a daylight poem

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I know this poem needs
to be written,
because I cannot write it.
On the roads we’ve traveled
my friend, we’ve seldom seen
each other from such distant
peaks of similar altitude.
Here and now, I’m so glad
that you are finally happy,
that I am too, and that we
are still such good friends.
Jealousy once made me believe
that you were having
an easier time. I’m sorry
for that now; now that I know
the human road is always
the same road. It’s funny,
I knew you would end up
Buddhist, and I felt bad
for many years that I could
not follow you or your path,
even when you didn’t know
where it would lead. To me,
that kind of stuff
only led to higher worry.
I had my own drunken
karma. I remember well
the big fork: It was not long
after school when you sold
everything you owned
and went to live on the islands.
I admired your courage,
also, I was a little relieved
that you would not see
my descent.
I got your letters. I floated
you a few bottles too,
empty of course.

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Written for the prompt: Write a “tribute” poem. ~ For my brother in San Francisco.

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The good old days?
You know I don’t like
to choose favorites.
Besides, how could I pick
from this endless
cycle of days?
If I must, I’ll say
that it was where
our mythology began.
Were we Qin or were
we Zhou? You called
me another name.
I only know that I loved
as we watched
the first black-faced
spoonbills arrive
early to the fen.
Your laugh, full of white
teeth, was borrowed
by the sun setting
over your shoulder,
and we flew our red kite
late into evening.

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Written for the prompt: Write a poem about “the good old days”.

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I am concerned for a young
man consumed by the world.
He cannot be more than
twenty-four. I only see him 
every so often in the course 
of his travels, up and down 
Garland road. It is always 
a surprise.  He disappears 
for a month, for a week, then 
returns, more scraggly than 
before. I don’t know how
he survives. He does not seem 
concerned that he is a few 
short meals and a night 
of overexposure from
a steel drawer downtown. 
He is so thin that his pants 
have nothing to hang on to,
so he holds them with one 
hand and still shows his bare 
ass to the wind. No one seems 
to notice the miracle of his
not tripping over them. 
His hair is matted. His mind 
is gone. He does not speak 
when I stop him and give him 
money or clothes I’ve tucked 
in the trunk some time ago.
He takes what I offer then turns
without a sound, but his gaze 
makes no excuse. He never 
hides his true face peering 
up from the pit of one eye. 

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Written for the prompt: Write a poem on “consumption” 

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I saw a crow
hanging
upside down
loop tied
by his feet
over the post
of a barbed-
wire fence.

“This man must hate crows”
“No, he loves his pecans” “

Why do poets
love crows?

Because
words gather too,
like crows to laugh
ironically, at times
to reveal some
recondite truth
outside human
experience, to broaden
understanding,
amuse, mostly

to remind us of death
so we don’t get
too cocky – that’s
why we love
their flaw-
less black
feathers scattered
across the snow
white page.

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Written for the prompt: Write a poem about any type of gathering.