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Home Furnishings,
Accessories, Design,
& Sleep Shop
P.O.Box 637
122 N. Highway B-288
Clute, Brazoria County
Texas 77531
© Copyright
Glynn Monroe Irby
2000 - 2008
All Rights Reserved
A selection of published poems
by Glynn Monroe Irby.
Slow Blowing the Saxophone
With each long breath from the diaphragm
I vibrate the reed on the end of the “S” neck
and phrase a release of allegro notes
like your sequined belt unsprung
and let to drape on the feather duvet
while fingering the shaped ivory keys
and executing grace notes
on the tapered instrument.
I express the passage of largo notes
like the steamy, brazen notes of buttons undone
and sleeves slipping from shoulders.
Repeating the raspy, hollow tones
of whole notes blown through the saxophone.
Warming the delta chambers of our emotion
by rendering the lyrical refrain of melody
in a bed of lucid embellishments.
Imagi 22
Heart-hills embody the red soil.
Blue water rejoices the shore line.
Clouds praise the color of sky.
I think of you.
As stars ripple in the sad wind,
birds fly past the shore through night,
and the distance becomes intolerable.
I think of you.
When sycamores change color to grey,
lakes know the source of their abundance
and valley streams the origin of flow.
During the season of soft light,
after the air has become cold,
in the time of prairie moons —
I think of you.
As curling petals, magenta and dry,
fall from their tall, thorny stems
onto the river stones of my garden —
I still think of you.
Imagi 23
As night shadows dissipate
and the dripping rhythm
of rainwater from my balcony
marks the passage into morning —
the Ruby-throated Hummingbird
comes to drink the sugar water
beneath the sheltered soffit of my home.
So it is when I approach the vessel
of your image in my memory —
I conjure the taste of you on my tongue,
and conceive the sensation
of your energy alongside
the cornices of my soul.
Shooting Gar
While stepping over the trestle ties
and looking through foot gaps
to the chocolate water below,
I carried my rifle to the center span
and stood there, spring-kneed,
with index finger through the trigger loop,
searching the glossy faces
of cloud images sliding hazily
between the tangle banks
of blackberry vines and tallow shoots,
anticipating the elusive outline
of a garfish rising out
of the darkness of the bayou.
Trackside Papers Rising
I listen to the Doppler change of crossing bells
and the overlapping rhythms of clicking at expansion links.
I hear the drone of circular steel grinding on flat steel rails
and see the vertical spikes of regimented poles passing
as the curvature of power lines metronomically drop into view
— and rise out again — then drop into view — and rise out again.
Anticipating the path of my travel
I feel the sudden jostle of velocity
and the forward leaf springs absorbing
the minor shocks of space and misdirection.
I sweep through the bracketing clouds of dust debris
rising in the agitated air surrounding the cabin windows
and elevating trackside manuscripts of memory
into the upward lift of my logic and awareness.
I can now recall the curl of your hair like the tight eddies
of warm air breathing beneath our steaming engine
and the smell of its coal fire wafting adjacent
to the floral aroma of your Hungarian thighs.
I recall your mica-eyes as they foreshadowed
the pulsating strings of our future fusions
of trans-atomic electrons. Although I wished,
for a while, we could have propelled to near the speed of light
— magnetically pulled by the plasma between us
and accelerating on parallel tracks spreading open
from the horizon and fluidly sucking under us
in the electric bed of our sleeper car.
Then we would’ve been pristine
in the silent brilliance of frozen quanta,
with ordinary life outside our compartment
completely compressing into dimensional nothingness.

Diamantina Dreams of Ezekiel
Great-tailed Grackles peck at dry seeds
scattered on the ground. Scarlet Macaws spiral upward.
With dream energy, the ocean undulates a phosphorescence
of black lavender and the contoured skin-tinge of sienna.
The sky, striated red, orange, and yellow,
silhouettes torches slipped into sleeves
along the base of a sea-side temple rising
by a series of plateaus.
She ascends the temple steps, each level stirring
collective memories and the common bond
of her ancestry, as grapes on vines in time
stretch along trellises back to the vineyard soil —
        from pueblos of Mesa Verde,
        to limestone pyramids of Uxmal,
        from cypress foothills of Andalusia,
       to the gardens of Babylonia.
At the pinnacle of her dream,
she hears trumpets, sees an alter-stone,
jeweled swords, and oxcarts in oyster clouds
with men holding scrolls of sacred verse.
She imagines her father’s father, and his father,
and each of their mothers, and her mother.
She dreams of an ox, an eagle, and a lion.
She dreams of an antelope, caracara, and a cougar.
Wooden wheels are turning
and wooden spokes revolve around the core.
Rosa penelope
She weaves her tapestry of thorns and leaves
along a split-rail and amber stone fence
dividing my deep ravines of emotion
from the wild-horse prairies
     of impulsiveness.
After isolation of countless sunsets,
her rose ambrosia buds unfurl overnight
into clouds of apricot-ivory blossoms,
their clustered petals layered with ruffles
     and yellow stamens.
As sunlight of the moist-air morning falls
on foot paths surrounding the arbor loom,
her luscious fragrance lingers,
like honey-vetiver voices of sirens,
     and the tea-clove essence of yearning —
A fragrance that reaches over sea-swells
saturating my memory of salt air
and a rocky shore, when even the wind
called out her name with the irresistible bliss
     of my seduction.
When Frogs Become Synchronous
Following a thunderous rain the night throbbed with dampness.
Residual sheet lightning silhouetted the tree line against the sky
and Oyster Creek was overflowing with new water
beyond our inclined backyard embankment.
We were slick wet with erogenous perspiration
and snug in the double hammock of our screened porch.
The poly-rhythmic sounds of the forest were overwhelming
to the resonating twist of macramé
moving through the anchor loops
screwed into the cedar wood of our structural columns
as we found ourselves in the vortex of natural harmony.
Through the musky, moist, and balmy atmosphere
of saturated moss and sexuality we could sense
the steady rise of water flooding over the crawfish chimneys
into the lizard scurry furrows of our gladiola garden.
A pair of bull frogs began to bellow syncopatically
and green tree frogs gathered on limbs of tallows
to stretch their throats to the color of pale pink
and then back again — at each amphibious phase
expanding forward and contracting back, and rising, and falling,
with their mouths open and frog tongues flashing in their throats –
trumpeting their raspy mating call with the breath of evolution.
Then slowly, and inconspicuously, subtle undulations
of random sounds gradually began to shift
toward one another into biological synchronization.
Like a band of snare drummers locking step
and rolling cadences in quarter time.
And like ticking alarm clocks placed on a shelf, their cycles
set to merge and release their bells together.
When coral vines interlaced and the fingers overlapped,
wild dogs began to bark in unison with the flashing night.
Screech owls spun their cry. And crows, aroused from their nest,
cawed in concurrence with repeating rhythms of reptiles,
as the black magical leopard screamed and leaped up
to a fork in the tree overlooking the satin dream surplus
of the water body flowing inextricably toward the matriarchal bay.
My Father Recalls an Impression
When I was just a kid,
mama killed a polecat
and nailed it to the wall
outside behind the tractor barn
where the corn was kept.
Then, I thought all polecats
were black with a red stripe.
It wasn’t ‘til later I learned
the red was only the blood
soaked-all-up in the white fur.
This morning, when we came
down off that high bridge over
the Brazos River and saw the skunk
run over by an eighteen-wheeler,
I thought of husbandry — and corn.

© Copyright
Glynn Monroe Irby
2000 - 2008
All Rights Reserved

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Home Furnishings,
Accessories, Design,
& Sleep Shop
P.O.Box 637
122 N. Highway B-288
Clute, Brazoria County
Texas 77531
© Copyright
Glynn Monroe Irby
2000 - 2008
All Rights Reserved