I’m back

Posted on Jan 3, 2013 in Poetry, Writing

In technical terms,
every moment of my life is now.

So I’m back holding my Slinky at Christmas,
With Stretch Armstrong nearby
And my chemistry set.
I can see the odd looks
as I say it to the neighbor kids.
Try it, you’ll feel smart.

I’m back to reading every ad
in the back of Popular Science,
so carefully, as if it were a textbook.

I’m back to the apartment complex swimming pool.
There’s Mary Whitehead,
She’s twisting the water from my towel.
Her friend helps.

I’m back to lighting the dumpster on fire
with my brother Matt,
burning the rubber off my sneakers.

I’m back with my sister Peggy.
She’s throwing her clothes out
her bedroom window again.
Littering the lawn.

I’m back with my brother Jimmy,
and his so perfect breath.
Officer Bruno is chasing him
up the railroad tracks during school.

I’m back in my father’s deli in Delaware.
I’m steaming a sub roll in the back.

I’m back driving my Chevy Camaro.
Delana is at my window.

I’m back in Johnson City with Jim
prank calling my future wife Christine.
She’s putting on nail polish,
The making of a metaphor
I’ll never live down.

I’m back with my Mom.
She’s negotiating a price on a van,
with Italian charm and skill,
to a price so low,
you’d not believe it.

I’m back with my Dad.
He’s trapped me in a room
while he tells me of God.
I won’t hurt his feelings by leaving.
I won’t.

I’m back in the mall.
Misty’s howling from her pet store cage,
turning us around to save her,
to save us.

I’m back with my daughter Jess,
And her funny face
And her cat, Nichol, with steps up the wall.

I’m back with my daughter Laura,
with Daisy on her shoulder.
She’s baaa’ing like a sheep
in her sisters ear
in the car
And she’s skating circles around us all
on her rollerblades.

I’m so glad that I’m back,
but I wonder why I was ever fooled
to believe I ever left
all those moments.
I’m so glad that I’m back.

Tarry (v2)

Posted on Oct 24, 2012 in Poetry, Writing

I held your feet as you climbed,
irrelevant as the lack of the

The bend of your knee,
thigh, then
form versus function,

The leaf has dropped

Posted on Jul 29, 2012 in Poetry, Writing

The leaf has dropped
too many times.
The second hand charges to its next iteration.
The dead horse has been beaten to dust.
Let us break the clay pot,
and name it a boy.


Posted on Apr 29, 2012 in Poetry, Writing

I held your feet as you climbed—ankles—sundress—irrelevant as the lack of the sun. The bend of your knees, thigh, then thigh, form vs function, sky—

ward—As my heartbeats skip, as the ladder shakes—you tarry—I overtake

you—I am inside.

My name, my name, never in vain—

—tempt me, love me, for heaven’s sake, speed my breath from above me.

The cooking makes me cry

Posted on Feb 27, 2012 in Poetry, Writing

My hands run up your slender stalks—
my eyes and heart go further.
Are we so different anymore—
my nails, their marks—
the earth.
The other day, I felt my knees,
they woke and hinged too wide.
I wore your clothes,
you fixed my hair.
Your cooking makes me cry.

The snowman – Cary Briel

Posted on Jan 13, 2012 in Poetry, Writing

The snowman looks like
a debok, more
than the happy pipe smoking
chap we built this morning.
The dog huddles warm
inside his house,
and I hide til Spring.
Chris says she loves it,
but I’ve not yet seen her
rosy skin,
nor wave her wings-
a snow angel in our lawn.
The birds have hidden in their
nests, in branches,
magic, somewhere in a tree.
I can picture the scene-
limb and grass, nest-woven,
covered white.

Flywheel keys – Cary Briel

Posted on Dec 22, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

People love things,
like chocolate,
the ocean,
things that give pleasure
or pain I suppose, like
ropes and their burns,
constricting at places,
anatomical, places
you’d never tell your mother.

When I was young, and still
though I never play anymore,
I loved small engines.
I knew an old man, selling
Briggs and Stratton,
a rotund old man.
He took ten minutes to walk from
his house to the shop,
where thick books took the space
a computer would these days.
But the computer wouldn’t smell
so musty,
so wonderful,
and would be way too up to date.

On the shelves in the back,
needles and floats,
head gaskets,
pistons and rings,
valves and springs,
points and condensers,
and the always flywheel keys.

The smell of gasoline
could be pheromones to me,
twice as much so when burned
through a combustion chamber, that is
if the points are set at .020,
if the condenser is good,
if the magneto and flywheel and spark plug
are gapped.

Perhaps I should drip
gasoline at the constricted places, once
the handcuffs and ropes
are in place.
But unleaded regular or premium?
I don’t think I can smell
the difference.

Monarch – Cary Briel

Posted on Dec 20, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

She knows,
as do all unassuming.
She steals away
the lover’s eyes,
the businessman in his meeting,
the child from her mates,
when her feet take her
scampering after.
God, don’t let her trip!
But she’s taken,
by her orange and her black,
by her shooting to left
and then right,
her ascensions
and falls,
this butterfly’s far more majestic
than all.
Mamma sees
and makes chase.
Oh, Helen, you can’t run like that.
But Momma, I’m flying!
Look, I’m flying like her, look!
Yes, Helen, but be careful.
Oh, Dear……
Between willow
and cattail
she dives and she swoops,
Oh, Helen!
Oh, Momma, did you see
how she flew?
Then landing on Helen’s
pink nose,
the blur of her wings
does switch to slow flapping.
And Momma’s tears
escape Helen
for years and years.

Warrior – Cary Briel

Posted on Dec 17, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

Your pretty eyes
dart, gaze from behind
your mask,
your facade.
The bend of your knee
is all that I need
to sustain the day.
The angle of your ankle
subdues the monster
in man.
Strength fades.
He’s owned by
the weakest,
the smallest.
Big muscles sit
while prettiness sighs.
Little one
I will climb back
into the womb,
I’ll be born again,
what facilitation,
what imposition,
the time of the wall
that would be a door,
when you looked so comely,
so pleasant,
so accommodating,
when you overtook
by being overtaken.

Back – Cary Briel

Posted on Jun 24, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

I awake in the night to find
the yellowed mirrors surround me.
I hung them when I was old,
when I was lonely.
Where is my shiny boy, my wife?
I will carry her from the dark,
back to familiar waters.