Dog On A Chain Press

10/15/2024

join the fight or learn to love another- a begrudging
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a crow came into the canopy just off from the yard
I couldn't see it but it was pitching a heck of a fit
over nothing so much a care I figured

a quiet onset of evening
the sun was brilliant
the air was still enough to be moved by a breath unbeknownst

there was heat in the crook of the neck and under feet
a well postured, sturdy take on what had been the day
and the scarecrow was fair to be off duty

I was half drunken, devout in witness and sake
regardless, I walked out to the garden and chased the noisy ass crow away

perhaps the neighbor up the way eyeshot above the trumpet vines had a self respecting laugh and a shake of the head as the other neighbor walking the old dog, its only trick, knew well enough my apprentice and my jest

turned out that there were 3 crow
a lovers spat, of course, what else should it be
none the less, I figure that they can take that s**t elsewhere..
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Mat Gould 2024 summers end

09/09/2024

a couple of seasonl/my own sense of Zen poem type things

big bang
-----------
in the end of all things that may or may not be an end
there is but a mesmeric horizon
held by burning, pulsating waves of light
collapsing along yet another mesmeric horizon
burning with the same waves of pulsating

light.
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when no wind blows
------------------------

too sit with the dust
the grit and the grind
heavies than the dust itself

both carried and carries
to fall in stillness
stings the eye and dries the tongue

even if it is cleaned it is still there

a barnacle upon the lungs
bristle dulling the chime(s)
the pistol of the lips shorn of whistle

static from a chord plucked
yet left on the finger that has done such
therefor on the touch of a cheek
dust in a tear will become the weight of itself

the grit and grind
held still.
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autumnal resuscitation
--------------------------

spider webs clung to the last of the fruit and the flower
yellowjackets staggering amongst, dumb, inebriated

the song comes from the tall grass
as the night comes from the brightened suns relent

if I were to sit for too long
I would have a thought
that would be predominantly unnecessary
to begin with.
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(ode to) self help
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I often write of the sun
because it is where I often am
or where I am attempting to be

in the sun

if only for the least of an hour or hours themselves
it is the best of a day
to be there

in the sun.
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Mat Gould-recent ish poems.

07/30/2024

walking the ghost back home
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doves do not only coo they hack
just as coyote howls, cries. gaggles and laughs
when men die they do not take their bones

birds hang supple from vines that do the same
berries in their beak, ransacked from the shrubbery
separating the lawn from a more engorged wilderness

what a man leaves behind
is not unlike what lies on either side of threshold or boundary
but when a man dies he does not take his bones
f
ire burns most
but for a smudge
that then becomes a symbol of revelation or retribution
j
ust as bottle trees and bowling balls are yard ornaments used for iridescent gazing or a steer head with broken horns serves as a scarecrow on a post

although, is that a crow i see perched on the barren brow?

tethered or whipped
be it stripped or stripping
what has lost its way or is it holy without guidance

one mouse means more mice unless it is fully on its own
a dog can only do so much from where it sits on the porch

and when a man dies
he does not take
his bones-

Mat Gould (roughdraft) 2013

07/06/2024

the Mustache cats of some random once upon a time kingdom
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is not a true story that I am aware of
but it might be in some fairy tale or falsehood along the way
and it would be a neat occurrence

if along the toe tip of Italy or some sweltering coastal lane of Florida that there was a historical culture of Mustached cats that ran the village and were honored as gods as are the Monkeys of Nepal

even neater if they ate bananas and frolicked in the streets with stray dogs, bums and tourists and had pales of lager left out for them at the local drunken drainage ditch

and at the end of the day they would be seen stretching out amongst the tide and at nights end there they will be in the lap of the moon singing songs that only lovers lost would feign culpable or deem redeemable

once the sun is about to begin its desires inevitable
the king of the Mustached and the Queens of his lair abound upon every fence post and pier pole and call out to the seascape and the village alike...

sounding damn near as a rooster, the strangest of cackle you wouldn't think a cat was capable yet calling upon the scene to bring about a cheer if not a grovel

for the Mustached Cats of wherever this place is sunken under the horizon as it may be are to be revered and untamed, praised in eternity and fed by the hand of faith and insanity.
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just a general bit of initial blabber for another day along the way

Mat Gould 2024

06/11/2024

gutted at the throat
------------------------
the day waited out its own toil
it rains at night
when we are sheltered, animals alike

my cat killed one of the wrens in one of the birdhouses a while back
the she bird takes care of the nest
all of its duty

I feel more for life and nature more so than before

a deep sigh,
a breath of unsure prayer, regret
I watch for her to come and go with worry and admiration

I am certain of bastards
I believe in what lies beyond smoke
I cut back the raging jungle, it will always grow rampant again
vigorous vine at my boney ankle

I sit back in a comfortable chair, below the mountain and the road, in a courtyard I have manicured to the best of my stability and cause

a bottle in hand

I hope that this small world I have genuinely cared for understands this absolute fact
give any moment the slight
what takes over is massive and righteous-

Mat Gould 2014

05/06/2024

Been sick for a week, ain’t got what cures ya but I got what ales ya. See what I did there, that’s good stuff I tell ya. What better time than now for the first Imperial of the season.

04/24/2024

the good folk over at Hobo Camp have kept it together for 15 years. Have yourself an afternoon cup, take a load off if you will, and read a few poems.

http://hobocampreview.blogspot.com

04/24/2024

The good folk over at Hobo Camp Review keeping it together for 15 years. Have yourself an afternoon cup, take a load off if you will and read some poems.

http://hobocampreview.blogspot.com

04/22/2024

Celebrating 15 years over at The Hobo Camp

https://hobocampreview.blogspot.com/?fbclid=IwZXh0bgNhZW0CMTAAAR0rumT8pq-4YwAm7Be07mAX299-nNd9evdV9pyBiQdoLNBYo6R10c5KgJk_aem_AWWt11SkUISQuHqO5Cn8WqTcIgosAwJFa0wgY5ChbF_d0fwpor-tUtMeL1rpP9l3xUD1MnJM7VTjuj1XUsTJlpie

poetry & prose from the road

03/05/2024

for there is an affinity
--------------------------
where did you learn how to sing
like the grossbeak
the fairy lady
and the undenying Queen?

winter continues with no glimpse of spring
but for a minute a day
seems to be made by the grandest of meteor light
breaking the atmosphere
with an explosion

the world is over but it is not

it is charcoal and singe in a field somewhere
it is a historical question mark
it is not as pretty as a pin-up hot lady baby darling in the magazine spread
I have two hands and ten fingertips
can I touch it all
on the tongue it blisters

the song careens fellaheen

where did you learn to sing
not without screaming
not without bleeding
not without making love in the morning

outside the window the world is returning
mountains are made by the tides receding

knees
in
the deep air
with the pleading eyes of belief

somewhere all of this death will lead to life

I am not leaving this world to find out
look over the night
look from under the above

a song is the confluent verses of whimsy and woe
singing to one another about each other
and it seems to be made of a world outlasting
the intolerable human parade-

Mat Gould, March 5, 2013.

02/28/2024

diversion theatrics
----------------------

crows carry their bodies over the wilderness
fat black darts in the thin air
calling out to the survivors of a heinous winter
and checking for what is left of the dead

its hard to sense birth
no meat, all bone
a skeleton warrior laid to rest on the earthen floor

one crow circles back around
spirits perform in colors I do not see

silent praise gives way to a jesters guffaw-

Mat Gould 2013

02/12/2024

deep enough for the both of us
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a splinter in the thumb
from the burial of bones
marked by stone and stick

overseen by the crow and the tree that leans
contrary its counterparts

bones buried in this place
so that the carrier of these bones
can be told as to where their bones are

if perhaps the need to come back for them persists

and if not
it will be I that will know
where to go
if beyond my burial
a bone or bones may be bartered for a disposition(s)
that may be claimed

as for the splinter
a jest reminder
that those were not my bones.
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Mat Gould-2024- Hillside Spine. We often bury things this time of year, in the midst of an unforgiving season dragging us to its end, that find their way in death into our hands here upon he small hill that sits amongst the much bigger hills in which we share with many a trail and many a critter and many a wild animal eye on anything that may be of use for now or later or much later as in long after we are gone, lay as we must or lay as it will or lay as it does...maybe from off the trail, or the roadside that is near enough that I know that those bones had been near enough and not so far away that the spirit that once carried and held and relied on them had some sort of meaningful impact or presence on our life whether we knew it or not...so I was just sitting here today, thinking about that, and thinking of those that I have buried here over the years and figuring there will soon be another now that the season is at such its epitome.