Natural, unstained, just shaped by my hand;
every so gently, my fingers caress
your lustrous, polished surfaces.
Is it your innate beauty I cherish,
or my own creation I so admire?
Author: Leo
-
Skates
for T
Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack…
a stick along a picket fence;
sound soothes as does the vibe of my hand,
bumpty-bumpty-bumpty-bump…
skates roar on an autumn sidewalk
up my street lined with familiarity.
•
“I’ve always had a secret
that I could not share
about my conversations
with the tortoise and the hare.”
•
Cheeks redder than red as my hair,
eyes wind whipped to weeping,
a swipe of a pink sweatered arm
does my nose just fine.
Metallic clatter off the curb….jump!
Jump! and back up again. Rooar! Rooar!
•
“Tell me Mister Hardshell,
how do you sit so still;
haven’t you made promises
you’re obliged to fulfill
and……is it dark inside your shell?”
•
“Listen, little darling,
honey can’t you see,
we’re only made to gaze and wait;
our only purpose is to be
and….darkness softens time considerably.”
•
Comes the call but the roars too loud,
“Come in, its getting cold!”
The cold wind swallows the familiar plea
and there’s clacking on a picket fence.
•
“Tell me Mister Speedster,
why do you run all day,
why do you dither and dash
in such an erratic way
and…where are you going?”
•
“Listen to me sweetie,
life is just a thrill!
We rush and rave and cast
about….and over the hill is the carrot patch.”
•
The street is still familiar….
shorter, of course, narrower, too;
roots have heaved the sidewalks
to skateboard ramps, little matter,
kids play in the street now with no
respect, daring you to hit them.
•
And still, often, I lie in the dark
listening to Mister Hardshell breathe,
drawing first my legs, then arms and
lastly my head into my shell and then
synchronizing our breaths….slower…
slower…to slower…to stop…if I could.
•
And there are times I chase Mister
Speedster till my lungs ache with
a greed for things unknown and
anger gushes hot from every pore
splattering those near me and
they turn and look at me and I
never hear their abashed silence.
•
Where are the picket fences now
and a good stick with which to ply
a synchronous rhythm, a survival beat?
-
spring place
Off a path once for wagons and sturdy
legs, now rutted and rocked into a trail,
I find the source, the spring-head spoken of,
sleeping in deep shaded vines, secreted
by a low, sweating stone surround, finely
encased in velvety/emeralded moss
and guarded by pale bluebell sentinels.
The only evidence of human touch,
the surround and haunting creaks beneath leaves
of roof/tin’s leaf/muffled thud underfoot.
The jeweled woods thrust spiraling fern/fronds up
in rampant arrays of prideful bearings
uncoiling toward the dappled pale light.
Minute individuals of Bird-foot
violet and Indian Pipe peer from
bases of old-growth pine and giant popular.
Mountain laurel, head high, darkening the shade
boast purest porcelain blossoms of white.
•
I came searching for origins of myth:
family history told of this place,
of skimpy raisings and violent pasts.
Of one, if word of mouth can be believed,
strung by his neck in this, his yard, in front
of family for desertion from the war
that cleaved what little harmony was here.
Voices still cry from beneath the humus
some say, but I only hear flora sway
and taste the spring’s trickling, cooling release.
-
weather rant
It seems to me, man has changed the planet and thus the weather and I don’t see that being reversed. I am not a very optimistic person, I guess. But the earth will survive; life will adapt,some species may perish (even man) but others will take their place. I see it as part of a natural process. All life, as we know it, may at some time become extinct on earth but it will be a process (though aided by man) out of the control of man. Man’s belief in his power, both for creativity and destruction, is, to me, arrogant and delusional. That is not to said that we should not be striving to correct the damage we’ve done and feeling great shame for what we have allowed to take place.
-
Leaves
Should I be raking leaves; they’re piling up?
My yard sleeps beneath a saddle-brown snow
complete with two/foot drifts snug around shrubs.
The paths and spent flowers seem content though,
resting without pressure to be well-groomed.
My eyes tell me this without judgment of
their own; leaving the decision for me.
Taking my cue from nature, I chose to
lie fallow and rest beneath a rich snow.
-
The Moth
Your history flows freely:
a gently bubbling shower massage;
effervescent revelations of sweetness,
moist longings and caustic bitterness.
They twirl and coil,
these memories of your considerable passion.
My acceptance of one entices another
and another and with each a glance
from gleaming eyes, demure and measuring,
wondering at my salient calm.
I wonder: how close can I linger,
how long can I sooth and be soothed
before my dusty wings explode in flame?
-
Fawn
Along the bank of a singing creek
drawn crouching beneath tangled laurel
to a sandy cove by a sweet stench,
I found a fawn, awhile dead, untouched,
inches from the water’s edge.
Her pliant, serene/cervine body lay melting
molecule by molecule returning ascending
and her soul held wake above wafting
among lustrous white laurel blossoms.
-
Squirrel Narrative
Spiraling up and up with scratching speed,
the squirrels pursued each other around
the rough barked pine faster than my eyes could shift.I lost them in white sky glare and tangled
needle mass; raucously harsh, screeching calls,
marked them before their leap to a neighbor oak.The smaller fell, spread-eagle in air;
missed! I thought, but spasms of tail/tick-tock
and tendon/claw snagged a limb-tip easing
his plummeting fall to stronger growth.Then, daring pursuit, the parent raced on,
intent on schooling squirrel ways without respite;
tree to tree with chattering leaps of faith.From limb to power line the parent jumped
beckoning the smaller to follow fast; the pupil,
leaping, slipped, then swung upright and froze:
the taut wire of risk lay suddenly clear
in the vastness of white opened air.Father/mother? chastised hesitance with
warnings of dark omnipresent beast,
and ran the unforgiving wire quickly away.The rodent/child, doubt crushed, wavered and fell,
clawing apathetic air to the street
where he lay and twice twitched, perhaps with thoughts
of soft/leaf nest and of drinking water. -
Bird Haiku
Grackle
Brazen hundreds flaunt
their stuff, screaming their presence;
conquering the trees.
•
Bluejay
Unsympathetic;
reigning, brassy-blue diva
of the canopy.
•
Bluebird
The blue of God’s eyes;
with cheek-blushed breast, you flutter
in your dainty bath.
•
Crow
Black hole against soft
sky blue as boy-baby blue;
harsh as a night scream.
•
Mourning Dove
Flushed from brush in twos;
rattling chortles of wings lift
them to lowest limbs.
They call in soft glee.
Mistaken for sad laments,
their calls haunt our days.
Skeptical of bliss;
we refuse to hear pure joy
of a gleeful heart.
-
Maybe, it’s just me, but…
My mind can not comprehend a meaning.
Surely, you merely, poke fun;
content to tease less agile minds
……………..sliding words along,
a string of pearls nicely strung,
glossed with an aura of interrelated-import,
advancing only themselves across the page.
The meter, the sound, the flow is sweet
but what do you…. so delightfully…… decline to say?
Do you at night giggling safely in your bed,
berate yourself for naughtiness,
or…..crying, fear your efforts wanting?
Listen…there!…. Listen. Are you repeating what you hear?
