dead leaves rasp the street
smashed turtle at our feet—blood
caution—slow approach
respectful soft sniff
looking up to me—confused?
unable to speak
-
Weather
“What is this weather in my soul?
This nameless weather:
Squirrel’s flag-tail pulsating
A silent, nil day.
Exceptional drought……
memory’s ceaseless loop roils;
turkey vultures soar.
-
Calla
Calla lends herself to lyric,
Flowing lines sync; visual rhyme.
You and me, our whining’s, not so much.
She exist in pastel syllables,
Cello bliss, dabs from the sacred palette;
Copyrighted; forbidden to us, by ourselves.
Deprived, we paint only you and me:
Gray lamentations, stark primary tints;
Decrying fate in strident sketches
Of perceived losses and longings.
Satiation, our illusive deity;
Calla, complete, an ignored embrace.
-
Heart’s Script
We all bear witness, self-sworn daily,
speaking our lies, shinier than truth;
painting ourselves, molding a visage
of reflections from fouled mirrors.
We profess enlightenment yet cling
to darkness choosing each sin care-
fully writing new, discreet definitions.
What is written will endure; flourish.
Our heart’s script perishes with flesh.
-
ordinary people
Must there be a differentiation, a notedness,
an elevation above, a falling below, a middling?
Does Gaia favor fierce or meek, exotic or plain?
Does ranking serve our need to condescend?
I resist the rant when the phrase is proffered,
again and again, naming us ordinary people.
I will let my beast strut, flaunt my plumage;
flare my hand-painted hackles and post a selfie.
-
you and me
I knew you would come today! I knew.
They’re good to me here, really, they are.
They’re not the same though……as family.
Have you seen your brother? That rascal!Can’t come to see his old Mama…ha, ha!
Is he retired like you? Can’t afford it,
I guess. I would send him money to come.
I still have some money don’t I? Well…..How long have I been here? Five years!
It only seems a few months. They are
good to me here. I would not stay if they
were mean to me…I would go home today.A new place, I mean…..I know I can walk
but they won’t walk me anymore…help me
up, to try. Well, then…I guess I’ll stay…they
are good to me here. I would leave if not.I sat by the window this morning…the trees
they are dogwood…aren’t they…are beautiful.
Is it warm outside? They keep it so cold in here.
I need a new jacket. See, my sleeve is torn.Yes frayed… well then, whenever you can.
Let me tell you…this morning…sitting there
at the window watching the trees…dogwoods,
I had the most wonderful feeling I’ve ever felt.God said we would feel that way in heaven
all the time…every minute of endless days!
I can’t wait to see your Daddy there again.
You have a baby sister in heaven too, waiting.God told me it was a girl. The doctor couldn’t
tell back then…I was just a month along or so.
Something happened….I never would cause it.
Your Daddy and our baby are watching for us.But she might be grown now; raised in heaven
by your sweet Daddy! Who knows how it works
up there. Raised in Heaven! She would be a true
angel. Something we can never be…you and me. -
He was born to ride that ass
He was born to ride that ass
though plow-handle legs rigid
flaunting bare feet, toes splayed,
might be read as reticence.
•
Through the four-way shamming
nonchalance pretend bugle blaring
his tune of eminence’s arrival,
he clopped. To to, to to, to toot!
•
Eschewing drive-through his ass
clopped bank lobby; Clop! Clop!
“Hooves on marble! So delicious!”
“I like your neck-beard.” teller said.
•
“Unkemptness is a fashionable virtue;
a visual cue denoting ones calling
to a higher sect.” Poet explained.
To to, to to, to toot! To toot!
•
With bewilderment he studied
his pointer pointing to infinity.
“Is infinity always up?” he inquired
without a clue. “Merits further
contemplation, a sonnet at least”
Clop, clop, clop! “Delicious!”
-
Butterflies
Spiraling upward
un-touching entwination
in flittering flight
nothing to repent
they cherish what is given
synched as wind and chime
Belated Words 