Posts for June 6, 2017 (page 6)

The word hospice hangs over his hospital bed
like an apparition, pales his face with fear.  He begs
to go home.  His daughters look him straight in the eye,
see death waiting.  Not possible, Dad.  He wheezes and gasps,
panicking for breath.

Not surprising to anyone, this final desperate fight
to force air in and out of black, tar-clogged lungs.
Two packs a day for fifty years, to hell with the warnings.
The same old sad song for the same man who bet
on beating the odds, never expecting oxygen to be
the wild card.

Too weak to play on, he folds his hand.

When I was little
Everyone used to laugh at me
Now that I am older
The women still titter
But the men only smile
When my final words are published
On social media 
And broadcast on the radio
Everyone will be too busy
Burying their heads in the sand
To laugh at me ever again.

The taxidermist is telling a story
With this frozen fur behind glass,
Teeth bared. Claws out. Back high.
That was on purpose, right?
The thing was dead already
When it arrived.
The instructions required that it look
Fierce, dangerous, even deadly
In order to be more of a monument
To the hunter’s superiority.
We don’t stuff our dogs, or cats,
And never guinea pigs.
It’s not nice to make a trophy
Of the ones we love.

On the patio, early night
we listen to leaves fall
ghostly music
of faraway cows  

the lake a calico
black, gray, blue
lined with trees  

you draw
a series of nudes
a single hand  

I want you
to add
a red door
a grape iris
a pink cloud rock  

your neck
a white calla lily
radiates lavender.                  

 ~ Found poem composed/modified from words of Georgia O’Keeffe’s painting titles

Daddy’s President,
Business is good.

i dreamt of an abandoned building
raised in creek rock and left to rot.
the foundation was solid
but kudzu took the roof
and covered the windows.
vines and shade climbed three stories.
i was invited inside

      The phone chimes

Before I answer it, 
I look to see  
if the caller is someone
I know.

The call is identified only
as Olive Hill, Kentucky.
I answer it.
I recognized the woman’s voice.

Before she asks me
if I will judge the poetry contest
sponsored by her
poetry group, 

the words:
I remember the year
that Clayton Delaney died 
ring in my ears.

Of course I will,
I tell her.
We talk about writing,
hers and mine, briefly.

Afterwards,
I think about words
& how poets look for truth
& I hear a familiar voice:

It’s faster horses,
younger women,
Older whiskey,
and more money…

i
draw a line in the sand
you
keep washing it away

some people plant their flowers
lined up like soldiers
all standing at attention
waiting for the call to be “at ease”

i prefer to scatter my seeds
and enjoy the surpise 
as the blooms appear 
wherever however they please
 

The anxious meowing
that enabled the cat
to finally be let outside
no longer served a purpose
so it flew up and entered
the breast of a blue jay
whose anxiety at seeing
a fifteen-pound cat
translated into amplified screams
which then entered my ears
and caused me to worry
that you’d be awakened too soon.