Posts for June 28, 2017 (page 3)

At 70 miles per hour in cruise control

you can hear it

A song the world plays all around you

there’s something to be understood
about the feeling you have
as you tap your feet
to a tune you’ve never heard until now
traveling through a land
you may never have any reason to see again

As the fog in the valleys below
slowly drifts away
let the next song pull you in
as the morning haze says it’s farewell
as the sunlight blows the dust off of the morning sky

Taking only what she needed and running.
Allowing that spark inside her to ignite.
Taking turns too fast and
allowing herself to lose control.

For the first time ever,
she was messy
and free.

She was dangerous
and beautiful.
She was a storm
with lighting cracks 
and rolls of thunder
filling up the whole sky.

She skipped the disappointment, expected the worst,
grieved for the sick [though they recovered], spent
every storm in a basement, braced for tornado.  What
baggage of umbrellas she carried, twisted and torn
in transit before the rains arrived.  And after
this dedicated naysaying, what reward? A bomb
built bit by bit within her clenched heart, set to blow.

I put a ripe watermelon in Kid One’s carseat.
I hoped to be pulled over by a cop,
Who would ask:
Do you have a good reason for this?
So I can respond:
Yes. Yes, I do.
Then I would say nothing
And let the pregnant pause gestate.

Her eyes are blue;
not that typical in-between dark and light blue but
icy opaque mystery.

Her jaw cuts to sleek neck,
no flab of sun-born leather hiding the jugular.

Her collar bone is profuse dip, it contains
lickable pools of quiddity.
My finger has trailed it to rib to tight
hourglass cleavage that shames Hogarth.
Curves matter more than size,
but with both, she opens doors,
trips the male mandate.

No need to press flesh away,
her hips
are slopes of invitation
handholds for habitation.

Legs smooth, waxed and buttered,
thin for grabbing, angled for sliding
all the way down to the floor…
but not quite.

Her feet are
callouses layered like tree years,
cracks to gone children,
crags to fallen loves,
toes hooked in multi-direction,
confused about where to step.
Skin globbed betwixt
carries the weight of the lie.

two wrens

pipe me awake at dawn

one moment

joy before I remember

creeping apocalypse

Shingles torn and scattered by the wind
Birds nest in crumbling chimneys
Shutters broken opening vulnerabilities
Empty windows frame gaping black maws
Siding stripped bare and original hue unknown
Porch sags and leans as supports fail
Weeds surround and invade
Everything of value long ago delivered up
Can the foundation still be sound

Everyday we beat death
beat it back with an old broom
   when we sweep the morning porch
Death is nothing special
no ambassador to Sweden
no prince of peacocks

Everyday we beat death
beat it back at the lunch table
   when we have a swiss cheese
   with tomatoe soup, the red
   liquid from the pantry shelf
Death is not the boss here
no banty rooster strutting 
   around the big hens
no prime minister
   of the ticking clock

Everyday we beat death
beat it back with light from lamps
   children carry to our dreams
beat it back with the ransom
   we pay when we sleep
Death is not some action we take
no head in the gas oven
no reading of ominous result

Every day we beat death
beat it back with the rhythm
   of the hearbeat, the slow flow
   of air…in and out, in and out
Death is no undertaker
(any walk in the woods would 
tell us bones bury themselves)
no nighthawk that stratles 
   at the midnight window
no groom taking his bride 
   to the marriage bed

                                          Conversations at the B&B

She’s still shrill
about her house guests
from 30 years ago,
the ones who brought 
no house gift
and were insufficiently
grateful.

She’s also incensed
at her sister-in-law
who inherited 
the family home
and dismantled it
board by board
using the lumber
to build a chicken house.

The injustice of it all
foments in her gut.

Bon appetit!