rinsed and swept
by May’s last storm
plowed and planted
purple with verses of violets
may June bloom
red with poems like poppies
proud amid
yarrow catnip bee balm
till month twilights
sky sated sweet
with odes of clover
sonnets of cosmos
Is it not enough,
to draw similarities
for you to make your departure?
Let me paint this picture for you, your home
may soon,
be in bloom.
One tempestuous morning she shall not wake.
The rose colored glasses ripped from her face.
Petals falling from her cheeks.
Sockets full of posies.
You will find her in a room.
Bright bouquets covering the gloom.
On the bed,
she rests her head.
Sockets full of posies.
Irises no longer morph from brown to green,
instead they’re plucked.
Her face lie serene.
You will take no time to question,
who committed this act of aggression.
Soon enough your expression will harden.
Next to be planted in my garden.
We sit and stare-
her at this dusty boat room,
glasstop tables on paisley rugs,
chipped crown molding
and faded fabric chairs.
I at the murk of the river,
the trees gripping slipping river banks
and smooth tumbled stones.
Thin plexiglass pane between us.
Which is better-
life behind glass,
in stray shards of mirror,
caught in scattered glimpses of silver,
or sitting here,
drawn along with an endless current,
anchored in the heavy solidity of now?
In dreams
Wellness is assured
Swimming through cool
Fresh blue-clear water
Pushing against her fingers and thighs
Breathing seamlessly
Brain clear
Words coming easily to her mouth. And
Out of it
Accomplished in sleep
Flowers
Quilts
Poems
Sunlight forces her lids open
The oxygen pumps and sucks
The next treatment looms
Hours have lost minutes
To do lists longer
Crossing off
Not crossing off
More longing for dreams of being well.
The wandering vagabond
The wandering vagabond
The lost goddess
A peasant in a crown
It gets hard to breathe when your lungs are full of Smokey self hatred
It gets hard to eat when your stomach is full of bile and disgust
Where will she go next?
The broken princess
The matriarch dressed in rags
i am sensitive.
i am thirsty.
i am delicate
but not
fragile–
pour.
A little black bug was waiting for me
On top of the bathroom sink
It flitted and jumped and ran all around
Maybe thirsty, and wanting a drink
It seemed such a happy little bug
Obviously feeling no pain
Then it got caught in the water stream
And quietly went
down
the
drain
I turned off the water
I felt pretty sad…
Hadn’t meant that to happen
I mean, the bug wasn’t bad
So I stood there and waited
And wouldn’t you know
That little black bug
Crawled out of that hole!
He’s back to dancing and prancing around
I hope he’ll not stay the day
Maybe he’ll spread his little bug wings
And quietly fly away…
you ask me
what it is like
to die
and when I finally
say perhaps it is like
the best sex you ever had
you ask me
to say it again and
then say
write that one down
you like it and
now I have
Knocked up from just looking
at a passing meteor, his mother
had to carry him for 62 years.
He finally popped out, already
white of hair and beard, and just
old enough to casually stroll down
to the Social Security office.
Well played, sir.
