haiku 21
She walked in the place
not sure who would be there yet
or what was waiting
Naked to each other at last, they stand at the edge of the lea, looking towards the forest. They’ve come so far together. Her striped gown, cream and the color of her undone ginger hair, is marred by green at the hem from the walk here. His dark suit speaks of a formality belied by their embrace. They enfold each other as a sailor would cling to flotsam while awaiting a rescuer’s hand, afraid the hand might never appear. The woods are dark, faintly featured, even darker and less certain when compared to their path so far. They’re afraid to enter, afraid not to, while knowing one must occur.
O, quirky girls
Must be suffering from something!
Perhaps it was just overlooked and will be listed
In the DSM-6 with some new meds that work better
If you crunch them up and snort them
Off the Book of the Dead,
Straightening your lines with the High Priestess card
Given to you by Alistair’s daughter’s niece
Who even knew you could punch a hole there?!
That a hula hoop and four pieces of jute could be so fun
That handcuffs are both a symbol and a tool?
And yes, both the subject and the placement of that ink is very unique
The question that burns – do quirky girls twerk?
Perhaps in moments of girlish levity
Around the coven, while trading socks, so each
Never has a match even though all, of course, have Minnie’s image,
And transposing colors from lip to nail to hair
(one of which must always be black)
A quirky girl may pretend to twerk
But only pretending to pretend
Because this tutu has to last until Mom’s wedding
There is aboriginal symbology to be henna-ed
And duct tape jewelry to be fabricated
Quirkiness be serious business
Much of which appears to hurt
Which might be the point?
The kindness of the nurse
placing her hand on my arm
during the exam,
my gratitude.
Sometimes it takes so little
to show someone you care.
Small effort of kindness–
a lifeline to the drowning.
My friend calls her daughters
“my angels” but isn’t that
what everyone is for us,
those who are there, attentive
watching over us?
I register sadness
because my uterus gave way.
What about Shadow, the huskie,
who has no remaining eyes?
She had to learn to see
with her heart.
and I think, How easy it is to forget
the animal of us–
flying by hillscapes at 60 miles an hour
in machines we built
from machines we built.
From the safety of right here, we watch
the world turn like a lock
in a key. We see it, wait
for it all to open for us.
How easy it is to own
our feelings. Like borders,
like possession, it is as temporary
as day and night. All we have
are stories, each other, this world of brown and blue,
and its temporary greening. It’s so beautiful,
in theory, that all of it is our own. We forget
we all deserve its space, so we treat it like it’s ours
alone, this life we share.
Gratitude for the metal roof installed
To forestall drips and cost, without
Knowledge that crass practicality
Denied all the best rewards in store.
Drought breaking rain heralded
With the pat pat pat and then
Resounding boom is a serenade
For me the barrel, dust laden road,
Thirsty tree and parched flower.
A nap under a rain blessed roof,
Gifts sounds of cooling streams,
Troubles prisoned and far aloof,
Promises kept in restful dreams.
Thatch or asphalt might suffice
But a poet needs the ring of water
Streaming from generous heaven
And loving father.
I have tried to love.
I have yearned to hate.
I have been oh so hungry,
that I ate and ate and ate.
I have tried to be profound
and share the thoughts that matter.
Instead, I’ve contributed nothing
but an ass, growing fatter.
I have touched the sky
with metaphorical fingers.
I have kissed you hard–
with bad breath (that lingers!).
But I am done with poetry–
just you wait and see.
After all, poetry
was always done with me.
Quarry Lake is the moisture
sucked from a humidifier
In my cousin’s room
It’s the humid lungs
Of a single wide trailer’s
Sole window unit AC
why she put her pretty face
There to that mildew mist
Like it was the only liquid
She could taste
I will never know
She was Miss Boyle County Teen
Who loved undercooked bacon
Quarry Lake is the cellar
It’s the attic , too
Quarry Lake is a lesbian
Just as the sea is a big ol dyke
It’s our enormous concrete birdbath
From Italy
After the rain
It’s the creek at Rupert’s Ford
Where Daddy made us turn around
Just out of sight was a bloated dead dog
Upstream covered in ants
it’s the big table from Italy
Where the cats would
Push paws in pats of soft butter
where we drank weak tea
That’s how warm Quarry Lake is
Even In the darkness
my round faced children are there , too
It’s the little black bears
Our coon hounds chased off into the pines
They were my children, too , those bears
But they don’t remember.
Quarry Lake heals prophecy sickness
It moves like the river
That moves like the sea.
She thinks I will get lost in her bog.
I gather peat moss and leave.
A muddy encounter.
She wants me to visit her garden.
I wave from the highway.
A technical move.
She hopes I will walk into her rage.
I am the trigger, not the meal.
A cricket’s adieu.
She tells me she wants stillness.
She is waiting for meat.
A carnivorous heart.
