Summer Slumber
Sky-kissed souls
slumber sweetly
on beds of stars
spread like
dandelion wishes
in a gentle breeze
Sky-kissed souls
slumber sweetly
on beds of stars
spread like
dandelion wishes
in a gentle breeze
Flap buzz of a June bug
on frayed window screen, swish
of fast cars & 18-wheelers. High scream
of an ambulance—156 smashups
this year. Two flowering
pears host mourning
doves with their layered greys
like clouds holding rain. I lived
on an island on the face
of a mountain. No neighbors, just the snow
tops of distant mountains & the sheltered
archipelago of Puget Sound flashing. I hobbled
back to the city from that natural
excess & today sit under an unstable
carport waiting for the first
lightning bugs. While locking
the dead bolt I hear infuriated
neighbors in scrap. Screw you,
my neighbor bellows. Go to
hell, better yet go back
to Birmingham, back to your mommy, a howling
voice threatens. Suddenly I recall
Amanda from the island, who
lived so far into the woods
no one heard her desperate
shrieks when she pleaded
for rescue. Here in the city
among draff & refuse, I’ve planted
wildflowers, peppers & dill. In this tight
belly of city, I feel a craving to track
& name living things: Charlene
the alley cat, & Bobby Joe,
the the old Beagle. Tonight a city
worm slides onto my walkway
after summer rain & alongside the blue
noise of cop cars & click-click
of charged power
poles I breath down
deep & inhale the scent
of mimosa and exhaust.
If my mother calls
I answer.
I go where she leads
I tremble in her path.
My steps are nowhere near as large but they are in the right direction.
Mom tells me the small steps are sometimes worth more than the big ones.
“Keep going.”
She tells me
“You’re close to running any day now.”
Sausage-dog, you inhabit my lap with your
Curly fur and content panting,
Rub my hand if it’s not petting you, and
Understand when I say, “Let’s go!”
Fur-baby, you let me squeeze your
Fluffy belly like a baby doll as if
You know that’s all I need.
The neighbors look
black & white, their views
on socially acceptable
yards like chess boards mating
Valspar paint swatches
to green.
You’ve got to go, they say—
your dandelions catching
the wind, warning joggers
to step farther off the sidewalk—
your backside a pit
filled with abandoned
branches like soldiers—fallen
beside the bodies of rabbits, moles, birds
either too slow to escape feral cats
or rooting for worms, for food, forgetting
there is city on the other side
of our sacred.
You’re overgrown, they say—
as they man their machines,
rev their tools, sweat their lives
away into cuffs and collars
they can’t see.
You’re perfect, my love—
here, where I sit, where I write
from the deck, hearing your buzz like bees—
your breaths like electricity and wasps—
the march of blood in your veins like ants—
so much that is alive, so much that
I’m alive—the green and gold of you
drawn in like amber waves, when I inhale—
pulsing, igniting, when I exhale—
and I no more want to touch that machine
than I wish to thresh the fire
from the stars that appear
in our night sky
while the sleepers sleep.
At midnight, the cantor sings the Proclamation.
In a monastic tone, she situates Christ in history,
linking him to packs of egregious sinners.
Amid puffs of incense, my daughter and her boyfriend,
their heads together, are chatting. The bishop,
leaning on his crosier, attempts to engage us
in prayers of hope. In the crèche, no fence
separates the wise men from the holy family.
Between hymns, the trombone player plays chess,
the trumpet player works a crossword puzzle.
We end with “Joy to the World.” A few music lovers
applaud the new organist’s recessional.
Collapsed in the back room of the cathedral,
the director thanks the choir
as we walk into the night.
The kids all wear their AirPods
with the stems tucked tight,
so they don’t draw attention
like a pair of Howdy Doody ears.
Me, every time I happen past a
window or a mirror, I notice
I’ve got them sticking out like the
bolts in Frankenstein’s neck.
I’m fifty-six. I’ve forgotten what
it means to be cool. Perhaps this is
my version of dress shoes with
black socks and shorts.
What I never understood when
I was younger was the fact that
it wasn’t that the old men didn’t know,
it was that they just didn’t care.
If I could coat myself in it,
a thick, luminous tincture
of ground moonstones, gods’ tears
If their grace could leech into me
through my channels and meridians
If I could lasso the beams into my chalice
and drink deeply,
perhaps my muscles would soften,
realizing their weariness and
rest, at last
Silent conversation with a Hummingbird
Slow down, land on the rim
that surrounds the feeder,
filled with clear nectar.
Red nectar, I understand, is
harmful to you. Rest and lap your fill.
Today is the first time I have seen you.
I only got a glimpse of your yellow side
and then you fly up into the Maple.
I know you are feeding,
for I have filled the feeders six times.
While I have waited for your return,
a red, dually pick-up, a noisy diesel,
pulls into the driveway across the street.
The driver gets out and goes to the door
off the carport to the right and rings the doorbell.
He looks across the street at me,
writing, and then goes to the front door,
rings the doorbell and waits,
patiently, like I wait for your return.
A lady, in towels, one for body, one for hair,
opens the door. He looks at me again.
Before you return, a grey, Dodge 200, pulls
into the grass beside the red Ford dually.
The driver gets out, walks through the carport,
and unlocks the door there.
I have waited all this time,
writing only this one rhyme,
and you do not return.
The first man exits the front door,
gets into his noisy truck and leaves.
I will not wait
until the second man leaves.
I will catch a glimpse of you
when I have more time to sit
and read or write.
I will fill the feeders,
as you empty them,
come sunshine or come rain.
It simmers
smoky
in the woodfire
that thaws
an April freeze
And it sings
fearless
with the phoebe
bobbing on her wire
trapeze
It shimmers
in the sequins
sprinkled
atop the cat’s
onyx vest
And it flies
bold
as the goldfinch
that scissors
the sun-starved mist
It rhymes
with the fledgling
whose wings beat
from nest edge
to beam
And then it sighs
as the green pleads
release
from earth’s
pulsing pungent seam
