One of these days
I am going to clean out my desk,
clean out the chest of drawers,
clean out the closets
clear out stuff under the sink,
give away clothes that don’t fit,
write letters to friends far away,
arrange the book shelves,
tidy up my office
organize my recipes
and photo album,
finish a project
say an encouraging word
give someone a pat on the back
and say “Well done”
visit the sick
and the home-bound
give to the poor
but, not today…
I’m too busy.
Black Palate
Darker than the speck
on a pecan
splash of Black
Moccasin ink
darker than the black
on the back
of an orca
the trembling tongue
of a rat snake
my emptiness
which rises after
midnight & teaches
me to never barricade
one surging
tear or ignore the dark
sap of my own blood
Where shadows go,
darkness bends;
daylight sends
its signs forth at
dawn at dusk at
spaces between
this falling sun and
the rising moon,
untethered moments
of sleepless dreams
An unforgettable year for all those old enough to remember it,
A year of death,
Fear,
Isolation,
And for many a year of depression,
Its was an interesting and eventful year for us all,
I had my heart broken,
And a high school graduation unlike any other,
I had my eyes opened,
And my value become apparent,
I had my first college classes,
And my last,
I had my dreams manifested,
And my depression resolved,
I had my life filled with purpose,
And the ambition to fulfill it,
2020 is a year that we will all remember for our own reasons,
And like the many others who lived through it,
It’s a year that changed my life forever
Weedeater sounds like a fussy baby–outside
the landlord’s landscaping contractor
uses this sunny moment to his advantage,
knocks down the long/wild grasses.
Through a window, this is my afternoon
company, a duet we do though
blinds. My windows remain closed.
It is easier that way.
In time, new sounds will come–
the mower’s low hum and the return of birds.
Poets–me included–love birds like Audubon must’ve.
Such solidarity, such freedom in flight.
I come in so often
I get the same things every day
A routine I’ve some how gotten
The small talk is the same for what we say
Hi how are you doing today?
Good. I am doing good….
I hope they know their presence is one I enjoy
Only male cicadas do the screaming.
It don’t hardly seem fair.
The boys out banging on their tymbals,
horny and hollering for the attention
their maturation demands.
Puffed up and flying high but hollow inside,
drowning the night air and destroying peace
in a cacophony of competitive noise.
Female cicadas do not have complex calls.
They’re born to respond with a snap,
a crack and flick from wings that don’t sing.
Female cicadas can’t even scream.
It don’t hardly seem fair to me.
Overheated on the isolated pristine beach
of Anse Chasenet
I crawled out from under the bulky beach
umbrella abandoned the turquoise floppy
hat and shades
donned my snorkel mask
waltzed into the cool waves solo.
Thirty feet out and under
I saw it.
Miraculous underwater maelstrom
of tiny sardines out of the tin
circling in a a whir to escape
the big wahoo’s chomping jaws.
Always safety in numbers , mama said
Don’t travel alone at night
or you’ ll be prey
Shimmery silver fish abide this rule
Pulling tight as one
Swarming in a circular funnel.
Safety in numbers to ward off
perilous predators.
I want to share with you
my hidden place
A still, clear pond on the edge of a wood.
Kneel down in the rich loam.
Tadpoles wiggle their way through the litter
and try to grow their legs and lungs and ears.
Close your eyes.
Do you feel the ripple strides of the insects walking like Christ?
Each turn on the water writing a new gospel.
Bow your head.
The gentle burbling of birdsong anoints us like lilac oil
and fills our souls with golden hope.
A supple tree gazes upon us two
her spine curves with expectant weight:
pomegranates bright as blood.
We break them open
On our tongues the seeds that we placed
burst and spill vital red poison.
Our lips and fingers stained and sticky with death
we fall.
Now the pond lies silent.
Barren.
How could we know?
all that remains is a mirage
the truth of it miasma and rot.
Imagine—
You are in a bar when the fruit splits anew
poison burning you away.
Your skin grows pale,
hands shaking in their own grasp,
as you pray for deliverance from the insatiable ache.
Your lover lifts a small Styrofoam cup to your lips:
Fresh water.
I.
Shift-work means most nights I cook for my love;
finding new recipes an unending adventure.
This night, his dinner break brings me these messaged words:
“This would be *delicious* with pork!”
I reply how it fills my heart,
to hear what I prepared excites, makes him happy.
There is warmth & satiety, from both chilies and kindness.
II.
First l-t-r told me a story,
early on,
of a late-night campfire discussion
where one, long-committed
vowed he so loved his spouse
that he would, if asked
‘pick the corn
from her shit
and eat it’.
His voice, dripping with ridicule & revulsion in the re-telling
should have been a warning: ocean receding from the shore.
His utter frustration with my lack
of emotion-response reciprocation
(I shrugged it off,
already intimately familiar
with the realities of devotion)
should have been a claxon.
III.
Three delectable, enduring truths:
– Genetically, for me: Food is Love
– Unequivocally: Love is Verb and Noun
– Reality: has the capability to erode even
mountain-solid love. Creativity though,
turns ground-stone to mortar
to masa
baking & building continually anew.
